GREAT    AUTHORS 


OP 


ALL    AGES. 


GKEAT  AUTHOES 


OP 


ALL    AGES. 


BEING  SELECTIONS  FKOM  THE  PEOSE  WOEKS  OF  EMINENT 

WEITEES  FEOM  THE  TIME  OF  PEEICLES  TO 

THE  PEESENT  DAY. 


WITH    INDEXES. 


BY  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE. 

AUTHOR    OF    "  A    CRITICAL    DICTIONARY    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE    AND    BRITISH    AND 

AMERICAN  AUTHORS,"    "POETICAL    QUOTATIONS    FROM    CHAUCER    TO    TENNYSON," 

"PROSE    QUOTATIONS    FROM    SOCRATES    TO    MACAULAY,"    ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

LONDON:    16   SOUTHAMPTON   STREET,   STRAND. 

1882. 


Copyright,  1879,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  A  Co. 


TO 

ROBERT  LENOX  KENNEDY, 

OP    NEW   YORK, 

AS   A   TOKEN   OF   PROFOUND   EESPECT  FOR   HIS   CHAKACTER  AS  A 
CHRISTIAN,  A    PHILANTHROPIST,  AND   A  SCHOLAK, 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  VOLUME. 

S.  AUSTIN   ALLIBOKE. 

NEW  YORK.  October  11,  1879. 


250290G 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  is  the  fourth  of  my  works  constituting  a  Course  of 
English  Literature,  viz. : 

I.  A    Critical    Dictionary    of    English    Literature    and    British    and 
American  Authors,  Living  and   Deceased,  from  the   Earliest  Accounts  to 
the    Latter    Part   of    the    Nineteenth    Century,    containing   over   Forty-six 
Thousand   [46,499]   Articles  (Authors) ;    with   Forty  Indexes  of   Subjects. 
Royal    8vo,   3  vols.,    pp.   3139.       Philadelphia :    J.   B.   Lippincott  &  Co., 
1858-70-71. 

II.  Poetical    Quotations    from    Chaucer   to    Tennyson,    with    Copious 
Indexes.      Authors,    550;    Subjects,  435;    Quotations,    13,600.      8vo,   pp. 
xiv.  788.     Philadelphia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  1873. 

III.  Prose   Quotations    from    Socrates    to    Macaulay,   with    Indexes. 
Authors,  544;  Subjects,  571 ;  Quotations,  8810.     8vo.     Philadelphia:  J.  B. 
Lippincott  &  Co.,  1876. 

IV.  Great  Authors  of    all  Ages :    Being  Selections  from  the  Prose 
Works  of  Eminent  Writers  from  the  Time  of  Pericles  to  the  Present  Day. 
With  Indexes.     8vo.     Philadelphia:  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  1880. 

It  is  difficult  for  an  author  to  say  anything  of  his  works  which  does 
not  savour  of  ostentation,  or,  at  least,  of  egotism ;  and  therefore  I  prefer 
to  say  nothing. 

S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE. 

YORK,  October  23,  1879. 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS. 


Adams,  John  Quincy 289 

Addison,  Joseph - 133 

Arbuthnot,  John,  M.D 140 

Arnold,  Thomas,  D.D...'. 419 

Ascham,  Roger 28 

Bacon,  Francis 39 

Bancroft,  George,  LL.D 437 

Barclay,  Robert 121 

Barrow,  Isaac,  D.D 93 

Baxter,  Richard 74 

Boattie,  James,  LL.D 252 

Beckford,  William 278 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  D.D 502 

Bentham,  Jeremy 270 

Berkeley,  George,  D.D 150 

Beveridge,  William,  D.D 112 

Binney,  Horace,  LL.D 357 

Blackstone,  Sir  William 220 

Blackwall,  Anthony 137 

Blair,  Hugh,  D.D 202 

Bolingbroke,  Lord 145 

Boyle,  Hon.  Robert 88 

Brougham,  Henry,  Lord  Brougham 338 

Brown,  Thomas,  "M.D 343 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  M.D 58 

Budgell,  Eustace 153 

Bunyan,  John 90 

Buonaparte,  Napoleon 290 

Burke,  Edmund 233 

Burritt,  Elihu 486 

Burton,  Robert 44 

Bury,  Richard  do 17 

Butler,  Joseph,  D.D 163 

Butler,  Samuel 69 

Byron,  George  Gordon  Noel,  Lord 395 

Carey,  Henry  Charles,  LL.D 407 

Carleton,  William.... 434 

Carlyle,  Thomas 414 

Carter,  Elizabeth 199 

Cavendish,  George 25 

Caxton,  William 20 

Cervantes 32 

Chalmers,  Thomas,  D.D.,  LL.D 354 

Channing,  William  Ellery,  D.D 352 

Chapone,  Esther .' 220 

Charleton,  Walter,  M.D 80 

Charnock,  Stephen 86 

Chatham,  Earl  of 176 

Chenevix,  Richard 361 

Chesterfield,  Earl  of 166 

Cicero 12 


Clarendon,  Earl  of. 65 

Clarke,  Samuel,  D.D 142 

Combe,  Andrew,  M.D 430 

Combe,  George 392 

Cooper,  Anthony  Ashley 131 

Cowley,  Abraham,  M.D 78 

Cowper,  William 242 

Cudworth,  Ralph 77 

Cumberland,  Richard '..  246 

Dalrymple,  David,  Lord  Hailes 224 

Davy,  Sir  Humphry 342 

De  Foe,  Daniel 124 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 380 

Decker,  Thomas 113 

Dick,  Thomas,  LL.D 302 

Dickens,  Charles 492 

Disraeli,  Isaac 287 

Doddridge,  Philip,  D.D 170 

Dodsley,  Robert 171 

Dryden,  John..., 97 

Eliot,  George 530 

Ellwood,  Thomas 114 

Elyot,  Sir  Thomas 51 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 457 

Erskine,  Ralph ; 155 

Evelyn,  John 81 

Everett,  Edward,  D.C.L 409 

Felltham,  Owen 60 

Felton,  Henry,  D.D 149 

Fielding,  Henry 174 

Fisher,\John 20 

Foster,  John 295 

Fox,  Charles  James 272 

Franklin,  Benjamin 172 

Froude,  James  Anthony 513 

Fuller,  Thomas ." 61 

Gibbon,  Edward 256 

Gilpin,  William 223 

Godwin,  William 277 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 227 

Green,  Rev.  John  Richard 527 

Guizot,  Fran9ois  Pierre  Guillaume.. .....  389 

Hailes,  Lord 224 

Hale,  Sir  Matthew 67 

Hales,  John 48 

Hall,  Captain  Basil 399 

Hall,  Joseph,  D.D 42 

Hall,  Robert 280 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Hallam,  Henry,  LL.D 

Hare,  Julius  Charles 

Harris,  James,  M.P 

Harrison,  William 

Hawkesworth,  John,  LL.D 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 

Hazlitt,  William 

Heber,  Reginald,  D.D 

Helps,  Sir  Arthur 

Herbert,  Lord  Edward 

Hersehel,     John     Frederick    William, 

D.C.L 

Heylin,  Peter,  D.D 

Hillard,  George  Stillman 

Hondly,  Benjamin,  D.D 

Hobbes,  Thomas 

Hooker,  Richard 

Hopkins,  Ezekiel 

Home,  George,  D.D 

Horsley,  Samuel,  LL.D 

Howell,  James 

Hughes,  John 

Hume,  David 

Hunt,  James  Henry  Leigh 

Kurd,  Richard,  D.D 

Hyde,  Henry 


Irving,  Washington,  LL.D. 


PAOE 

335 
428 
179 

52 
195 
462 
345 
364 
510 

46 

400 

56 

475 

143 

50 

36 

105 

241 

248 

55 

144 

189 

372 

204 

65 

366 


James  VI.  and  1 41 

Jefferson,  Thomas 259 

Jeffrey,  Francis 313 

Jenyns,  Soame 171 

Jerrold,  Douglas 456 

Johnson,  Samuel,  LL.D 181 

Jones,  Sir  William 263 

Junius 293 

Kane,  Elisha  Kent,  M.D 521 

Kingslev,  Rev.  Charles 517 

Knox,  Vicesimus,  D.D 273 

Lamb,  Charles 324 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 330 

Latimer,  Hugh 22 

Layard,  Austen  Henry,  D.C.L.,  M.P....  512 

Lecky,  William  Edward  Hartpole 529 

Leighton,  Robert,  D.D 68 

Locke,  John 102 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 470 

Lyell,  Sir  Charles,  D.C.L 433 

Lyttelton,  Lord  George 178 

Lytton,  Edward  George  Earle  Bulwer 

Lytton,  Lord 465 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay, 

M.P./Lord , 440 

Macchiavelli 21 

Mackenzie,  Sir  George 109 

Mackenzie,  Henry 262 

Mackintosh,   Sir' James,   M.D.,    M.P., 

LL.D 285 

Mant,  Richard,  D.D 333 

Martineau,  Harriet 454 

Melmoth,  William «...  187 

Miller,  Hugh 452 


Milman,  Henry  Hart,  D.D 403 

Milton,  John 62 

Montagu,  Elizabeth 203 

Montagu,  Lady  Mary  Wortley 161 

Montaigne,  Michel  de 30 

More,  Henry,  D.D 73 

More,  Sir  Thomas 23 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  LL.D.,  D.C.L...  504 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac 117 

North,  Christopher 375 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas 47 

Owen,  John,  D.D 70 

Pnley,  William,  D.D 260 

Pascal,  Blaise 84 

Paulding,  James  Kirke :!•">(> 

Pearson,  John,  D.D 70 

Penn,  William 119 

Pepys,  Samuel 101 

Pericles 9 

Petrarch,  Francesco 18 

Phillips,  Charles 387 

Pitt,  Right  Hon.  William,  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham   176 

Pliny  the  Younger 15 

Pope,  Alexander 156 

Potter,  Alonzo,  D.D 450 

Prescott,  William  Hickling,  LL.D 422 

Priestley,  Joseph,  LL.D 250 

Purchas,  Samuel 46 

Quincy,  Josiah,  LL.D 311 

Radcliffe,  Anne 283 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 34 

Rapin  de  Thoyras 122 

Reid,  Thomas,  D.D 186 

Richardson,  Samuel 158 

Ridley,  Nicholas 26 

Robertson,  William,  D.D 209 

Rollin,  Charles 123 

Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques 192 

Ruskin,  John 51!) 

Russell,  Lady  Rachel 109 

Saint  John,  Henry 145 

Sallust 14 

Sandys,  George 45 

Scott,  Sir  Walter , 307 

Selden,  John 49 

Seward,  Anna 269 

Shaftesbury,  Earl  of 131 

Sharswood,  George,  LL.D 483 

Sherlock,  Thomas,  D.D 148 

Sherlock,  William,  D.D 115 

Sidney,  Algernon 83 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 37 

Smiles,  Samuel,  M.D 507 

Smith,  Adam,  LL.D 219 

Smith,  Goldwin,  LL.D 525 

Smith,  Sydney 299 

Smollett,  Tobias  George,  M.D 213 

South,  Robert,  D.D 106 

Southey,  Robert,  LL.D 318 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


XI 


Spence,  Joseph 108 

Spencer,  Herbert 522 

Sprat,  Thomas 110 

Stanhope,  Philip  Dormer 166 

Stecle,  Sir  Richard 129 

Sterne,  Laurence 194 

Stewart,  Dugald 275 

Stillingfleet,  Edward,  D.D 107 

Simmer,  John  Bird,  D.D 359 

Swift,  Jonathan,  D.D 125 

Talbot,  Catherine 206 

Taylor,  Jeremy,  D.D 71 

Temple,  Sir  William 91 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace 488 

Tickell,  Thomas 155 

Ticknor,  George,  LL.D 405 

Tillotson,  John,  D.D 95 

Trench,  Richard  Chcnevix,  D.D 473 

Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore 498 

Tytler,  Alexander  Fraser 266 


Usher,  James 207 

Vaughan,  Charles  John,  D.D 509 

Yon  Schlegel,  Frederick  Wilhelm 305 

Walpole,  Horace 200 

Walton,  Izaak 54 

Warhurton,  William,  D.D 107 

Warton,  Joseph,  D.D 210 

Warton,  Thomas 237  ' 

Washington,  George 244  ' 

Watson,  Richard,  D.D 255 

Watts,  Isaac,  D.D 130 

Webster,  Daniel,  LL.D 362 

West,  Gilbert,  LL.D 169 

Whately,  Richard,  D.D 385 

Whiston,  William 128 

White,  Henry  Kirke 379 

White,  Joseph,  D.D 265 

Wilson,  John  ("Christopher  North")...  375 

Winslow,  Forbes,  M.D.,  D.C.L 481 

Winthrop,  Robert  Charles,  LL.D 479 


INDEX    OF    SUBJECTS. 


Abbotsford,  Irving  at 369 

yEneid  and  Virgil's  Genius 168 

Albania,  Ityron  at 395 

Alfred,  Hume  on 190 

America,  Burke  on 234 

American  Literature 410 

Ancestry,  Pride  of. 302 

Animals,  Cruelty  to 350 

Anjou  and  Elizabeth 37 

Arts,  Herscbel  on  tbe 402 

Ascham,  Koger,  and  Lady  Jane  Grey...  332 

Astronomy,  Uses  of -. 411 

Augustan  Age  in  England 230 

Authorship,  Prescott  on 427 

Bacon,  Yon  Schlegel  on 306 

Bastille,  Attack  upon  the 418 

Battle  of  the  Nile 319 

Battle  of  Princeton 245 

Buttle  of  Trafalgar 322 

Battle  of  Trenton 244 

Beards,  Budgell  on 154 

Beattie  on  his  "Minstrel" 252 

Beauty,  Bacon  on 39 

Beauty,  Emerson  on 458 

Beauty,  Personal 208 

Beauty  and  Love,  Scale  of 132 

Bible  as  a  Study .451 

Bois-Guilbert  and  Rebecca 309 

Books,  Choice  of 419 

Books,  De  Bur}' on 17 

Books,  Hillard  on 478 

Books,  Meditation  among  the 224 

Books  and  Book-Buyers,  Ruskin  on 521 

Books,  Buying,  Beecher  on 503 

Books  and  Reading,  Lamb  on 327 

Books  and  Reading,  Watts  on 140 

Britain,  Languages  of 52 

British  Nation,  Industry  of  the 301 

Buonaparte,  Phillips  on 387 

Burning  of  Vanities 533 

Busy-Body,  Hall  on  the 43 

Cains  Marius  to  the  Romans  14 

Calamity,  Compensation  of 400 

Caliph  Vathek  and  his  Palaces 278 

Candid  Man 400 

Castle-Building,  Steele  on 130 

Castle  of  Udolpho 283 

Cato,  Smith  on 525 

Charles  I.,  Clarendon  on GO 

Charles  II.,  Death  of 444 

Charles  V.,  Robertson  on 211 


Childe  Harold,  Byron  on 397 

Children,  Hale's  Letter  to  his 67 

Children  of  Light 428 

Chinese,  Condition  of  the 840 

Christ,  Ascension  of 70 

Christ,  Character  and  Influence  of 529 

Christ,  Divinity  of 290 

Christ,  Miracles  of 247 

Christ  and  Socrates 265 

Christian's   Dependence    upon   his   Re- 
deemer   359 

Christianity,  Proposed  Abolition  of 120 

Christianity  the  Great  Remedy 479 

Christianity  and  Natural  Religion 255 

Church  of  England 27 

Civilization,  Guizot  on 389 

Clovernook  and  its  Inn 456 

Columbus,  First  Voyage  of. 368 

Confessions  of  a  Drunkard 329 

Conscience,  Butler  on 164 

Contentment,  Walton  on 54 

Controversy,  Baxter  on 74 

Controversy,  Hall  on 282 

Conversation,  Fuller  on 61 

Conversation,  Usher  on 209 

Copyright,  Macaulay  on 441 

Countries,  Ancient 45 

Cowper  on  his  Poems, 243 

Cromwell,  Clarendon  on 65 

Cromwell,  Guizot  on 392 

Daughter,  Death  of  a 91 

Day  of  Judgment 226 

Death,  Ignorance  of  the  Time  of 116 

Decision  of  Character 297 

Detraction,  Felltham  on 60 

Devils  in  the  Head 50 

Devotional  Feelings 170 

Divine  Benevolence 261 

Divinity,  Law,  and  Physic 133 

Don  Quixote,  Cervantes  on 32 

Don  Quixote,  Hallam  on 336 

Earth,  Insignificance  of  the 355 

Earthquakes,  London 201 

Education,  Classical 421 

Education,  Female,  Lady  Montagu  on..  162 

Education,  Female,  Sydney  Smith  on...  300 

Education  of  the  Middle  Classes 420 

Education,  Spencer  on 523 

Education,  True  and  False 63 

Elegance,  Thoughts  on 207 

Elizabeth,  Amy  Robsart,  and  Leicester.  310 


XIV 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


Elizabeth,  Hume  on 191 

Elizabeth,  Prescott  on 423 

Elizabeth,  Rapin  on 122 

Elizabeth,  Scott  on 310 

Elizabeth,  Literature  of  the  Age  of. 345 

Eloquence,  "Webster  on 364 

English  Literature,  Progress  of 313 

English  People,  Best 488 

Enthusiasm,  Defence  of 499 

Everett,  Hillard  on 476 

Evil  Speaking,  Selden  on 50 

Excellency  of  the  Christian  Religion 93 

Exercise,  Combe  on 430 

Exercise,  Elyot  on 52 

Existence  of  God 73 

Faith  in  Providence 454 

Fame,  Love  of 188 

Faults,  Beecher  on 504 

Feast  in  the  Manner  of  the  Ancients....  213 

Fire  in  London,  1666 81 

Fortune,  Petrarch  on 18 

Fossils  of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone 453 

France,  Critics  and  Moralists  of 216 

Francis  of  Assisi 20 

Franklin,  Overbury  on  a 48 

Franklin,  Jefferson  on 260 

Franklin  and  the  American  Revolution  250 

French,  Character  of  the 57 

French  Revolution 285 

Friendship  in  Heaven 386 

Friendship  and  Benevolence 153 

Future  State,  Berkeley  on 151 

Genius,  Emerson  on 460 

Golden  City,  Approach  to  the 90 

Good  Breeding,  Chesterfield  on 166 

Good  Breeding,  Warton  on 218 

Good  "Works,  Franklin  on 173 

Government,  Burke  on 235 

Grant,  Sir  William 338 

Great  Seal,  More's  Resignation  of  the...     46 

Greatness,  Inconvenience  of 30 

Greek  and  Roman  Authors 137 

Hamlet,  Hazlitt  on 348 

Happiness,  Butler  on 69 

Happiness  of  Others 343 

Happiness  and  Misery 197 

Harley,  Death  of 262 

Hastings,  Impeachment  of 236 

Hastings,  Trial  of 442 

Heathen,  Future  State  of  the 242 

Henry  VIII.,  Fronde  on 514 

Henry  VIII.,  Hume  on 190 

History,  Credit  clue  to 75 

Homer,  Blackwall  on 137 

Homer,  Fox  on 272 

Homer  and  Virgil,  Pope  on 157 

Honour  to  God 95 

Horace,  Spence  on 109 

Human  Life,  Shortness  of. 146 

Humility,  Selden  on 50 

Hypocrite,  Hall  on  the 43 

Image-Breakers  of  the  Netherlands 505 


Immortality,  Consciousness  of. 342 

Immortality,  Universal  Belief  in 803 

Incarnation,  Mystery  of  the 70 

Incomprehensibility  of  God 77 

Indians,  Employment  of 177 

Inferior  Animals,  Cruelty  to 172 

Ingratitude  an  Incurable  Vice 106 

Inquiry  and  Private  Judgment  in  Re- 
ligion   48 

Insanity,  Symptoms  of 481 

Inventions,  Revival  of 507 

Irish  Village  and  School-House 435 

Irving  and  Scott's  last  Interview 371 

Isabella  of  Spain  and  Elizabeth  of  Eng- 
land   423 

Johnson,  Macaulay  on 447 

Judgments  of  God 58 

Junius  to  the  King 293 


Knowledge,  God's.... 
Knowledge,  Love  of. 


86 
51 


Labour,  Division  of 220 

Ladies,  Unmarried...; 158 

Language,  Changes  in 433 

Languages,  Harrison 180 

Languages,  Spencer  on 524 

Last  Judgment 105 

Latin  and  Greek 299 

Laughter,  Hobbes  on : 51 

Law  Studies,  Sharswood  on 483 

Law,  Study  of  the,  Blackstone  on 221 

Laws  in  General,  Blackstone  on 222 

Laws,  Sleeping,  Bentham  on 271 

Learning,  Useless 145 

Lexicography,  Johnson  on 182 

Liberty  and  Government 83 

Libraries,  Roman 247 

Life,  Conduct  of. 59 

Life  Not  too  Short 115 

Literary  Aspirations 62 

Literature,  National 353 

Loneliness,  Vaughan  on 509 

Lord's  Supper 334 

Love,  Bacon  on 39 

Love,  Power  of 458 

Luther,  Robertson  on 211 

Mahomet,  Gibbon  on 257 

Mambrino's  Helmet 33 

Man's  Writing  a  Memoir  of  Himself.....  295 

Marriage,  Prospect  of. 162 

Marriages,  Early 173 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  Execution  of. 515 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  Robertson  on 210 

Mathematical  Learning 141 

Matrimonial  Happiness 162 

Matrimony,  Dickens  on 497 

Melancholy  and  Contemplation 44 

Memory,  Fuller  on 61 

Memory,  Stewart  on 276 

Memory,  Watts  on 139 

Memory,  "Winslow  on 482 

Men  and  Women 160 

Mercy,  God's 155 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


xv 


Mexico,  Prescott  on 426 

Milton,  Country  Ketreat  of. 203 

3Iilton,  Ellwood  on 114 

Mind,  Knowledge  of  the 186 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  Mackintosh  on 286 

Names,  Sterne  on 105 

Narrative,  Hawkesworth  on 195 

Natural  Philosophy  and  Religion 88 

Nature,  Love  of 253 

Neapolitan  Church 284 

Neglect,  Felltham  on 60 

New  Commandment 249 

New  England,  Quincy  on 312 

Nile,  Battle  of  the 319 

Nimroud,  Excavations  at 512 

Noble  Birth,  Pride  of. 119 

Noodle's  Oration 301 

Oblivion,  Browne  on 59 

Obscurity,  Cowley  on 78 

One  Niche  the  Highest 486 

Opium,  Effects  of. 381 

Pacific  Ocean,  Discovery  of  the 511 

Partridge  at  the  Playhouse 175 

Paul  at^Athens 404 

Paul's  Walk 113 

Pecksniff. , 493 

Peloponnesian  War 9 

Pcnn's  Advice  to  his  Children 120 

Plague  in  London  in  1665,  De  Foe  on...  125 

Plague  in  London  in  1665,  Pepys  on 101 

Pleasure,  Utopian 24 

Pleasures,  Natural  and  Fantastical 152 

Poet,  a  Small 69 

Poetry,  Modern,  Defects  in 518 

Poetry  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth 237 

Poetry,  Steele  on 130 

Poetry,  What  is  ? 337 

Politeness,  True  and  False 205 

Poor  Relations 326 

Pope,  Milton,  Thomson 269 

Pope  to  Atterbury 158 

Pope's  Translation  of  Homer 185 

Power  and  Activity 393 

Power,  God's ". 87 

Poyser,  Mrs.,  and  the  Squire 530 

Practice  and  Habit 103 

Prayer,  Bacon's 40 

Preaching,  .Moral 354 

Prescott, 'Death  of 406 

Press,  Censorship  of  the 64 

Princeton,  Battle  of 245 

Private  Judgment  in  Religion 92 

Procrastination 79 

Prophetic  Language 118 

Protestant  Infallibility 143 

Proverbs,  Philosophy 'of 288 

Prudence,  Dodsley  on 171 

Psalms,  Beauties  of  the 241 

Purity  and  Propriety 203 

Rainy  Sunday  in  an  Inn 367 

Raleigh,  Three  Rules  of 35 

Raleigh  to  Prince  Henry 35 


Ravenswood  and  Lucy  Ashton 308 

Reading,  Gibbon  on 258 

Religion  and  Moral  Conduct IDS 

Religion  not  Hostile  to  Pleasure 106 

Religion,  Sherlock  on 148 

Remorse,  Godwin  on 277 

Repentance,  Death-Bed 72 

Revelation,  Evidences  of 128 

Revolution,  Riccabocca  on 4'',;) 

Rewards  and  Punishments 164 

Richard  the  Third  and  Macbeth 849 

Richmond,  Countess  of. '-'<> 

Right  and  Wrong 142 

Rill  from  the  Town  Pump 462 

Roast  Pig,  Lamb  on 324 

Rome  in  1621 56 

Rural  Life  in  Sweden 471 

Russell,  Lady  R.,  to  Doctor  Fitzwilliam  109 

Sacred  Writers,  Simplicity  of  the 169 

Sallust  and  Cicero 2'it 

Schoolmaster  of  Ascham 28 

Science  and  its  Methods 408 

Science,  Influence  of 401 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  Hall  on 399 

Scottish  Rebellion 200 

Scripture  and  the  Law  of  Nature 36 

Scriptures,  Confirmation  of  the 513 

Scriptures,  Style  of  the 89 

Scrooge's  Christmas 495 

Sea,  Purchas  on  the 4(5 

Self-Culture 352 

Self-Deceit 165 

Self-Denial 112 

Self-Love,  Immoderate 10S 

Shakespeare,  Johnson  on 183 

Shakspeare,  Jeffrey  on 317 

Shakspeare,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and 

Ben  Jonson 98 

Shakspere's  Later  Years 527 

Shepherds  of  Bethlehem 23 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  and  Lord  Brooke 331 

Snow-Storm 376 

Solitude,  Happiness  of. 1!';! 

Sorcery  and  Witchcraft 41 

Soul,  immortality  of  the,  Gibbon  on  the  257 
Soul,  Immortality  of  the,  Hughes  on  the  144 

Spenser  and  Milton 99 

Spring,  Pleasures  of  the 156 

Squire  Bull  and  his  Son 350 

Statcliness  and  Courtesy 459 

Stoicism  and  Christianity 199 

Studies,  Bacon  on 40 

Study,  Course  of 16 

Study,  Haste  in 104 

Style,  Blair  on 202 

Style,  Melmoth  on 187 

Sublime,  Felton  on  the 149 

Success,  Macchiavelli  on 21 

Suicide,  Lecky  on 52'l 

Sunday  Amusements 273 

Sunday,  Autobiography  of 2(>6 

Sunrise  in  the  W'oods 224 

Taste,  Cultivation  of. 202 

Taste,  Formation  of  the  Right 419 


XVI 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


PAGE 

Taste,  Reflections  on 123 

Tears,  Steele  on 129 

Temple,  Knights  of  the 491 

Teufelsdrockh's  View  of  the  City 417 

Tezcuco,  King  of. 424 

The  Seal!  The  Seal ! 522 

Themistocles,  Aristides,  and  Composition  379 

Thoughts  and  Aphorisms 127 

Thurlow,  Josephus,  and  Tacitus 243 

Time  and  Eternity,  Hall  on 281 

Time  and  Eternity,  Heber  on 365 

Time,  Employing  our 72 

Tinker,  Overbury's 47 

Titles  of  Honour 121 

Trafalgar,  Battle  of. 322 

Translation,  Dryden  on 100 

Travelling,  Emerson  on 461 

Trenton,  Battle  of. 244 

Truth  and  Sincerity 95 

Unbelievers,  Expostulation  with 84 

Understanding,  Weakness  of. 102 

Union,  Preservation  of  the 363 

Vanities,  Burning  of. 533 

Vanity,  Mrs.  Montagu  on 204 

Venice,  Ruskin  on 520 

Ventriloquism,  Dick  on 304 

Verres,  Cicero  against 12 


View  of  the  Divine  Government 110 

Virtue  and  Vice 9fi 

Virtue  More  Pleasant  than  Vice 110 

Wakefield,  Family  of. 227 

Wakefield  Family  in  Affliction 228 

"Wakefield  Family  in  Prosperity 229 

War,  Horrors  of 280 

Warburton  to  Hurd 167 

Washington  Abroad  and  at  Home 412 

Washington  Appointed  Commander-in- 

Chief. 437 

Washington,  Fame  of. 174 

Washington,  Farewell  Address  of 358 

Westminster  Abbey 134 

Wife,  Economical 2<>6 

William  the  Conqueror 178 

Wisdom,  God's 87 

Wisdom,  True 107 

Wit,  Barrow  on 94 

Wit,  Ready  and  Nimble 80 

Wit,  Slow  but  Sure 80 

Witches,  Travel  of. 42 

Wolsey  and  Henry  VIII 26 

Women  in  Politics 289 

Women,  Learning  of. 160 

Words,  Morality  in 474 

Words,  Study  of 474 

Work,  Carlyle  on 415 


GEEAT   AUTHOES 

OP 

ALL    AGES. 


PERICLES, 

an  illustrious  Athenian  statesman  and  orator, 
died  B.C.  429. 

"  The  history  of  eloquence  at  Athens  is  remark- 
able. From  a  very  early  period  great  speakers 
had  flourished  there.  Pisistratus  and  Themistoclcs 
are  said  to  have  owed  much  of  their  influence  to 
their  talents  for  debate.  We  learn,  with  more 
certainty,  that  Pericles  was  distinguished  by  ex- 
traordinary oratorical  powers.  The  substance  of 
some  of  his  speeches  is  transmitted  to  us  by  Thu- 
cydides,  and  that  excellent  writer  has  doubtless 
faithfully  reported  the  general  line  of  his  argu- 
ments."— LOUD  MACAULAY  :  OH  the  Athenian  Orn- 
tors  :  Kui(jJtt's  Quarterly  Mnr/nzine,  August,  1824, 
and  in  his  works,  complete,  1866,  8  vols.,  Svo,  vii. 
668. 

"  His  oration  upon  those  who  fell  in  the  first 
campaign  of  the  Peloponnesism  war  has  been 
pronounced  the  most  remarkable  of  all  the  com- 
positions of  antiquity.'' — RKV.  JAMES  TAYLOK, 
D.D. :  Imperial  Diet,  of  Univ.  Diog.,  iii.  644. 

THE  ORATION  wnicn  WAS  SPOKEN  BY  PERI- 
CLES AT  THE  PUBLIC  FUNERAL  OF  THOSE 
ATHENIANS  WHO  HAD  BEEN  FIRST  KILLED 
iv  THE  PELOPONNESIAN  WAR.  (From 
TIIUCYUIDES.) 

Many  of  those  who  have  spoken  before 
me  on  occasions  of  this  kind  have  com- 
mended the  author  of  that  law  which  we 
are  now  obeying,  for  having  instituted  an 
oration  to  the  honour  of  those  who  sacrifice 
their  lives  in  fighting  for  their  country. 
For  my  part,  I  think  it  sufficient  for  men  who 
have  approved  their  virtue  in  action,  by  ac- 
tion to  be  honoured  for  it — by  such  as  you  see 
the  public  gratitude  now  performing  about 
this  funeral ;  and  that  the  virtues  of  many 
ought  not  to  be  endangered  by  the  manage- 
ment of  any  one  person,  when  their  credit 
must  precariously  depend  on  his  oration, 
which  may  be  good,  and  may  be  bad.  Diffi- 
cult indeed  it  is,  judiciously  to  handle  a 
subject  where  even  probable  truth  will 
hardly  gain  assent.  The  hearer,  enlight- 


ened by  a  long  acquaintance,  and  warm  in 
his  affections,  may  quickly  pronounce  every- 
thing unfavourably  expressed,  in  respect  to 
what  lie  wishes  and  what  he  knows;  whilst 
the  stranger  pronounceth  all  exaggerated, 
through  envy  of  those  deeds  which  he  is 
conscious  are  above  his  own  achievement. 
For  the  praises  bestowed  on  others  are  then 
only  to  be  endured  when  men  imagine  they 
can  do  those  feats  they  hear  to  have  been 
done  •,  they  envy  what  they  cannot  equal, 
and  immediately  pronounce  it  false.  Yet, 
as  this  solemnity  has  received  its  sanction 
from  the  authority  of  our  ancestors,  it  is  my 
duty  to  obey  the  law,  and  to  endeavour  to 
procure,  so  far  as  I  am  able,  the  good  will 
and  approbation  of  all  my  audience. 

I  shall  therefore  begin  first  with  our  fore- 
fathers, since  both  justice  and  decency  re- 
quire that  we  should,  on  this  occasion, 
bestow  on  them  an  honourable  remem- 
brance. In  this  our  country  they  kept 
themselves  always  firmly  settled;  and, 
through  their  valour,  handed  it  down  free 
to  every  since  succeeding  generation. 
Worthy,  indeed,  of  praise  are  they,  and  yet 
more  worthy  are  our  immediate  fathers  ; 
since,  enlarging  their  own  inheritance  into 
the  extensive  empire  which  we  now  possess, 
they  bequeathed  that,  their  work  of  toil,  to 
us  their  sons.  Yet  even  these  successes, 
we  ourselves,  here  present,  who  are  yet  in 
the  strength  and  vigour  of  our  days,  have 
nobly  improved,  and  have  made  such  pro- 
visions for  this  our  Athens,  that  now  it  is 
all-sufficient  in  itself  to  answer  every  exi- 
gence of  war  and  of  peace.  I  mean  not 
here  to  recite  those  martial  exploits  by 
which  these  ends  were  accomplished,  or  the 
resolute  defences  we  ourselves  and  our  fore- 
fathers have  made  against  the  formidable 
invasions  of  Barbarian!  and  Greeks.  Your 
own  knowledge  of  these  will  excuse  the  long 
detail.  But  by  what  methods  we  have  rose 
to  this  height  of  glory  and  power  ;  by  what 

9 


10 


PERICLES. 


polity,  and  by  what  conduct,  we  arc  thus 
aggrandized,  I  shall  first  endeavour  to  show, 
and  then  proceed  to  the  praise  of  the  de- 
ceased. These,  in  my  opinion,  can  be  no 
impertinent  topics  on  this  occasion  ;  the  dis- 
cussion of  them  must  be  beneficial  to  this 
numerous  company  of  Athenians  and  of 
strangers. 

We  are  happy  in  a  form  of  government 
which  cannot  envy  the  laws  of  our  neigh- 
bours ;  for  it  has  served  as  a  model  to 
others,  but  is  originally  at  Athens.  And 
this  our  form,  as  committed  not  to  the  few, 
but  to  the  whole  body  of  the  people,  is 
called  a  democracy.  How  different  soever 
in  a  private  capacity,  we  all  enjoy  the  same 
general  equality  our  laws  are  fitted  to  pre- 
serve; and  superior  honours,  just  as  we 
excel.  The  public  administration  is  not 
confined  to  a  particular  family,  but  is  at- 
tainable only  by  merit.  Poverty  is  not  a 
hindrance,  since  whoever  is  able  to  serve 
his  country  meets  with  no  obstacle  to  pre- 
ferment from  his  first  obscurity.  The  offices 
of  the  state  we  go  through  without  obstruc- 
tions from  one  another,  and  live  together  in 
the  mutual  endearments  of  private  life  with- 
out suspicions  ;  not  angry  with  a  neighbour 
for  following  the  bent  of  his  own  humour, 
nor  putting  on  that  countenance  of  discon- 
tent which  pains,  though  it  cannot  punish  ; 
so  that  in  private  life  we  converse  together 
without  diffidence  or  damage,  whilst  we  dare 
not,  on  any  account,  offend  against  the  pub- 
lic, through  the  reverence  we  bear  to  the 
magistrates  and  the  laws,  chiefly  to  those 
enacted  for  redress  of  the  injured,  and  to 
those  unwritten,  a  breach  of  which  is  al- 
lowed disgrace.  Our  laws  have  further 
provided  for  the  mind  most  frequent  inter- 
missions of  care,  by  the  appointment  of  pub- 
lic recreations  and  sacrifices  throughout  the 
year,  elegantly  performed  with  a  peculiar 
pomp,  the  daily  delight  of  which  is  a  charm 
that  puts  melancholy  to  flight.  The  grand- 
eur of  this  our  Athens  causes  the  produce 
of  the  whole  earth  to  be  imported  here,  by 
which  we  reap  a  familiar  enjoyment,  not 
more  of  the  delicacies  of  our  own  growth 
than  those  of  other  nations. 

In  the  affairs  of  war  we  excel  those  of  our 
enemies  who  adhere  to  methods  opposite  to 
our  own  ;  for  we  lay  open  Athens  to  general 
resort,  nor  ever  drive  any  stranger  from  us, 
whom  either  improvement  or  curiosity  hath 
brought  amongst  us,  lest  any  enemy  should 
hurt  us  by  seeing  what  is  never  concealed: 
we  place  not  so  great  a  confidence  in  the 
preparatives  and  artifices  of  war  as  in  the 
native  warmth  of  our  souls,  impelling  us  to 
action.  In  point  of  education,  the  youth  of 
some  people  are  inured,  by  a  course  of  la- 
borious exercise,  to  support  toil  and  hard- 


ship like  men  5  but  we,  notwithstanding  our 
easy  and  elegant  way  of  life,  face  all  the 
dangers  of  war  as  intrepidly  as  they.  This 
may  be  proved  by  facts,  since  the  Lacede- 
monians never  invade  our  territories  barely 
with  their  own,  but  with  the  united  strength 
of  all  their  confederates.  But  when  we  in- 
vade the  dominions  of  our  neighbours,  for 
the  most  part  we  conquer  without  difficulty, 
in  an  enemy's  country,  those  who  fight  in 
defence  of  their  own  habitations.  The 
strength  of  our  whole  force  no  enemy  hath 
ever  yet  experienced,  because  it  is  divided 
by  our  naval  expeditions,  or  engaged  in  the 
different  quarters  of  our  service  by  land. 
But  if  anywhere  they  engage  and  defeat  a 
small  party  of  our  forces,  they  boastingly 
give  it  out  a  total  defeat;  and  if  they  are 
beat,  they  were  certainly  overpowered  by 
our  united  strength.  What  though  from  a 
state  of  inactivity,  rather  than  laborious 
exercise,  or  with  a  natural,  rather  than  an 
acquired,  valour,  we  learn  to  encounter  dan- 
ger :  this  good  at  least  we  receive  from  it, 
that  we  never  droop  under  the  apprehension 
of  possible  misfortunes,  and  when  we  h;\zard 
the  danger,  are  found  no  less  courageous 
than  those  who  are  continually  inured  to  it. 
In  these  respects  our  whole  community  de- 
serves justly  to  be  admired,  and  in  many  we 
have  yet  to  mention.  In  our  manner  of 
living  we  show  an  elegance  tempered  with 
frugality,  and  we  cultivate  philosophy, 
without  enervating  the  mind.  We  display 
our  wealth  in  the  season  of  beneficence,  and 
not  in  the  vanity  of  discourse.  A  confes- 
sion of  poverty  is  disgrace  to  no  man  ;  no 
effort  to  avoid  it  is  disgrace  indeed.  There 
is  visibly,  in  the  same  persons,  an  attention 
to  their  own  private  concerns  and  those  of 
the  public ;  and  in  others  engaged  in  the 
labours  of  life  there  is  a  competent  skill  in 
the  affairs  of  government.  For  we  are  the 
only  people  who  think  him  that  does  not 
meddle  in  State  affairs — not  indolent,  but 
good-for-nothing.  And  yet  we  pass  the 
soundest  judgment,  and  are  quick  at  catch- 
ing the  right  apprehensions  of  things ;  not 
thinking  that  words  are  prejudicial  to 
actions,  but  rather  the  not  being  duly  pre- 
pared by  previous  debate  before  we  are 
obliged  to  proceed  to  execution.  Herein 
consists  our  distinguishing  excellence,  that  in 
the  hour  of  action  we  show  the  greatest 
courage,  and  yet  debate  beforehand  the  ex- 
pediency of  our  measures.  The  courage  of 
others  is  the  result  of  ignorance;  delibera- 
tion makes  them  cowards.  And  those  un- 
doubtedly must  be  owned  to  have  the  greatest 
souls  who,  most  acutely  sensible  of  the 
miseries  of  war  and  the  sweets  of  peace,  are 
not  hence  in  the  least  deterred  from  facing 
danger. 


PERICLES. 


11 


In  acts  of  beneficence,  further,  we  dif- 
fer from  the  many.  We  preserve  friends, 
not  by  receiving  but  by  conferring  obliga- 
tions. For  he  who  does  a  kindness  hath 
the  advantage  over  him  who,  by  the  law  of 
gratitude,  becomes  a  debtor  to  his  benefactor. 
The  person  obliged  is  compelled  to  act  the 
more  insipid  part,  conscious  that  a  return 
of  kindness  is  merely  a  payment,  and  not  an 
obligation.  And  we  alone  are  splendidly 
beneficent  to  others,  not  so  much  from  in- 
terested motive  as  for  the  credit  of  pure 
liberality.  I  shall  sum  up  what  yet  remains, 
by  only  adding,  that  our  Athens,  in  general, 
is  the  school  of  Greece :  and  that  every 
single  Athenian  among  us  is  excellently 
formed,  by  his  personal  qualifications,  for 
all  the  various  scenes  of  active  life,  acting 
with  a  most  graceful  demeanour,  and  a  most 
reaily  habit  of  dispatch. 

That  I  have  not,  on  this  occasion,  made 
use  of  a  pomp  of  words,  but  the  truth  of 
facts,  that  height  to  which,  by  such  a  con- 
duct, this  state  hath  rose,  is  an  undeniable 
proof.  For  we  are  now  the  only  people  of 
the  world  who  are  found  by  experience  to  be 
greater  than  in  report:  the  only  people  who, 
repelling  the  attacks  of  an  invading  enemy, 
exempts  their  defeat  from  the  blush  of  in- 
dignation, and  to  their  tributaries  no  discon- 
tent, as  if  subject  to  men  unworthy  to  com- 
mand. That  we  deserve  our  power,  we  need 
no  evidence  to  manifest:  we  have  great  and 
signal  proofs  of  this,  which  entitle  us  to  the 
admiration  of  the  present  and  of  future  ages. 
We  want  no  Homer  to  be  the  herald  of  our 
praise  ;  no  poet  to  deck  off  a  history  with 
the  charms  of  verse,  where  the  opinion  of  ex- 
ploits must  suffer  by  a  strict  relation.  Every 
sea  hath  been  opened  by  our  fleets,  and  every 
land  been  penetrated  by  our  armies,  which 
have  everywhere  left  behind  them  eternal 
monuments  of  our  enmity  and  our  friend- 
ship. 

In  the  just  defence  of  such  a  state,  these 
victims  of  their  own  valour,  scorning  the 
ruin  threatened  to  it,  have  valiantly  fought 
and  bravely  died.  And  every  one  of  those 
who  survive  is  ready,  I  am  persuaded,  to 
sacrifice  life  in  such  a  cause.  And  for  this 
reason  have  I  enlarged  so  much  on  national 
points,  to  give  the  clearest  proof  that  in  the 
present  war  we  have  more  at  stake  than 
men  whose  public  advantages  are  not  so 
valuable;  and  to  illustrate  by  actual  evi- 
dence how  great  a  commendation  is  due  to 
them  who  are  now  my  subjects,  and  the 
greatest  part  of  which  they  have  already 
received.  For  the  encomiums  with  which  I 
have  celebrated  the  state  have  been  earned 
for  it  by  the  bravery  of  these,  and  of  men 
like  these.  And  such  compliments  might  be 
thought  too  high  and  exaggerated  if  passed 


on  any  Grecians  but  them  alone.  The  fatal 
period  to  which  these  gallant  souls  are  now 
reduced  is  the  surest  evidence  of  their  merit, 
— an  evidence  begun  in  their  lives  and  com- 
pleted by  their  deaths:  for  it  is  a  debt  of 
justice  to  pay  superior  honours  to  men  who 
have  devoted  their  lives  in  fighting  for  their 
country,  though  inferior  to  others  in  every 
virtue  but  that  of  valour.  Their  last  service 
effaceth  all  former  demerits, — it  extends  to 
the  public  ;  their  private  demeanors  reached 
only  to  a  few.  Yet  not  one  of  these  was  at 
all  induced  to  shrink  from  danger,  through 
fondness  of  those  delights  which  the  peace- 
ful, affluent  life  bestows;  not  one  was  the 
less  lavish  of  his  life  through  that  flattering 
hope  attendant  upon  want,  that  poverty  at 
length  might  be  exchanged  for  affluence. 
One  passion  there  was  in  their  minds  much 
stronger  than  these,  the  desire  of  vengeance 
on  their  enemies.  Regarding  this  as  the  most 
honourable  prize  of  dangers,  they  boldly 
rushed  towards  the  mark,  to  seek  revenge, 
and  then  to  satisfy  those  secondary  passions. 
The  uncertain  event  they  had  already  se- 
cured in  hope ;  what  their  eyes  showed 
plainly  must  be  done,  they  trusted  their 
own  valour  to  accomplish,  thinking  it  more 
glorious  to  defend  themselves  and  die  in  the 
attempt,  than  to  yield  and  live.  From  the 
reproach  of  cowardice,  indeed,  they  fled,  but 
presented  their  bodies  to  the  shock  of  battle ; 
when,  inssnsiltle  of  fear,  but  triumphing  in 
hope,  in  the  doubtful  charge  they  instantly 
drop;  and  thus  discharged  the  duty  which 
brave  men  owe  to  their  country. 

As  for  you  who  now  survive  them,  it  is 
your  business  to  pray  for  a  better  fate, — but 
to  think  it  your  duty  also  to  preserve  the 
same  spirit  and  warmth  of  courage  against 
your  enemies ;  not  judging  the  expediency 
of  this  from  a  mere  harangue — where  any 
man,  indulging  a  flow  of  words,  may  tell  you, 
what  you  yourselves  know  as  well  as  he, 
how  many  advantages  there  are  in  fighting 
valiantly  against  your  enemies — but  rather 
making  the  daily  increasing  grandeur  of 
this  community  the  object  of  your  thoughts, 
and  growing  quite  enamoured  of  it.  And 
when  it  really  appears  great  to  your  appre- 
hensions, think  again,  that  this  grandeur  was 
acquired  by  brave  and  valiant  men  ;  by  men 
who  knew  their  duty,  and  in  the  moments 
of  action  were  sensible  of  shame ;  who, 
whenever  their  attempts  were  unsuccess- 
ful, thought  it  dishonourable  their  country 
should  stand  in  need  of  anything  their  valour 
could  do  for  it,  and  so  made  it  the  most  glori- 
ous present.  Bestowing  thus  their  lives  on 
the  public,  they  have  every  one  received  a 
praise  that  will  never  decay,  a  sepulchre 
that  will  be  most  illustrious.  Not  that  in 
which  their  bones  are  mouldering,  but  that 


12 


CICERO. 


in  which  their  fame  is  preserved,  to  be  on 
every  occasion,  when  honour  is  the  employ  of 
either  word  or  act,  eternally  remembered. 
This  whole  earth  is  a  sepulchre  of  illustrious 
men ;  nor  is  it  the  inscription  on  the  col- 
umns in  their  native  soil  that  alone  shows 
their  merit,  but  the  memorial  of  them,  better 
than  all  inscriptions,  in  every  foreign  nation, 
reposited  more  durably  in  universal  remem- 
brance than  on  their  own  tomb.  From  this 
very  moment,  emulating  these  noble  patterns, 
placing  your  happiness  in  liberty,  and  liberty 
in  valour,  be  prepared  to  encounter  all  the 
dangers  of  war.  For,  to  be  lavish  of  life  is 
not  so  noble  in  those  whom  misfortunes  have 
reduced  to  misery  and  despair,  as  in  men 
who  hazard  the  loss  of  a  comfortable  subsist- 
ence, and  the  enjoyment  of  all  the  blessings 
this  world  affords,  by  an  unsuccessful  enter- 
prise. Adversity  after  a  series  of  ease  and 
affluence  sinks  deeper  into  the  heart  of  a 
man  of  spirit  than  the  stroke  of  death  insen- 
sibly received  in  the  vigour  of  life  and  public 
hope. 

For  this  reason,  the  parents  of  those  who 
are  now  gone,  whoever  of  them  may  be  at- 
tending here,  I  do  not  bewail, — I  shall  rather 
comfort.  It  is  well  known  to  what  unhappy 
accidents  they  were  liable  from  the  moment 
of  their  birth,  and  that  happiness  belongs 
to  men  who  have  reached  the  most  glorious 
period  of  life,  as  these  now  have  who  are  to 
you  the  source  of  sorrow ;  those  whose  life 
bath  received  its  ample  measure,  happy  in 
its  continuance,  and  equally  happy  in  its 
conclusion.  I  know  it  in  truth  a  difficult 
truth  to  fix  comfort  in  those  breasts  which 
will  have  frequent  remembrances  in  seeing 
the  happiness  of  others  of  what  they  once 
themselves  enjoyed.  And  sorrow  flows  not 
from  the  absence  of  those  good  things  we 
have  never  yet  experienced,  but  from  the  loss 
of  those  to  which  we  have  been  accustomed. 
They  who  are  not  yet  by  age  exempted  from 
issue,  should  be  comforted  in  the  hope  of 
having  more.  The  children  yet  to  be  born 
will  be  a  private  benefit  to  some,  in  causing 
them  to  forget  such  as  no  longer  are,  and 
will  be  a  double  benefit  to  their  country,  in 
preventing  its  desolation,  and  providing  for 
its  security.  For  those  persons  cannot  in 
common  justice  be  regarded  as  members  of 
equal  value  to  the  public,  who  have  no  chil- 
dren to  expose  to  danger  for  its  safety.  But 
you  whose  age  is  already  far  advanced,  com- 
pute the  greater  share  of  happiness  your 
longer  time  hath  afforded  for  so  much  gain  ; 
persuaded  in  yourselves  the  remainder  will 
be  but  short,  and  enlighten  that  space  by  the 
glory  gained  by  these.  It  is  greatness  of 
soul  alone  that  never  grows  old;  nor  is  it 
wealth  that  delights  in  the  latter  stage  of 
life,  as  some  give  out,  so  much  as  honour. 


To  you,  the  sons  and  brothers  of  the  de- 
ceased, whatever  number  of  you  are  here,  a 
field  of  hardy  contention  is  opened.  For 
him  who  no  longer  is,  every  one  is  ready  to 
commend ;  so  that  to  whatever  height  you 
push  your  deserts,  you  will  scarce  ever  be 
thought  to  equal,  but  to  be  somewhat  in- 
ferior, to  these.  Envy  will  exert  itself 
against  a  competitor  whilst  life  remains ; 
but  when  death  stops  the  competition,  affec- 
tion will  applaud  without  restraint.  If,  after 
this,  it  be  expected  from  me  to  say  any  thing 
to  you  who  are  now  reduced  to  a  state  of 
widowhood,  about  female  virtue,  I  shall  ex- 
press it  all  in  one  short  admonition:  It  is 
your  greatest  glory  not  to  be  deficient  in  the 
virtue  peculiar  to  your  sex,  and  to  give  the 
men  as  little  handle  as  possible  to  talk  of 
your  behaviour,  whether  well  or  ill. 

I  have  now  discharged  the  province  al- 
lotted me  by  the  laws,  and  said  what  I 
thought  most  pertinent  to  this  .assembly.  Our 
departed  friends  have  by  facts  been  already 
honoured.  Their  children,  from  this  day 
till  they  arrive  at  manhood,  shall  be  educated 
at  the  public  expense  of  the  state,  which 
hath  appointed  so  beneficial  a  meed  for  these 
and  all  future  relics  of  the  public  contests. 
For  wherever  the  greatest  rewards  are  pro- 
posed for  virtue,  there  the  best  of  patriots 
are  ever  to  be  found. 

Now  let  every  one  respectively  indulge 
the  decent  grief  for  his  departed  friends, 
and  then  retire. 


CICERO, 

a  famous  statesman  and  orator,  was  born  at 
Arpinum,  about  seventy  miles  east-southeast 
of  Rome,  B.C.  106,  and  was  murdered  by  the 
soldiers  of  Antony  near  his  Formian  villa, 
B.C.  43. 

"  We  have  all,  in  our  early  education,  read  the 
Verrine  Orations1.  We  read  them  not  merely  to 
instruct  us,  as  they  will  do,  in  the  principles  of 
eloquence,  nnd  to  acquaint  us  with  the  manners, 
customs,  and  laws  of  the  ancient  Romans,  of  which 
they  are  an  abundant  repository,  but  we  may  read 
them  from  a  much  higher  motive. 

"  We  may  read  them  from  a  motive  which  the 
great  author  had  doubtless  in  his  view,  when  by 
publishing  them  he  left  to  the  world  and  to  the 
latest  posterity  a  monument  by  which  it  may  be 
seen  what  course  a  great  public  accuser  in  a  great 
public  cause  ought  to  pursue;  and,  as  connected 
with  it,  what  course  judges  ought  to  pursue  in 
deciding  upon  such  a  cause." — EDMUND  BURKE: 
Impeachment  of  Warren  Ha*ting»,  Speech  in  Gen- 
eral Reply,  Ninth  Day,  June  16,  1794. 

PART  OF  CICERO'S  ORATION  AGAINST  VERRES. 
The  time  is  come,  Fathers,  when  that 
which  has  long  been  wished  for,  towards 
allaying  the  envy  your  order  has  been  sul>- 
ject  to,  and  removing  the  imputations 


CICERO. 


13 


against  trials,  is  (not  by  human  contrivance 
but  superior  direction)  effectually  put  in  our 
power.  An  opinion  has  long  prevailed,  not 
only  here  at  home,  but  likewise  in  foreign 
countries,  both  dangerous  to  you  and  per- 
nicious to  the  state,  viz.,  that  in  prosecutions 
men  of  wealth  are  always  safe,  however 
clearly  convicted.  There  is  now  to  be 
brought  upon  his  trial  before  you,  to  the 
confusion,  I  hope,  of  the  propagators  of  this 
slanderous  imputation,  one  whose  life  and 
actions  condemn  him  in  the  opinion  of  all 
impartial  persons,  but  who,  according  to  his 
own  reckoning,  and  declared  dependence 
upon  his  riches,  is  already  acquitted:  I 
mean  Caius  Verres.  If  that  sentence  is 
passed  upon  him  which  his  crimes  deserve, 
your  authority,  Fathers,  will  be  venerable 
and  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  public:  but  if 
his  great  riches  should  bias  you  in  his 
favour,  I  shall  still  gain  one  point,  viz.,  to 
make  it  apparent  to  all  the  world  that  what 
was  wanting  in  this  case  was  not  a  criminal 
nor  a  prosecutor,  but  justice  and  adequate 
punishment. 

To  pass  over  the  shameful  irregularities 
of  his  youth,  what  does  his  quaestorship,  the 
first  public  employment  he  held,  what  does 
it  exhibit  but  one  continued  scene  of  vil- 
lanies  ?  Cneius  Carbo  plundered  of  the  pub- 
lic money  by  his  own  treasurer,  a  consul 
stripped  and  betrayed,  an  army  deserted 
and  reduced  to  want,  a  province  robbed,  the 
civil  and  religious  right  of  a  people  violated. 
The  employment  he  held  in  Asia  Minor  and 
Pamphilia,  what  did  it  produce  but  the  ruin 
of  tliose  countries?  in  which  houses,  cities, 
and  temples  were  robbed  by  him. 

What  was  his  conduct  in  his  praetorship 
here  at  home  ? 

Let  the  plundered  temples,  and  public 
works  neglected  that  he  might  embezzle  the 
money  intended  for  carrying  them  on,  bear 
witness.  But  his  praetorship  in  Sicily  crowns 
all  his  works  of  wickedness,  and  finishes  a 
lasting  monument  to  his  infamy.  The  mis- 
chiefs done  by  him  in  that  country  during 
the  three  years  of  his  iniquitous  administra- 
tion are  such  that  many  years  under  the 
•wisest  and  best  of  praetors  will  not  be  suffi- 
cient to  restore  things  to  the  condition  in 
which  he  found  them.  For  it  is  notorious 
that  during  the  time  of  his  tyranny  the 
Sicilians  neither  enjoyed  the  protection  of 
their  own  original  laws,  of  the  regulations 
made  for  their  benefit  by  the  Roman  Senate 
upon  their  coming  under  the  protection  of 
the  commonwealth,  nor  of  the  natural  and 
unalienable  rights  of  men.  His  nod  has 
decided  all  causes  in  Sicily  for  these  three 
years  ;  and  his  decisions  have  broke  all  law, 
all  precedent,  all  right.  The  sums  he  has, 
by  arbitrary  taxes  and  unheard  of  imposi- 


tions, extorted  from  the  industrious  poor, 
are  not  to  be  computed.  The  most  faithful 
allies  of  the  commonwealth  have  been 
treated  as  enemies.  Roman  citizens  have, 
like  slaves,  been  put  to  death  with  tortures. 
The  most  atrocious  criminals,  for  money, 
have  been  exempted  from  the  deserved  pun- 
ishments ;  and  men  of  the  most  unexception- 
able characters  condemned  and  banished, 
unheard.  The  harbours,  though  sufficiently 
fortified,  and  the  gates  of  strong  towns, 
opened  to  pirates  and  ravagers  ;  the  soldiery 
and  sailors  belonging  to  a  province  under 
the  protection  of  the  commonwealth  starved 
to  death  ;  whole  fleets,  to  the  great  detri- 
ment of  the  province,  suffered  to  perish; 
the  ancient  monuments  of  either  Sicilian 
or  Roman  greatness,  the  statues  of  heroes 
and  princes,  carried  off;  and  the  temples 
stripped  of  the  images. 

The  infamy  of  his  lewdness  has  been  such 
as  decency  forbids  to  describe  ;  nor  will  I,  by 
mentioning  particulars,  put  those  unfortu- 
nate persons  to  fresh  pain  who  have  not 
been  able  to  save  their  wives  and  daughters 
from  his  impurity.  And  these  his  atrocious 
crimes  have  been  committed  in  so  public  a 
manner  that  there  is  no  one  who  has  heard 
of  his  name  but  could  reckon  up  his  actions. 
Having,  by  his  iniquitous  sentences,  filled 
the  prisons  with  the  most  industrious  and 
deserving  of  the  people,  he  then  proceeded 
to  order  numbers  of  Roman  citizens  to  be 
strangled  in  his  gaols ;  so  that  the  exclama- 
tion, ''I  am  a  citizen  of  Rome  !"  which  has 
often,  in  the  most  distant  regions,  and  among 
the  most  barbarous  people,  been  a  protection, 
was  of  no  service  to  them,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, brought  a  speedier  and  more  severe 
punishment  upon  them. 

I  ask  now,  Verres.  what  you  have  to  ad- 
vance against  this  charge  ?  Will  you  pre- 
tend to  deny  it?  Will  you  pretend  that  any 
thing  false,  that  even  any  thing  aggravated, 
is  alleged  against  you?  Had  .any  prince, 
or  any  state,  committed  the  same  outrage 
against  the  privilege  of  Roman  citizens, 
should  we  not  think  we  had  sufficient  ground 
for  declaring  immediate  war  against  them  ? 
What  punishment  ought  then  to  be  inflicted 
upon  a  tyrannical  and  wicked  praetor  who 
dared,  at  no  greater  distance  than  Sicily, 
within  sight  of  the  Italian  coast,  to  put  to 
the  infamous  death  of  crucifixion  that  un- 
fortunate and  innocent  citizen,  Publius  Ga- 
vius  Cosanus,  only  for  his  having  asserted 
his  privilege  of  citizenship,  and  declared  his 
intention  of  appealing  to  the  justice  of  his 
country  against  a  cruel  oppressor,  who  had 
unjustly  confined  him  in  a  prison  at  Syra- 
cuse, from  whence  he  had  just  made  his 
escape?  The  unhappy  man,  arrested  as  he 
was  going  to  embark  for  his  native  country, 


14 


SAL  LUST. 


is  brought  before  the  wicked  praetor.  With 
eyes  darting  fury,  and  a  countenance  dis- 
torted with  cruelty,  he  orders  the  helpless 
victim  of  his  rage  to  be  stripped  and  rods 
to  be  brought,  accusing  him,  but  without  the 
least  shadow  of  evidence,  or  even  of  suspi- 
cion, of  having  come  to  Sicily  as  a  spy.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  unhappy  man  cried  out, 
'•  I  am  a  Roman  citizen  !  I  have  served  under 
Lucius  Pretius.  who  is  now  at  Panormus, 
and  will  attest  my  innocence!"  The  blood- 
thirsty praetor,  deaf  to  all  he  could  urge  in 
his  own  defence,  ordered  the  infamous  pun- 
ishment to  be  inflicted. 

Thus,  Fathers,  was  an  innocent  Roman 
citizen  publicly  mangled  with  scourging ; 
whilst  the  only  words  he  uttered  amidst  his 
cruel  sufferings  were,  "I  am  a  Roman  citi- 
zen !"  With  these  he  hoped  to  defend  him- 
self from  violence  and  infamy  ;  but  of  so 
little  service  was  this  privilege  to  him  that 
while  he  was  thus  asserting  his  citizenship 
the  order  was  given  for  his  execution, —  for 
his  execution  upon  the  cross!  0  liberty  ! 
0  sound  once  delightful  to  every  Roman 
ear!  O  sacred  privilege  of  Roman  citizen- 
ship! once  sacred,  now  trampled  upon! 
But  what  then?  is  it  come  to  this?  Shall 
an  inferior  magistrate,  a  governor,  who  holds 
his  whole  power  of  the  Roman  people,  in  a 
Roman  province,  within  sight  of  Italy,  bind, 
scourge,  torture  with  fire  and  red-hot  plates 
of  iron,  and  at  the  last  put  to  the  infamous 
death  of  the  cross,  a  Roman  citizen?  Shall 
neither  the  cries  of  innocence  expiring  in 
agony,  nor  the  tears  of  pitying  spectators, 
nor  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  common- 
weal tli,  nor  the  fear  of  the  justice  of  the 
country,  restrain  the  licentious  and  wanton 
cruelty  of  a  monster,  who,  in  confidence  of 
his  riches,  strikes  at  the  root  of  liberty,  and 
sets  mankind  at  defiance? 

I  conclude  with  expressing  my  hopes  that 
your  wisdom  and  justice,  Fathers,  will  not, 
by  suffering  the  atrocious  and  unexampled 
insolence  of  Caius  Verres  to  escape  the  due 
punishment,  leave  room  to  apprehend  the 
danger  of  a  total  subversion  of  authority, 
and  introduction  of  general  anarchy  and 
confusion. 


SALLUST, 

a  Roman  historian,  was  born  at  Amiternum, 
B.C.  86,  and  died  B.C.  34. 

"It  would  seem  that  Sallust  took  Thncydides 
for  his  model,  but  his  writings  will  bear  no 
comparison  as  to  philosophic  depth  and  insight 
with  the  immortal  work  of  the  Greek  historian. 
Yet  his  observations,  if  seldom  profound,  are 
always  sensible,  and  show  great  shrewdness  and 
sagacity.  But  it  is  in  the  delineation  of  character 
that  he  more  especially  excels.  His  portrait  of 


Catiline,  brief  as  it  is,  entitles  us  to  place  him  on 
a  par  in  this  respect  with  Tacitus  and  Clarendon. 
He  has  often  been  accused  of  partiality,  but  so  far 
as  our  limited  knowledge  enables  us  to  judge,  the 
charge  is  unfounded.  Like  all  ancient  historians, 
with  the  exception  of  Polybius,  he  introduced 
fictitious  speeches  into  his  histories.  Thus  we 
find  him  assigning  orations  of  his  own  composing 
to  Onto  and  Caesar,  although  the  speeches  really 
delivered  by  them  were  extant  when  he  wrote."— 
U.,  i»  Imperial  Diet,  of  Uitio.  Biography,  v.  889. 

CAIUS  MARIUS  TO  THE  ROMANS,  SHOWING  THE 
ABSURDITY  OF  THEIR  HESITATING  TO  CON- 
FER ON  HIM  THE  RANK  OF  GENERAL,  MERELY 
ON  ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  EXTRACTION. 

It  is  but  too  common,  my  countrymen,  to 
observe  a  material  difference  between  the 
behaviour  of  those  who  stand  candidates  for 
places  of  power  and  trust,  before  and  after 
their  obtaining  them.  They  solicit  them  in 
one  manner,  and  execute  them  in  another. 
They  set  out  with  a  great  appearance  of 
activity,  humility,  and  moderation  ;  and  they 
quickly  fall  into  sloth,  pride,  and  avarice. 
It  is,  undoubtedly,  no  easy  matter  to  dis- 
charge, to  the  general  satisfaction,  the  duty 
of  a  supreme  commander  in  troublesome 
times.  I  am,  I  hope,  duly  sensible  of  the  im- 
portance of  the  office  I  propose  to  take  upon, 
me  for  the  service  of  my  country.  To  carry 
on,  with  effect,  an  expensive  war,  and  yet 
be  frugal  of  the  public  money ;  to  oblige  those 
to  serve,  whom  it  may  be  delicate  to  offend ; 
to  conduct,  at  the  same  time,  a  complicated 
variety  of  operations;  to  concert  measures 
at  home,  answerable  to  the  state  of  things 
abroad ;  and  to  gain  every  valuable  end,  in 
spite  of  opposition  from  the  envious,  the 
factious,  and  the  disaffected, — to  do  all  this, 
my  countrymen,  is  more  difficult  than  is 
generally  thought. 

But  besides  the  disadvantages  which  are 
common  to  me  with  all  others  in  eminent 
stations,  my  case  is,  in  this  respect,  pecu- 
liarly hard, — that  whereas  a  commander  of 
Patrician  rank,  if  he  is  guilty  of  a  neglect 
or  breach  of  duty,  has  his  great  connections, 
the  antiquity  of  his  family,  the  important 
services  of  his  ancestors,  and  the  multitudes 
he  has  by  power  engaged  in  his  interest,  to 
screen  him  from  condign  punishment,  my 
whole  safety  depends  upon  myself;  which 
renders  it  the  more  indispensably  necessary 
for  me  to  take  care  that  my  conduct  be  clear 
and  unexceptionable.  Besides,  I  am  well 
aware,  my  countrymen,  that  the  eye  of  the 
public  is  upon  me ;  and  that,  though  the  im- 
partial, who  prefer  the  real  advantage  of  the 
commonwealth  to  all  other  considerations, 
favour  my  pretensions,  the  Patricians  want 
nothing  PO  much  as  an  occasion  against  me. 
It  is,  therefore,  my  fixed  resolution  to  use 
my  best  endeavours  that  you  be  not  disap- 


PLINY  THE   YOUNGER. 


15 


pointed  in  me,  and  that  their  indirect  designs 
against  me  may  be  defeated. 

I  have,  from  my  youth,  been  familiar  with 
toils  and  with  dangers.  I  was  faithful  to 
your  interest,  my  countrymen,  when  I  served 
you  for  no  reward  but  that  of  honour.  It  is 
not  my  design  to  betray  you  now  that  you 
have  conferred  upon  me  a  place  of  profit. 
You  have  committed  to  my  conduct  the  war 
airaiust  Jugurtha.  The  Patricians  are  of- 
fended at  this.  But  where  would  be  the 
wisdom  of  giving  such  a  command  to  one  of 
their  honourable  body?  a  person  of  illus- 
trious birth,  of  ancient  family,  of  innumer- 
able statues,  but — of  no  experience  !  What 
service  would  his  long  line  of  dead  ancestors, 
or  his  multitude  of  motionless  statues,  do 
his  country  in  the  day  of  battle?  What 
could  such  a  general  do,  but  in  his  trepida- 
tion and  inexperience  have  recourse  to  some 
inferior  commander  for  direction  in  difficul- 
ties to  which  he  was  not  himself  equal? 
Thus  your  Patrician  general  would,  in  fact, 
have  a  general  over  him  ;  so  that  the  acting 
commander  would  still  be  a  Plebeian.  So 
true  is  this,  my  countrymen,  that  I  have 
myself  known  those  who  have  been  chosen 
consuls  begin  then  to  read  the  history  of 
their  own  country,  of  which  till  that  time 
they  were  totally  ignorant ;  that  is,  they 
first  obtained  the  employment,  and  then  be- 
thought themselves  of  the  qualifications 
necessary  for  the  proper  discharge  of  it. 

I  submit  to  your  judgment,  Romans,  on 
which  side  the  advantage  lies,  when  a  com- 
parison is  made  between  Patrician  haughti- 
ness and  Plebeian  experience.  The  very 
actions  which  they  have  only  read,  I  have 
partly  seen,  and  partly  myself  achieved. 
What  they  know  by  reading,  .1  know  by 
action.  They  are  pleased  to  slight  my  mean 
birth ;  I  despise  their  mean  characters. 
Want  of  birth  and  fortune  is  the  objection 
against  me  ;  want  of  personal  worth  against 
them.  But  are  not  all  men  of  the  same 
species?  What  can  makeadifference between 
one  man  and  another,  but  the  endowments 
of  the  mind?  For  my  part,  I  shall  always 
look  upon  the  bravest  man  as  the  noblest 
man.  Suppose  it  were  enquired  of  the 
fathers  of  such  Patricians  as  Albinus  and 
Bcstia.  whether,  if  they  had  their  choice, 
they  would  desire  sons  of  their  character,  or 
of  mine ;  what  would  they  answer  but  that 
they  should  wish  the  worthiest  to  be  their 
sons?  If  the  Patricians  have  reason  to 
despise  me,  let  them  likewise  despise  their 
ancestors,  whose  nobility  was  the  fruit  of 
their  virtue.  Do  they  envy  the  honours 
bestowed  upon  me?  let  them  envy  likewise 
my  labours,  my  abstinence,  and  the  dangers 
I  have  undergone  for  my  country,  by  which 
I  have  acquired  them.  But  those  worthless 


men  lead  such  a  life  of  inactivity  as  if  they 
despised  any  honours  they  can  bestow, 
while  they  aspire  to  honours  as  if  they  had 
deserved  them  by  the  most  industrious 
virtue.  They  lay  claim  to  the  rewards  of 
activity  for  their  having  enjoyed  the  pleas- 
ures of  luxury  :  yet  none  can  be  more  lavish 
than  they  are  in  praise  of  their  ancestors : 
and  they  imagine  they  honour  themselves 
by  celebrating  their  forefathers;  whereas 
they  do  the  very  contrary  :  for,  as  much  as 
their  ancestors  were  distinguished  for  their 
virtues,  so  much  are  they  disgraced  by  their 
vices.  The  glory  of  ancestors  casts  a  light, 
indeed,  upon  their  posterity  ;  but  only  serves 
to  show  what  the  descendants  are.  It  alike 
exhibits  to  public  view  their  degeneracy  and 
their  worth.  I  own  I  cannot  boast  of  the 
deeds  of  my  forefathers ;  but  I  hope  I  may 
answer  the  cavils  of  the  Patricians  by  stand- 
ing up  in  defence  of  what  I  have  myself 
done. 

Observe  now,  my  countrymen,  the  in- 
justice of  the  Patricians.  They  arrogate  to 
themselves  honours  on  account  of  the  ex- 
ploits done  by  their  forefathers  ;  whilst  they 
will  not  allow  me  the  due  praise  for  per- 
forming the  very  same  sort  of  actions  in 
my  own  person.  He  has  no  statues,  they 
cry,  of  his  family.  lie  can  trace  no  vener- 
able line  of  ancestors.  What  then  ?  Is  it 
matter  of  more  praise  to  disgrace  one's  illus- 
trious ancestors  than  to  become  illustrious 
by  one's  own  behaviour?  What  if  I  can 
show  no  statues  of  my  family?  I  can  show 
the  standards,  the  armour,  and  the  trap- 
pings which  I  have  myself  taken  from  the 
vanquished  ;  I  can  show  the  scars  of  those 
wounds  which  I  have  received  by  facing  the 
enemies  of  my  country.  These  are  my 
statues.  These  are  the  honours  I  boast  of. 
Not  left  me  by  inheritance,  as  theirs  :  bub 
earned  by  toil,  by  abstinence,  by  valour  ; 
amidst  clouds  of  dust  and  seas  of  blood : 
scenes  of  action,  where  these  effeminate 
Patricians,  who  endeavour  by  indirect  means 
to  depreciate  me  in  your  esteem,  have  never 
dared  to  show  their  faces. 


PLINY  THE   YOUNGER 

(Caius  Plinius  Caecilius  Secundus),  born  at 
Comum,  A.D.  61  or  62,  died  about  A.D.  116. 

"  Pliny  wrote  and  published  a  great  number  of 
books:  but  nothing  has  escaped  the  wreck  of  time, 
except  the  books  of  Epistles,  and  the  '  Panegyric 
upon  Trnjan,'  which  has  ever  been  considered  as 
a  masterpiece.  His  letters  seem  to  have  been  in- 
tended for  the  public  ;  and  in  them  he  may  be  con- 
sidered as  writing  his  own  memoirs.  Every  epistle 
is  a  kind  of  historical  sketch,  in  which  we  have  a 
view  of  him  in  some  striking  attitude,  either  of 


16 


PLINY  THE   YOUNGER. 


active  or  contemplative  life." — CJialmeria  Diet., 
64.  See  the  Letters  of  Pliny  the  Younger,  trans, 
by  J.  D.  Lewis,  Caiiib.  and  Lond.,  1879,  p.  8vo. 

To  Tuscus:  ON  A  COURSE  OF  STUDY. 

You  dSsire  my  sentiments  concerning  the 
method  of  study  you  should  pursue  in  that 
retirement  to  which  you  have  long  since 
withdrawn.  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  look 
upon  it  as  a  very  advantageous  practice  (and 
it  is  what  many  recommend)  to  translate 
either  from  Greek  into  Latin,  or  from  Latin 
into  Greek.  By  this  means  you  will  furnish 
yourself  with  noble  and  proper  expressions, 
with  variety  of  beautiful  figures,  and  an  ease 
and  strength  of  style.  Besides,  by  imitating 
the  most  approved  authors,  you  will  find  your 
imagination  heated,  and  fall  insensibly  into 
a  similar  turn  of  thought ;  at  the  same  time 
that  those  things  which  you  may  possibly 
have  overlooked  in  a  common  way  of  read- 
ing, cannot  escape  you  in  translating:  and 
this  method  will  open  your  understanding 
and  improve  your  judgment.  It  may  not  be 
amiss  after  you  have  read  an  author,  in  order 
to  make  yourself  master  of  his  subject  and 
argument,  from  his  reader  to  turn,  as  it  were, 
his  rival,  and  attempt  something  of  your  own 
in  the  same  way  ;  and  then  make  an  impar- 
tial comparison  between  your  performance 
and  his,  in  order  to  see  in  what  point  either 
you  or  he  most  happily  succeeded.  It  will 
be  a  matter  of  very  pleasing  congratulation 
to  yourself,  if  you  shall  find  in  some  things 
that  you  have  the  advantage  of  him,  as  it 
will  be  a  great  mortification  if  he  should 
rise  above  you  in  all.  You  may  sometimes 
venture  in  these  little  essays  to  try  your 
strength  upon  the  most  shining  passages  of 
a  distinguished  author.  The  attempt,  in- 
deed, will  be  something  bold  ;  but  as  it  is  a 
contention  which  passes  in  secret,  it  cannot 
be  taxed  with  presumption.  Not  but  that 
we  have  seen  instances  of  persons  who  have 
publicly  entered  this  sort  of  lists  with  great 
success,  and  while  they  did  not  despair  of 
overtaking,  have  gloriously  advanced  before, 
those  whom  they  thought  it  sufficient  honour 
to  follow.  After  you  have  thus  finished  a 
composition,  you  must  lay  it  aside  till  it  is  no 
longer  fresh  in  your  memory,  and  then  take 
it  up  in  order  to  revise  and  correct  it.  You 
will  find  several  things  to  retain,  but  still 
more  to  reject;  you  will  add  a  new  thought 
here,  and  alter  another  there.  It  is  a  labori- 
ous and  tedious  task,  I  own,  thus  to  re-in- 
flame the  mind  after  the  first  heat  is  over,  to 
recover  an  impulse  when  its  force  has  been 
checked  and  spent ;  in  a  word,  to  interweave 
new  parts  into  the  texture  of  a  composition 
without  disturbing  or  confounding  the  ori- 
ginal plan  ;  but  the  advantage  attending  this 
method  will  overbalance  the  difficulty.  I 


know  the  bent  of  your  present  attention  is 
directed  towards  the  eloquence  of  the  bar ; 
but  1  would  not  for  that  reason  advise  you 
never  to  quit  the  style  of  dispute  and  conten- 
tion. As  land  is  improved  by  sowing  with 
various  seeds,  so  is  the  mind  by  exercising 
it  with  different  studies.  I  would  recom- 
mend it  to  you,  therefore,  sometimes  to  single 
out  a  fine  passage  of  history  ;  sometimes 
to  exercise  yourself  in  the  epistolary  style, 
and  sometimes  the  poetical.  For  it  fre- 
quently happens  that  the  pleading  one  has 
occasion  to  make  use  not  only  of  historical, 
but  even  poetical  descriptions ;  as  by  the 
epistolary  mariner  of  writing  you  will  ac- 
quire a  close  and  easy  expression.  It  will 
be  extremely  proper  also  to  unbend  your 
mind  with  poetry :  when  I  say  so,  I  do  not 
mean  that  species  of  it  which  turns  upon 
subjects  of  great  length  (for  that  is  fit  only 
for  persons  of  much  leisure),  but  those  little 
pieces  of  the  epigrammatic  kind,  which  serve 
as  proper  reliefs  to,  and  are  consistent  with, 
employments  of  every  sort.  They  com- 
monly go  under  the  title  of  Poetical  Amuse- 
ments ;  buttheseainusementshavesometimes 
gained  as  much  reputation  to  their  authors  us 
works  of  a  more  serious  nature.  In  this 
manner  the  greatest  men,  as  well  as  the  great- 
est orators,  used  either  to  exercise  or  amuse 
themselves,  or  rather,  indeed,  did  both.  It 
is  surprising  how  much  the  mind  is  enter- 
tained and  enlivened  by  these  little  pocticcil 
compositions,  as  they  turn  upon  subjects  of 
gallantry,  satire,  tenderness,  politeness,  and 
every  thing,  in  short,  that  concerns  life  and 
the  affairs  of  the  world.  Besides,  the  same 
advantage  attends  these  as  every  other  sort 
of  poems,  that  we  turn  from  them  to  prose 
with  so  much  the  more  pleasure  after  having 
experienced  the  difficulty  of  being  con- 
strained and  fettered  by  numbers.  And 
now,  perhaps,  I  have  troubled  you  upon  this 
subject  longer  than  you  desired  ;  however, 
there  is  one  thing  which  I  have  omitted  :  I 
have  not  told  you  what  kind  of  authors  you 
should  read;  though  indeed  that  was  suf- 
ficiently implied  when  I  mentioned  what 
subjects  I  would  recommend  for  your  com- 
positions. You  will  remember,  that  the  most 
approved  writers  of  each  sort  are  to  be  care- 
fully chosen;  for,  as  it  lias  been  well  ob- 
served, "Though  we  should  read  much,  we 
should  not  read  many  books."  Who  these 
authors  are  is  so  clearly  settled,  and  so  gen- 
erally known,  that  I  need  not  point  them 
out  to  you  :  besides,  I  have  already  extended 
this  letter  to  such  an  immoderate  length, 
that  I  have  interrupted,  I  fear,  too  long  those 
studies  I  have  been  recommending.  I  will 
here  resign  you,  therefore,  to  your  papers, 
which  you  will  now  resume;  and  either 
pursue  the  studies  you  were  before  engaged 


RICHARD  DE  BURY. 


17 


in,  or  enter  upon  some  of  those  which  I  have 
advised.     Farewell. 


RICHARD    DE   BURY, 

born  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds,   1287,   became 
Bishop  of  Durham  1333,  and  died  1345. 

"  Richard  de  Bury,  otherwise  called  Richard 
Aungervylle,  is  said  to  have  alone  possessed  more 
books  than  all  the  bishops  of  England  together. 
Lei-ides  the  fixed  libraries  which  he  had  formed  in 
his  several  palaces,  the  floor  of  his  common  apart- 
ment was  so  covered  with  books  that  those  who 
entered  could  not  with  due  reverence  approach  his 
presence.  .  .  .  Petrarch  says  that  he  had  once  a 
conversation  with  Aungervylle  concerning  the 
Island  Thulc,  whom  he  calls  Virum  ardentis  in- 
genii.  Petrarch,  Epist.,  i.  3." —  Warton'ii  Hint,  of 
EIKJ.  Poet.,  ed.  1840,  i.  cxv.,  cxvi. 

Ox  BOOKS. 

The  desirable  treasure  of  wisdom  and 
knowledge,  which  all  men  covet  from  the 
impulse  of  nature,  infinitely  surpasses  all 
the  riches  of  the  world  ;  in  comparison  with 
which  precious  stones  are  vile,  silver  is  clay, 
and  purified  gold  grains  of  sand ;  in  the 
splendour  of  which  the  sun  and  moon  grow 
dim  to  the  sight ;  in  the  admirable  sweetness 
of  which,  honey  and  manna  are  bitter  to  the 
taste. 

The  value  of  wisdom  decreaseth  not  with 
time  ;  it  hath  an  ever  flourishing  virtue  that 
cleanseth  its  possession  from  every  venom. 
0  celestial  gift  of  Divine  liberality,  descend- 
ing from  the  Father  of  Light  to  raise  up  the 
rational  soul  even  to  heaven  !  Thou  art  the 
celestial  alimony  of  intellect,  of  which  who- 
soever eateth  shall  yet  hunger,  and  whoso 
drinketh  shall  yet  thirst ;  a  harmony  re- 
joicing the  soul  of  the  sorrowful,  and  never 
in  any  way  discomposing  the  hearer.  Thou 
art  the  moderator  and  the  rule  of  morals, 
operating  according  to  which  none  err.  By 
thee  kings  reign  and  law-givers  decree 
justly.  Through  thee,  rusticity  of  nature 
being  cast  off,  wits  and  tongues  being  pol- 
ished, and  the  thorns  of  vice  utterly  eradi- 
cated, the  summit  of  honour  is  reached,  and 
they  become  fathers  of  their  country  and 
companions  of  princes,  who,  Avithout  thee, 
might  have  forged  their  lances  into  spades 
and  ploughshares,  or  perhaps  have  fed 
swine  with  the  prodigal  son.  Where,  then, 
most  potent,  most  longed-for  treasure,  art 
thou  concealed  ?  and  where  shall  the  thirsty 
soul  find  thee?  Undoubtedly,  indeed,  thou 
hast  placed  thy  desirable  tabernacle  in 
books,  where  the  Most  High,  the  Light  of 
light,  the  Book  of  life,  hath  established 
thee.  There  then  all  who  ask  receive,  all 
who  seek  find  thee,  to  those  who  knock  thou 
openest  quickly. 


In  books  Cherubim  expand  their  wings, 
that  the  soul  of  the  student  may  ascend  and 
look  around  from  pole  to  pole,  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  sun,  from  the  north  and 
from  the  south.  In  them  the  Most  High 
incomprehensible  God  himself  is  contained 
and  worshipped.  In  them  the  nature  of 
celestial,  terrestrial,  and  infernal  beings  is 
laid  open.  In  them  the  laws  by  which  every 
polity  is  governed  are  decreed,  the  officers 
of  the  celestial  hierarchy  are  distinguished, 
and  tyrannies  of  such  demons  are  described 
as  the.  ideas  of  Plato  never  surpassed,  and 
the  chair  of  Crato  never  sustained. 

In  books  we  find  the  dead  as  it  were  liv- 
ing ;  in  books  we  foresee  things  to  come :  in 
books  warlike  affairs  are  methodized ;  the 
rights  of  peace  proceed  from  books.  All 
things  are  corrupted  and  decay  with  time. 
Satan  never  ceases  to  devour  those  whom  he 
generates,  insomuch  that  the  glory  of  the 
world  would  be  lost  in  oblivion  if  God  had 
not  provided  mortals  with  a  remedy  in 
books.  Alexander  the  ruler  of  the  world, 
Julius  the  invader  of  the  world  and  of  the 
city,  the  first  who  in  unity  of  person  as- 
sumed the  empire,  arms,  and  arts,  the  faith- 
ful Fabricius,  the  rigid  Cato,  would  at  this 
day  have  been  without  a  memorial  if  the 
aid  of  books  had  failed  them.  Towers  are 
razed  to  the  earth,  cities  overthrown,  trium- 
phal arches  mouldered  to  dust;  nor  can  the 
king  or  pope  be  founded  upon  whom  the 
privilege  of  a  lasting  name  can  be  conferred 
more  easily  than  by  books.  A  book  made 
renders  succession  to  the  author  ;  for  as  long 
as  the  book  exists,  the  author  remaining 
udvva  Tof,  immortal,  cannot  perish. 

As  Ptolemy  witnesseth  in  the  prologue  of 
Almazett,  he  (he  says)  is  not  dead  who  gave 
life  to  science. 

What  learned  scribe,  therefore,  who  draws 
out  things  new  and  old  from  an  infinite 
treasury  of  books,  will  limit  their  price  by 
any  other  thing  whatsoever  of  another  kind  ? 
Truth,  overcoming  all  things,  which  ranks 
above  kings,  wine,  and  women,  to  honour 
which  above  friends  obtains  the  benefit  of 
sanctity,  which  is  the  way  that  deviates  not, 
and  the  life  without  end,  to  which  the  holy 
Boetius  attributes  a  threefold  existence,  in 
the  mind,  in  the  voice,  and  in  writing,  ap- 
pears to  abide  most  usefully  and  fructify 
most  productively  of  advantage  in  books. 
For  the  truth  of  the  voice  perishes  with  the 
sound;  truth  latent  in  the  mind  is  hidden 
wisdom  and  invisible  treasure ;  but  the 
truth  which  illuminates  books,  desires  to 
manifest  itself  to  every  disciplinable  sense, 
— to  the  sight  when  read,  to  the  hearing 
when  heard  :  it,  moreover,  in  a  manner  com- 
mends itself  to  the  touch,  when  submitting 
to  be  transcribed,  collated,  corrected,  and 


18 


FRANCESCO  PETRARCH. 


preserved.  Truth  confined  to  the  mind, 
though  it  may  be  the  possession  of  a  noble 
soul,  while  it  wants  a  companion  and  is  not 
judged  of,  either  by  the  sight  or  the  hearing, 
appears  to  be  inconsistent  with  pleasure. 

But  the  truth  of  the  voice  is  open  to  the 
hearing  only,  and  latent  to  the  sight  (whicli 
shows  as  many  differences  of  things  fixed 
upon  by  a  most  subtle  motion,  beginning 
and  ending  as  it  were  simultaneously).  But 
the  truth  written  in  a  book,  being  not  fluc- 
tuating, but  permanent,  shows  itself  openly 
to  the  sight  passing  through  the  spiritual 
ways  of  the  eyes,  as  the  porches  and  halls 
of  common  sense  and  imagination  ;  it  enters 
the  chamber  of  intellect,  reposes  itself  upon 
the  couch  of  memory,  and  there  congenev- 
ates  the  eternal  truth  of  the  mind. 

Lastly,  let  us  consider  how  great  a  com- 
modity of  doctrine  exists  in  books ;  how 
easily,  how  secretly,  how  safely,  they  expose 
the  nakedness  of  human  ignorance  without 
putting  it  to  shame.  These  are  the  masters 
that  instruct  us  without  rods  and  ferules, 
without  hard  words  and  anger,  without 
clothes  or  money.  If  you  approach  them, 
they  are  not  asleep;  if  investigating  you 
interrogate  them,  they  conceal  nothing;  if 
you  mistake  them,  they  never  grumble;  if 
you  are  ignorant,  they  cannot  laugh  at  you. 

Translated  by  J.  B.  Jnglis,  Lond.,  1832, 8vo. 


FRANCESCO    PETRARCH, 

born  at  Arezzo,  Tuscany,  1304,  died  at  Ar- 
qua,  1374. 

"  I  cannot  conclude  these  remarks  without 
making  a  few  observations  on  the  Latib  writings 
of  Petrarch.  It  appears  that,  both  by  himself 
and  by  his  contemporaries,  these  were  far  more 
highly  vulued  than  his  compositions  in  the  ver- 
nacular language.  Posterity,  the  supreme  court 
of  literary  appeal,  has  not  only  reversed  the  judg- 
ment, but,  according  to  its  general  practice,  re- 
versed it  with  costs,  and  condemned  the  unfortu- 
nate works  to  pay,  not  only  for  their  own  inferi- 
ority, but  also  for  the  injustice  of  those  who  have 
given  them  an  unmerited  preference.  .  .  .  He  has 
aspired  to  emulate  the  philosophical  eloquence  of 
Cicero,  as  well  as  the  poetical  majesty  of  Virgil. 
His  essay  on  the  Remedies  of  Good  and  Evil  For- 
tune is  a  singular  work  in  a  colloquial  form,  and 
a  most  scholastic  style.  It  seems  to  be  framed 
upon  the  model  of  the  Tusculan  Questions, — with 
what  success  those  who  have  read  it  may  easily 
determine.  It  consists  of  a  series  of  dialogues : 
in  each  of  these  a  person  is  introduced  who  has 
experienced  some  happy  or  some  adverse  event : 
he  gravely  states  his  case;  and  a  reasoner,  or 
rather  Reason  personified,  confutes  him:  a  task 
not  very  difficult,  sine*  the  disciple  defends  his 
position  only  by  pertinaciously  repeating  it,  in 
almos*  the  same  words,  at  the  end  of  every  argu- 
ment of  his  antagonist." — LORD  MACAULAY:  Cn'ti- 
citms  on  the  Principal  Italian  Writer*,  No.  II., 


Petrarch,  in  Knight's  Quarterly  Mag.,  April,  1824, 
and  his  works,  complete,  1866,  vii.  629. 

PETRARCH'S  DEDICATION  TO  Azzo  DA  COR- 
REGGIO  OF  HIS  TREATISE  OX  TI1E  REMEDIES 
OF  GOOD  AND  BAD  FORTUNE. 

When  I  consider  the  instability  of  human 
affairs,  and  the  variations  of  fortune.  I  find 
nothing  more  uncertain  or  restless  than  the 
life  of  man.  Nature  has  given  to  animals 
an  excellent  remedy  under  disasters,  which 
is  the  ignorance  of  them.  We  seem  better 
treated  in  intelligence,  foresight,  and  mem- 
ory. No  doubt  these  are  admirable  presents ; 
but  they  often  annoy  more  than  they  assist 
us.  A  prey  to  unuseful  or  distressing  cares, 
we  are  tormented  by  the  present,  the  past, 
and  the  future  ;  and,  as  if  we  feared  we 
should  not  be  miserable  enough,  we  join 
to  the  evil  we  suffer  the  remembrance  of  a 
former  distress,  and  the  apprehension  of 
some  future  calamity.  This  is  the  Cerberus 
with  three  heads  we  combat  without  ceasing. 
Our  life  might  be  gay  and  happy  if  we 
would ;  but  we  eagerly  seek  subjects  of 
affliction  to  render  it  irksome  and  melan- 
choly. We  pass  the  first  years  of  this  life 
in  the  shades  of  ignorance,  the  succeeding 
ones  in  pain  and  labour,  the  latter  part  in 
grief  and  remorse,  and  the  whole  in  error : 
nor  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  possess  one 
bright  day  without  a  cloud. 

Let  us  examine  this  matter  with  sincerity, 
and  we  shall  agree  that  our  distresses  chiefly 
arise  from  ourselves.  It  is  virtue  alone 
which  can  render  us  superior  to  Fortune ; 
we  quit  her  standard,  and  the  combat  is  no 
longer  equ.il.  Fortune  mocks  us ;  she  turns 
us  on  her  wheel :  she  raises  and  abases  us 
•at  her  pleasure,  but  her  power  is  founded 
on  our  weakness.  This  is  an  old-rooted 
evil,  but  it  is  not  incurable  :  there  is  nothing 
a  firm  and  elevated  mind  cannot  accomplish. 
The  discourse  of  the  wise  and  the  study  of 
good  books  are  the  best  remedies  I  know  of; 
but  to  these  we  must  join  the  consent  of  the 
soul,  without  which  the  best  advice  will  be 
useless.  What  gratitude  do  we  not  owe  to 
those  great  men  who,  though  dead  many 
ages  before  us,  live  with  us  by  their  works, 
discourse  with  us,  are  our  masters  and 
guides,  and  serve  us  as  pilots  in  the  naviga- 
tion of  life,  where  our  vessel  is  agitated 
without  ceasing  by  the  storms  of  our  pas- 
sions !  It  is  here  that  true  philosophy  brings 
us  to  a  safe  port,  by  a  sure  and  easy  pas- 
sage: not  like  that  of  the  schools,  which, 
raising  us  on  its  airy  and  deceitful  wings, 
and  causing  us  to  hover  on  the  clouds  of 
frivolous  dispute,  lets  us  fall  without  any 
light  or  instruction  in  the  same  place  where 
she  took  us  up.  Dear  friend,  I  do  not  at- 
tempt to  exhort  you  to  the  study  I  deem  so 


FRANCESCO  PETRARCH. 


19 


important.  Nature  lias  given  you  a  taste 
for  all  knowledge,  but  Fortune  has  denied 
you  the  leisure  to  acquire  it:  yet,  whenever 
you  could  steal  a  moment  from  public  affairs, 
you  sought  the  conversation  of  wise  men  ; 
and  I  have  remarked  that  your  memory 
often  served  you  instead  of  books.  It  is, 
therefore,  unnecessary  to  invite  you  to  do 
what  you  have  always  done ;  but,  as  we 
cannot  retain  all  we  hear  or  read,  it  may  be 
useful  to  furnish  your  mind  with  some 
maxims  that  may  best  serve  to  arm  you 
against  the  assaults  of  misfortune.  The 
vulgar,  and  even  philosophers,  have  decided 
that  adverse  fortune  was  most  difficult  to 
sustain.  For  my  own  part  I  am  of  a  differ- 
ent opinion,  and  believe  it  more  easy  to 
support  adversity  than  prosperity  ;  and  that 
fortune  is  more  treacherous  and  dangerous 
when  she  caresses  than  when  she  dismays. 
Experience  has  taught  me  this,  not  books  or 
arguments.  I  have  seen  many  persons  sus- 
tain great  losses,  poverty,  exile,  tortures, 
death,  and  even  disorders  that  were  worse 
than  death,  with  courage  ;  but  I  have  seen 
none  whose  heads  have  not  been  turned  by 
power,  riches,  and  honours.  How  often  have 
we  beheld  those  overthrown  by  good  fortune 
who  could  never  be  shaken  by  bad !  This 
made  me  wish  to  learn  how  to  support  a 
great  fortune.  You  know  the  short  time 
this  work  has  taken.  I  have  been  less  .at- 
tentive to  what  might  shine  than  to  what 
might  be  useful  on  this  subject.  Truth  and 
virtue  are  the  wealth  of  all  men ;  and  shall 
I  not  discourse  on  these  with  my  dear  Azon  ? 
I  would  prepare  for  you,  as  in  a  little  port- 
able box,  a  friendly  antidote  against  the 
poison  of  good  and  bad  fortune.  The  one 
requires  a  rein  to  repress  the  sallies  of  a 
transported  soul,  the  other  a  consolation  to 
fortify  the  overwhelmed  and  afflicted  spirit. 
Nature  gave  you,  my  friend,  the  heart  of 
a  king,  but  she  gave  you  not  a  kingdom,  of 
which  therefore  fortune  could  not  deprive 
you.  But  I  doubt  whether  our  age  can  fur- 
nish an  example  of  worse  or  better  treatment 
from  her  than  yourself.  In  the  first  part  of 
your  life  you  were  blest  with  an  admirable 
constitution  and  astonishing  health  and 
vigour;  some  yearsafter  we  beheld  you  thrice 
abandoned  by  the  phvsicians,  who  despaired 
of  your  life.  The  heavenly  Physician,  who 
was  your  sole  resource,  restored  your  health, 
but  not  your  former  strength.  You  were 
then  called  iron-footed,  for  your  singular 
force  and  agility;  you  are  now  bent,  and 
lean  upon  the  shoulders  of  those  whom  you 
formerly  supported.  Your  country  beheld 
you  one  day  its  governor,  the  next  an  exile. 
Princes  disputed  for  your  friendship,  and 
afterwards  conspired  your  ruin.  You  lost 


by  death  the  greatest  part  of  your  friends  ; 
the  rest,  according  to  custom,  deserted  you 
in  calamity.  To  these  misfortunes  was  added 
a  violent  disease  which  attacked  you  when 
destitute  of  all  succours,  at  a  distance  from 
your  country  and  family,  in  a  strange  land 
invested  by  the  troops  of  your  enemies  ;  so 
that  those  two  or  three  friends  whom  fortune 
had  left  you  could  not  come  near  to  relievo 
you.  In  a  word,  you  have  experienced  every 
hardship  but  imprisonment  and  death.  But 
what  do  I  say  ?  You  have  felt  all  the  horrors 
of  the  former,  when  your  faithful  wife  and 
children  were  shut  up  by  your  enemies  ;  and 
even  death  followed  you.  and  took  one  of 
those  children,  for  whose  loss  you  would 
willingly  have  sacrificed  your  own. 

In  you  have  been  united  the  fortunes  of 
Pompey  and  Marius;  but  you  were  neither 
arrogant  in  prosperity  as  the  one,  nor  dis- 
couraged in  adversity  as  the  other.  You 
have  supported  both  in  a  manner  that  has 
made  you  loved  by  your  friends  and  admired 
by  your  enemies.  There  is  a  peculiar  charm 
in  the  serene  and  tranquil  air  of  virtue  which 
enlightens  all  around  it,  in  the  midst  of  the 
darkest  scenes  and  the  greatest  calamities. 
My  ancient  friendship  for  you  has  caused 
me  to  quit  everything  for  you  to  perform  a 
work  in  which,  as  in  a  glass,  you  may  adjust 
and  prepare  your  soul  for  all  events;  and 
be  able  to  say,  as  JEneas  did  to  the  Sibyl, 
"  Nothing  of  this  is  new  to  me  ;  I  have  fore- 
seen and  am  prepared  for  it  all."  I  am  sen- 
sible that  in  the  disorders  of  the  mind,  as 
well  as  those  of  the  body,  discourses  are  not 
thought  the  most  efficacious  remedies  ;  but  I 
am  persuaded  also  that  the  malady  of  the 
soul  ought  to  be  cured  by  spiritual  applica- 
tions. 

If  we  see  a  friend  in  distress  and  give  him 
all  the  consolation  we  are  able,  we  perform 
the  duties  of  friendship,  which  pays  more 
attention  to  the  disposition  of  the  heart  than 
the  value  of  the  gift.  A  small  present  may 
be  the  testimony  of  a  great  love.  There  is 
no  good  I  do  not  wish  you,  and  this  is  all  I 
can  offer  toward  it. 

I  wish  this  little  treatise  may  be  of  use  to 
you.  If  it  should  not  answer  my  hopes,  I 
shall,  however,  be  secure  of  pardon  from 
your  friendship.  It  presents  you  with  the 
four  great  passions :  Hope  and  Joy,  the 
daughters  of  Prosperity ;  Fear  and  Grief, 
the  daughters  of  Adversity,  who  attack  the 
soul  and  launch  at  it  all  their  arrows.  Rea- 
son commands  in  the  citadel  to  repulse  them  : 
your  penetration  will  easily  perceive  which 
side  will  obtain  the  victory. 

From  the  translation  in  Mrs.  Dobson's  Life 
of  Petrarch,  from  the  French  of  the  Abb& 
de  Sade, 


20 


WILLIAM   CAXTON.—JOHN  FISHER. 


WILLIAM    CAXTON, 

celebrated  as  the  first  who  introduced  print- 
ing into  England,  was  born  in  Kent  about 
1412,  and  died  in  1492. 

"  Exclusively  of  the  labours  attached  to  the 
working  of  his  press  as  a  new  art,  our  typographer 
contrived,  though  well  stricken  in  years,  to  trans- 
late not  fewer  than  five  thousand  closely-printed 
folio  pages.  As  a  translator,  therefore,  he  ranks 
among  the  most  laborious,  ami,  I  would  hope,  not 
the  least  successful,  of  his  tribe. 

"  The  foregoing  conclusion  is  the  result  of  a 
careful  enumeration  of  all  the  books  translated  as 
well  as  printed  by  him;  which  [the  translated 
books],  if  published  in  the  modern  fashion,  would 
extend  to  nearly  twenty-five  octavo  volumes." — 
L)IBDI\  :  Typographical  Antiquities. 

"  Caxton,  Mr.  Warton  [History  of  English 
Poetry]  observes,  by  translating,  or  procuring 
to  be  translated,  a  great  number  of  books  from  the 
French,  greatly  contributed  to  promote  the  state 
of  literature  in  England.  It  was  only  in  this  way 
that  he  could  introduce  his  countrymen  to  the 
knowledge  of  many  valuable  publications  at  a  time 
when  an  acquaintance  with  the  learned  languages 
was  confined  to  a  few  ecclesiastics.  Ancient  learn- 
ing had  as  yet  made  too  little  progress  among  us 
to  encourage  him  to  publish  the  Roman  authors  in 
their  original  tongue.  Indeed,  had  not  the  French 
furnished  Caxton  with  materials,  it  is  not  probable 
that  Virgil,  Ovid,  Cicero,  and  many  other  good 
writers,  would,  by  the  means  of  his  press,  have 
been  circulated  in  the  English  language  as  early 
as  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  cefttury." — CHALMERS: 
Jiioij.  Diet.,  viii.  512.  See,  also,  The  Life  and 
Typography  of  William  Caxton,  England's  ''First 
Printer,"  etc.,  by  William  Blades,  Lond.,  1861-63,  2 
vols.  4to ;  and  How  to  Tell  a  Caxton,  by  W.  Blades, 
1870,  fp.  8vo. 

FROM  CAXTON'S  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  GOLDEN 

LEGEND,  1483,  FOL. 

Francis,  servant  and  friend  of  Almighty 
God.  was  born  in  the  city  of  Assyse,  and 
was  made  a  merchant  until  the  25th  year  of 
his  age,  and  wasted  his  time  by  living  vainly, 
whom  our  Lord  corrected  by  the  scourge  of 
sickness,  and  suddenly  changed  him  into 
another  man  ;  so  that  he  began  to  shine  by 
the  spirit  of  prophecy.  For  on  a  time  he, 
with  other  men  of  Peruse,  was  taken  pris- 
oner, and  were  put  in  a  cruel  prison,  where 
all  the  other  wailed  and  sorrowed,  and  he 
only  was  glad  and  enjoyed.  And  when  they 
had  reproved  him  thereof,  he  answered, — 
"  Know  ye,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  joyful,  for 
I  shall  be  worshipped  as  a  saint  throughout 
all  the  world."  .  .  ,  On  a  time,  as  this  holy 
man  was  in  prayer,  the  devil  called  him 
thrice  by  his  own  name.  And  when  the 
holy  man  had  answered  him,  he  said  none 
in  this  world  is  so  great  a  sinner,  but  if  he 
convert  him,  our  Lord  would  pardon  him; 
but  who  that  sleeth  himself  with  hard  pen- 
ance, shall  never  find  mercy.  And  anon 
this  holy  man  knew  by  revelation  the  fal- 
lacy and  deceit  of  the  fiend,  how  he  would 


have  withdraw  him  fro  to  do  well.  .  .  .  He 
was  ennobled  in  his  life  by  many  miracles. 
.  .  .  And  the  very  death,  which  is  to  all 
men  horrible  and  hateful,  he  admonished 
them  to  praise  it.  And,  also,  he  warned 
and  admonished  death  to  come  to  him,  and 
said,  "  Death,  my  sister,  welcome  be  to  you." 
And  when  he  came  at  the  last  hour,  he  slept 
in  our  Lord,  of  whom  the  friar  saw  the  soul, 
in  manner  of  a  star,  like  to  the  moon  in 
quantity,  and  the  sun  in  clearness. 


JOHN  FISHER, 

born  1459,  Margaret  Professor  of  Divinity 
1502,  Bishop  of  Rochester  1504.  was  inhu- 
manly executed  by  order  of  the  tyrant 
Henry  VIII.  in  1535. 

"  The  fame  of  his  learning  and  virtues  reaching 
the  ears  of  Margaret,  Countess  of  Richmond, 
mother  of  Henry  VII.,  she  chose  him  her  chap- 
lain and  confessor;  in  which  high  station  he  be- 
haved himself  with  so  much  wisdom  and  goodness 
that  she  committed  herself  entirely  to  his  govern- 
ment and  direction.  It  was  by  his  counsel  that 
she  undertook  those  magnificent  foundations  of 
St.  John's  and  Christ's  Colleges  at  Cambridge; 
established  the  divinity  professorships  in  both 
universities ;  and  did  many  other  acts  of  gener- 
osity for  the  propagation  of  learning  and  piety. 
.  .  .  The  issue  was  a  declaration  from  Fisher  thiit 
he  would  'swear  to  the  succession  [of  Elizabeth]  ; 
never  dispute  more  about  the  marriage  [to  Anne 
Boleyn]  ;  and  promise  allegiance  to  the  king ;  but 
his  conscience  could  not  be  convinced  that  the 
marriage  was  not  against  the  law  of  God.'  These 
concessions  did  not  satisfy  the  king;  who  was  re- 
solved to  let  all  his  subjects  see  that  there  was  no 
mercy  to  be  expected  by  any  one  who  opposed  his 
will.  .  .  .  He  was  beheaded  about  ten  o'clock, 
aged  almost  77  :  and  his  head  was  fixed  over  Lon- 
don bridge  the  next  day. 

"Such  was  the  tragical  end  of  Fisher,  'which 
left  one  of  the  greates-t  blots  upon  this  kingdom's 
proceedings.'  as  Burnet  says  in  his  'History  of  the 
Reformation.'  .  .  .  Erasmus  represents  him  as  a 
man  of  integrity,  deep  learning,  sweetness  of  tem- 
per, and  greatness  of  soul." — Chalmers'*  King. 
Diet.,  xiv.  323,  326,  328. 

FROM    BISHOP    FISHER'S  ACCOUNT  or  THE 
CHARACTER  OF   MARGARET,  COUNTESS   OF 
RICHMOND,  IN   HIS   SERMON   ENTITLED  A 
MORNYNGE   REMEMBRAUNCE   HAD  AT   THE 
MONETH   MYNDE  OF  MARGARETE,  COUNT- 
ESSE  OF  RYCHEMONDE  AND  DARBYE,  Lond., 
by  W.  DE  WORDE,  4to,  sine  anno  (1509). 
Albeit    she  of   her    lineage   were    right 
noble,  yet  nevertheless  by  marriage  adjoin- 
ing of  other  blood,  it  took   some  increase- 
ment.     For  in    her  tender  age,  she  being 
endued  with  so  great  towardness  of  nature 
and  likelihood  of  inheritance,  many  sued  to 
have   had  her  to  marriage.     The  Duke  of 
Suffolk,  which  was  then  a  man  of  great  ex- 
perience, most  diligently  procured  to  have 


MACCHIAVELLL 


21 


had  her  for  his  son  and  heir.  Of  the  con- 
trary part,  King  Henry  VI.  did  make  means 
for  Edmund  his  brother,  then  the  Earl  of 
Richmond.  She,  which  as  then  was  not 
fully  nine  years  old,  doubtful  in  her  mind 
what  she  were  best  to  do,  asked  counsel  of 
an  old  gentlewoman,  whom  she  much  loved 
and  trusted,  which  did  advise  her  to  com- 
mend herself  to  St.  Nicholas,  the  patron  and 
helper  of  all  true  maidens,  and  to  beseech 
him  to  put  in  her  mind  what  she  were  best 
to  do  !  This  counsel  she  followed,  and  made 
her  prayer  so  full  often,  but  specially  that 
night,  when  she  should  the  morrow  after 
make  answer  of  her  mind  determinately.  A 
marvellous  thing! — the  same  night,  as  I 
have  heard  her  tell  many  a  time,  as  she  lay 
in  prayer,  calling  upon  St.  Nicholas,  whether 
sleeping  or  waking  she  could  not  assure, 
but  about  four  of  the  clock  in  the  morning, 
one  appeared  unto  her,  arrayed  like  a  bishop, 
and  naming  unto  her  Edmund,  bade  take 
him  unto  her  husband.  And  so  by  this 
means  she  did  incline  her  mind  unto  Ed- 
mund the  king's  brother,  and  Earl  of  Rich- 
mond, by  whom  she  was  made  mother  of  the 
king  that  dead  is  (whose  soul  God  pardon), 
and  grand-dame  to  our  sovereign  lord  King 
Henry  VIII.,  which  now,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  governeth  the  realm.  So  what  by 
lineage,  what  by  affinity,  she  had  thirty 
kings  and  queens  within  the  four  degree  of 
marriage  unto  her,  besides  earls,  marquisses, 
dukes,  and  princes.  And  thus  much  we 
have  spoken  of  her  nobleness.  ...  In 
prayer,  every  day  at  her  uprising,  which 
commonly  was  not  long  after  five  of  the 
clock,  she  began  certain  devotions ;  and  so 
after  them,  with  one  of  her  gentlewomen, 
the  matins  of  our  lady,  which  kept  her  to — 
then  she  came  into  her  closet,  where  then 
with  her  chaplain,  she  said  also  matins  of  the 
day  ;  and  .after  that  daily  heard  four  or  five 
masses  upon  her  knees;  so  continuing  in 
her  prayers  and  devotions  unto  the  hour  of 
dinner,  which  of  the  eating  day  was  ten  of 
the  clock,  and  upon  the  fasting  day  eleven. 
After  dinner  full  truly  she  would  go  to  her 
stations  to  three  altars  daily ;  daily  her  dirges 
and  commendations  she  would  say.  and  her 
even  songs  before  supper,  both  of  the  day 
and  of  our  lady,  beside  many  other  prayers 
and  psalters  of  David  throughout  the  year; 
and  at  night  before  she  went  to  bed,  she 
failed  not  to  resort  unto  her  chapel,  and  there 
a  large  quarter  of  an  hour  to  occupy  her 
devotions.  No  marvel,  though  all  this  long 
time  her  kneeling  was  to  her  painful,  and  so 
painful  that  many  times  it  caused  in  her 
back  pain  and  disease.  And  yet  neverthe- 
less, daily  when  she  was  in  health  she  failed 
not  to  say  the  crown  of  our  lady,  which 
after  the  manner  of  Home  containeth  sixty 


and  three  aves,  and  at  every  ave  to  make  a 
kneeling.  As  for  meditation,  she  had  divers 
books  in  French,  wherewith  she  would  oc- 
cupy herself  when  she  was  weary  of  prayer. 
Wherefore  divers  she  did  translate  out  of  the 
French  into  English.  Her  marvellous  weep- 
ing they  can  bear  witness  of  which  here- 
before  have  heard  her  confession,  which  be 
divers  and  many,  and  at  many  seasons  in 
the  year,  lightly  every  third  day.  Can  also 
record  the  same  that  were  present  at  any 
time  she  was  houshilde  [received  the  com- 
munion], which  was  full  nigh  a  dozen  tiine.s 
every  year,  what  floods  of  tears  there  issued 
forth  of  her  eyes  1 


NICCOLO    DI    BERNARDO 
MACCHIAVELLI, 

a  famous  Italian,  diplomatist,  statesman, 
and  author,  was  born  at  Florence,  1409,  and 
died  there,  1527. 

"  We  doubt  whether  any  name  in  literary  his- 
tory be  so  generally  odious  as  that  of  the  man 
whose  character  and  writings  we  now  propose  t> 
consider.  The  terms  in  which  he  is  commonly 
described  would  seem  to  import  that  he  was  the 
Tempter,  the  Evil  Principle,  the  discoverer  of 
ambition  and  revenge,  the  original  inventor  of 
perjury,  and  that  before  the  publication  of  his 
fatal  Prince,  there  had  never  been  a  hypocrite,  % 
tyrant,  or  a  traitor,  a  simulated  virtue,  or  a  con- 
venient crime.  .  .  .  The  Church  of  Rome  has  pro- 
nounced his  works  accursed  things.  Nor  have 
our  own  countrymen  been  backward  in  testifying 
their  opinion  of  his  merits.  Out  of  his  surname 
they  have  coined  an  epithet  for  a  knave,  and  out 
of  his  Christian  name  a  synonyme  for  the  Devil. 
.  .  .  To  a  modern  statesman  the  form  of  the  Dis- 
courses may  appear  to  be  puerile.  In  truth  Livy 
is  not  an  historian  on  whom  implicit  reliance  can 
be  placed,  even  in  cases  where  he  must  have  pos- 
sessed considerable  means  of  information.  And 
the  first  decade,  to  which  Macchiavelli  has  con- 
fined himself,  is  scarcely  entitled  to  more  credit 
than  our  Chronicle  of  British  Kings  who  reigned 
before  the  Roman  invasion.  But  the  commenta- 
tor is  indebted  to  Livy  for  little  more  than  a  few 
texts  which  he  might  as  easily  have  extracted 
from  the  Vulgate  or  the  Decameron.  The  whole 
train  of  thought  is  original." — LORD  MACAULAY  : 
Edinburgh  Ilerieie,  March,  1827,  and  in  his  works, 
complete,  1866,  8  vols.  8vo,  v.  46,  75. 

MACCITIAVELU'S  DISCOURSE,  "  How  HE  THAT 

WOULD   SUCCEED   MUST   ACCOMMODATE   TO 

TIIE  TIMES." 

I  have  many  times  considered  with  my- 
self that  the  occasion  of  every  man's  good 
or  bad  fortune  consists  in  his  correspond- 
ence and  accommodation  with  the  times. 

We  see  some  people  acting  furiously,  and 
with  an  impetus  :  others  with  more  slowness 
and  caution  ;  and  because  both  in  the  one 
and  the  other  they  are  immoderate,  and  do 
not  observe  their  just  terms,  therefore  both 


22 


HUGH  LATIMER. 


of  them  do  err ;  but  his  error  and  misfortune 
is  least,  whose  customs  suit  and  correspond 
with  the  times;  and  who  comports  himself 
in  his  designs  according  to  the  impulse  of 
his  own  nature.  Every  one  can  tell  how 
Fabius  Maximus  conducted  his  army,  and 
with  what  carefulness  and  caution  he  pro- 
ceeded, contrary  to  the  ancient  heat  and 
boldness  of  the  Romans,  and  it  happened 
that  grave  way  was  more  conformable  to 
those  times ;  for  Hannibal,  coming  young 
and  brisk  into  Italy,  and  being  elated  with 
his  good  fortune,  as  having  twice  defeated 
the  armies  of  the  Romans,  that  common- 
wealth having  lost  most  of  her  best  soldiers, 
and  remaining  in  great  fear  and  confusion, 
nothing  could  have  happened  more  season- 
ably to  them  than  to  have  such  a  general 
who,  by  his  caution  and  cunctation,  could 
keep  the  enemy  at  bay.  Nor  could  any 
times  have  been  more  fortunate  to  his  way 
of  proceeding ;  for  that  that  slow  and  delib- 
erate way  was  natural  in  Fabius,  and  not 
affected,  appeared  afterwards,  when  Scipio, 
being  desirous  to  pass  his  army  into  Africa 
to  give  the  finishing  blow  to  the  war,  Fabius 
opposed  it  most  earnestly,  as  one  who  could 
not  force  or  dissemble  his  nature,  which 
was  rather  to  support  wisely  against  the 
difficulties  that  were  upon  him,  than  to 
search  out  for  new.  So  that  had  Fabius 
directed,  Hannibal  had  continued  in  Italy, 
and  the  reason  was  because  he  did  not  con- 
sider the  times  were  altered,  and  the  method 
of  the  war  was  to  be  changed  with  them. 
And  if  Fabius  at  that  time  had  been  king 
of  Rome,  he  might  well  have  been  worsted 
in  the  war,  as  not  knowing  how  to  frame 
his  counsels  according  to  the  variation  of 
the  times.  But  there  being  in  that  com- 
monwealth so  many  brave  mm,  and  excel- 
lent commanders,  of  all  sorts  of  tempers  and 
humours,  fortune  would  have  it,  that,  as 
Fabius  was  ready,  in  hard  and  difficult 
times,  to  sustain  the  enemy,  and  continue 
the  war,  so,  afterwards,  when  affairs  were 
in  a  better  posture,  Scipio  was  presented  to 
finish  and  conclude  it.  And  hence  it  is  that 
an  aristocracy  or  free  state  is  longer  lived, 
and  generally  more  fortunate  than  a  princi- 
pality, because  in  the  first  they  are  more 
flexible,  and  can  frame  themselves  better  to 
the  diversity  of  the  times :  for  a  prince, 
being  accustomed  to  one  way,  is  hardly  to 
be  got  out  of  it,  though  perhaps  the  varia- 
tion of  the  times  requires  it  very  much. 
Piero  Soderino  (whom  I  have  mentioned 
before)  proceeded  with  great  gentleness  and 
humanity  in  all  his  actions ;  and  he  and  his 
country  prospered  whilst  the  times  were 
according;  but  when  the  times  changed, 
and  there  was  a  necessity  of  laying  aside 
that  meekness  and  humility,  Piero  was  at  a 


loss,  and  he  and  his  country  were  both 
ruined. 

Pope  Julius  XI.,  during  the  whole  time 
of  his  papacy,  carried  himself  with  great 
vigour  and  vehemence ;  and  because  the 
times  were  agreeable,  he  prospered  in  every- 
thing ;  but  had  the  times  altered,  and  re- 
quired other  counsels,  he  had  certainly  been 
ruined,  because  he  could  never  have  com- 
plied. And  the  reason  why  we  cannot 
change  so  easily  with  the  times,  is  twofold : 
first,  because  we  cannot  readily  oppose  our- 
selves against  what  we  naturally  desire ; 
and  next,  because  when  we  have  often  tried 
one  way,  and  have  always  been  prosperous, 
we  can  never  persuade  ourselves  we  could 
do  so  well  any  other ;  and  this  is  the  true 
cause  why  a  prince's  fortune  varies  so 
strangely,  because  he  varies  the  times,  but 
he  does  not  alter  the  way  of  his  administra- 
tion. And  it  is  the  same  in  a  common- 
wealth :  if  the  variation  of  the  times  be  not 
observed,  and  their  laws  and  customs  altered 
accordingly,  many  mischiefs  must  follow, 
and  the  government  be  ruined,  as  we  have 
largely  demonstrated  before ;  but  those 
alterations  of  their  laws  are  more  slow  in  a 
commonwealth,  because  they  are  not  so 
easily  changed,  and  there  is  a  necessity  of 
such  times  as  may  shake  the  whole  state,  to 
which  one  man  will  not  be  sufficient,  let 
him  change  his  proceedings,  and  take  new 
measures,  as  he  will. 

From  Knight's  Half-Hours  with  the  Best 
Authors.  New  edit.,  ii.  274. 


HUGH    LATIMER, 

born  in  Leicestershire,  about  1472,  became 
Bishop  of  Worcester  in  1535,  and  was  burnt 
at  the  stake,  in  Oxford,  with  Bishop  Ridley, 
Oct.  16,  1555. 

"  On  the  lamented  death  of  Edward  he  was  im- 
prisoned, first  in  the  Tower,  and  then  at  Oxford, 
along  with  Cranmer  and  Ridley.  After  various 
delays  he  was  tried  and  condemned  to  the  stake. 
Fox  gives  a  pitiful  and  touching  account  of  his 
appearance  before  his  persecutors,  wearing  '  an  old 
threadbare  Bristol  frieze  gown  girded  to  his  body 
with  a  penny  leather  girdle,  his  Testament  sus- 
pended from  bis  girdle  by  a  leathern  sling,  and  his 
spectacles  without  a  case  hung  from  his  neck  upon 
his  brenst.'  He  suffered  along  with  Ridley,  16th 
of  October,  1555,  '  without  Boeardo  gate,'  on  a 
spot  opposite  Balliol  College,  now  marked  by  a 
splendid  martyr's  monument.  Latimer's  charac- 
ter excites  our  admiration  by  its  mixture  of  sim- 
plicity and  heroism.  He  is  simple  as  a  child,  and 
yet  daring  for  the  truth,  without  shrinking  or 
ostentation.  He  is  more  consistent  than  Cranmer, 
more  tolerant  than  Ridley,  if  less  learned  and 
polished  than  either.  His  sermons  are  rare  speci- 
mens of  vigorous  eloquence,  which  read  fresh  and 
vivid  and  powerful  now,  after  three  centuries. 


SIR   THOMAS  MORE. 


23 


The  humorous  Saxon  scorn  ani  invective  with 
which  he  lashes  the  vices  of  the  times  are,  perhaps, 
their  most  noted  characteristics  ;  but  they  are  also 
remarkable  for  their  clear  and  homely  statements 
of  Christian  doctrine,  and  the  faithfulness  with 
which  they  exhibit  the  simple  ideal  of  the  Chris- 
tian life,  in  contrast  to  all  hypocrisies  and  preten- 
sions of  religion.  In  all  things, — in  his  sermons, 
in  his  reforms,  in  his  character, — Latimer  was 
eminently  practical." — REV.  JOHX  TULLOCH,  D.D., 
Principal  of  St.  Mary's  College,  St.  Andrews. 
Imperial  Diet,  of  Univ.  Biog.,  v.  115. 

THE  SHEPHERDS  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

I  pray  you  to  whom  was  the  nativity  of 
Christ  first  opened  ?  To  the  bishops  or  great 
lords  which  were  at  that  time  at  Bethlehem  ? 
Or  to  those  jolly  damsels  with  their  far- 
dingales,  with  their  round-abouts,  or  with 
their  bracelets?  No,  no:  they  had  too  many 
lets  to  trim  and  dress  themselves,  so  that 
they  could  have  no  time  to  hear  of  the  na- 
tivity of  Christ  ;  their  minds  were  so  occu- 
pied otherwise  that  they  were  not  allowed 
to  hear  of  him.  But  his  nativity  was  re- 
vealed first  to  the  shepherds,  and  it  was  re- 
vealed unto  them  in  the  night-time,  when 
every  body  was  at  rest ;  then  they  heard  this 
joyful  tidings  of  the  Saviour  of  the  world  : 
for  these  shepherds  were  keeping  their  sheep 
in  the  night  season  from  the  wolf  and  other 
beasts,  and  from  the  fox ;  for  the  sheep  in 
that  country  do  lamb  two  times  in  the  year, 
arid  therefore  it  was  needful  for  the  sheep  to 
have  a  shepherd  to  keep  them.  And  here 
note  the  diligence  of  these  shepherds;  for 
whether  their  sheep  were  their  own,  or 
whether  they  were  servants,  I  cannot  tell, 
for  it  is  not  expressed  in  the  book;  but  it  is 
most  like  they  were  servants,  .and  their  mas- 
ters had  put  them  in  trust  to  keep  their 
sheep. 

Now,  if  these  shepherds  had  been  deceit- 
ful fellows,  that  when  their  masters  had  put 
them  in  trust  to  keep  their  sheep  they  had 
been  drinking  in  the  alehouse  all  night,  as 
some  of  our  servants  do  nowadays,  surely 
the  angel  had  not  appeared  unto  them  to 
have  told  them  this  great  joy  and  good  tid- 
ings. And  here  all  servants  may  learn  by 
these  shepherds  to  serve  truly  and  diligently 
unto  their  masters ;  in  what  business  soever 
they  are  set  to  do,  let  them  be  painful  and 
diligent,  like  as  Jacob  was  unto  his  master 
Laban.  Oh  what  a  painful,  faithful,  and 
trusty  man  was  he!  He  was  day  and  night 
at  his  work,  keeping  his  sheep  truly,  as  he 
was  put  in  trust  to  do  ;  and  when  any  chance 
happened  that  any  thing  was  lost  he  made 
it  good  and  restored  it  again  of  his  own.  So 
likewise  was  Eleazarus  a  painful  man,  a 
faithful  and  trusty  servant.  Such  a  servant 
was  Joseph,  in  Egypt,  to  his  master  Potiphar. 
So  likewise  was  Daniel  unto  his  master 


the  king.  But  I  pray  you  where  are  those 
servants  nowadays  ?  Indeed  I  fear  me 
there  be  but  very  few  of  such  faithful  serv- 
ants. Now  these  shepherds,  I  say,  they 
watch  the  whole  night,  they  attend  upon 
their  vocation,  they  do  according  to  their 
calling,  they  keep  their  sheep,  they  run  not 
hither  and  thither,  spending  the  time  in 
vain,  and  neglecting  their  office  and  calling. 
No,  they  did  not  so.  Here,  by  these  shep- 
herds, men  may  learn  to  attend  upon  their 
offices  and  callings.  I  would  wish  that  cler- 
gymen, the  curates,  parsons,  and  vicars,  the 
bishops,  and  all  other  spiritual  persons, 
would  learn  this  lesson  by  these  poor  shep- 
herds, which  is  this, — to  abide  by  their 
flocks  and  by  their  sheep,  to  tarry  amongst 
them,  to  be  careful  over  them ;  not  to  run 
hither  and  thither  after  their  own  pleasure, 
but  to  tarry  by  their  benefices  and  feed  their 
sheep  with  the  food  of  God's  word,  and  to 
keep  hospitality,  and  so  to  feed  them,  both 
soul  and  body.  For  I  tell  you,  these  poor, 
unlearned  shepherds  shall  condemn  many  a 
stout  and  great-learned  clerk  :  for  these  shep- 
herds had  but  the  care  and  charge  over  brute 
beasts,  and  yet  were  diligent  to  keep  them, 
and  to  feed  them,  and  the  other  have  the 
care  over  God's  lambs,  which  he  bought 
with  the  death  of  his  son ;  and  yet  they  are 
so  careless,  so  negligent,  so  slothful  over 
them ;  yea,  and  the  most  part  intendeth  not 
to  feed  the  sheep,  but  they  long  to  be  fed  of 
the  sheep ;  they  seek  only  their  own  pas- 
times, they  care  for  no  more.  But  what 
said  Christ  to  Peter  ?  What  said  he  ?  Petre, 
amas  me?  (Peter,  lovest  thou  me?)  Peter 
made  answer,  Yes.  Then  feed  my  sheep. 
And  so  the  third  time  he  commanded  Peter 
to  feed  his  sheep.  But  our  clergymen  do 
declare  plainly  that  they  love  not  Christ,  be- 
cause they  feed  not  his  flock.  If  they  had 
earnest  love  to  Christ,  no  doubt  they  would 
show  their  love,  they  would  feed  his  sheep. 
Latimer 's  Sermons. 


SIR  THOMAS   MORE, 

born  1480,  executed  under  Henry  VIII., 
1535.  His  works  were  published  in  Latin, 
Lovanii,  1565  et  1566,  fol. ;  in  English, 
Lond.,  1557,  fol.;  best  Latin  edit.,  Francf., 
1689,  fol. 

"  The  indictment  was  then  read  by  the  attorney- 
general.  It  set  forth  that  Sir  Thomas  More,  trai- 
torously imagining  and  attempting  to  deprive  the 
king  of  his  title  as  Supreme  Head  of  the  Church," 
etc.  "  The  usual  punishment  for  treason  was  com- 
muted, as  it  had  been  with  Fisher,  to  death  upon 
the  scaffold;  and  this  last  favour  was  communi- 
cated  as  a  special  instance  of  the  royal  clemency. 
More's  wit  was  always  ready.  '  God  forbid,'  he 
answered,  'that  the  king  should  show  any  more 


24 


SIR   THOMAS  MO  UK 


puch  mercy  unto  any  of  my  friends;  and  God 
bless  all  my  posterity  from  such  pardons.'  .  .  . 
The  scaffold  had  been  awkwardly  erected,  and 
shook  as  he  placed  his  foot  upon  the  ladder. 
'See  uie  safe  up,'  he  said  to  Kingston;  'for  my 
coining  down  I  can  shift  for  myself.'  He  began 
to  speak  to  the  people,  but  the  sheriff  begged  him 
not  to  proceed,  and  he  contented  himself  with  ask- 
ing for  their  prayers,  and  desiring  them  to  bear 
witness  for  him  that  he  died  in  the  faith  of  the 
holy  Catholic  Church,  and  a  faithful  servant  of 
God  and  the  king.  He  then  repeated  the  Miserere 
psalm  on  his  knees;  and  when  he  had  ended,  and 
iiad  risen,  the  executioner,  with  an  emotion  which 
promised  ill  for  the  manner  in  which  his  part  in 
the  matter  would  be  accomplished,  begged  his 
forgiveness.  More  kissed  him.  'Thou  art  to  do 
me  the  greatest  benefit  that  I  can  receive,'  he  said. 
'  Pluck  up  thy  spirit,  man,  and  be  not  afraid  to  do 
thine  office.  My  neck  is  very  short.  Take  heed 
therefore  that  thou  strike  not  awry  for  saving  of 
thine  honesty.'  The  executioner  offered  to  tie  his 
eye?.  'I  will  cover  them  myself,'  he  said;  and 
binding  them  in  a  cloth,  which  he  had  brought 
with  him,  he  knelt  and  laid  his  head  upon  the 
block.  The  fatal  stroke  was  about  to  fall,  when 
he  signed  for  a  moment's  delay,  while  he  moved 
nside  his  beard.  '  Pity  that  should  be  cut,'  he 
murmured,  '  that  has  not  committed  treason.' 
AV'ith  which  strange  words,  the  strangest  perhaps 
ever  uttered  at  such  a  time,  the  lips  most  famous 
through  Europe  for  eloquence  and  wisdom  closed 
forever." — FROUDE  :  Hiatory  of  Europe,  ii.,  chap, 
is. 

THE  UTOPIAX  IDEA  OF  PLEASURE  ;  FR.OM 
BISHOP  BURNET'S  TRANSLATION  OF  MORE'S 
UTOPIA,  Lond.,  1684,  8vo. 

They  think  it  is  an  evidence  of  true  wis- 
dom for  a  man  to  pursue  his  own  advantages 
as  far  as  the  laws  allow  it.  They  account 
it  piety  to  prefer  the  public  good  to  one's 
private  concerns.  But  they  think  it  unjust 
for  a  man  to  seek  for  his  own  pleasure  by 
snatching  another  man's  pleasures  from  him. 
And,  on  the  contrary,  they  think  it  a  sign 
of  a  gentle  and  good  soul  for  a  man  to  dis- 
pense with  his  own  advantage  for  the  good 
of  others ;  and  that  by  so  doing  a  good  man 
finds  as  much  pleasure  one  way  as  he  parts 
with  another:  for,  as  he  may  expect  the  like 
from  others  when  he  may  come  to  need  it, 
so,  if  that  should  fail  him,  yet  the  sense  of 
a  good  action,  and  the  reflections  that  one 
makes  on  the  love  and  gratitude  of  those 
whom  he  has  obliged,  gives  the  mind  more 
pleasure  than  the  body  could  have  found  in 
that  from  which  it  had  restrained  itself. 
They  are  also  persuaded  that  God  will  make 
up  the  loss  of  those  small  pleasures  with  a 
vast  and  endless  joy,  of  which  religion  does 
easily  convince  a  good  soul.  Thus,  upon 
an  inquiry  into  the  whole  matter,  they 
reckon  that  all  our  actions,  and  even  all  our 
virtues,  terminate  in  pleasure,  as  in  our 
chief  end  and  greatest  happiness  ;  and  they 
call  every  motion  or  state,  either  of  body  or 


mind,  in  which  nature  teaches  us  to  delight, 
a  pleasure.  And  thus  they  cautiously  limit 
pleasure  only  to  those  appetites  to  which 
nature  leads  us ;  for  they  reckon  that  nature 
leads  us  only  to  those  delights  to  which 
reason  as  well  as  sense  carries  us.  and  by 
which  we  neither  injure  any  other  person 
nor  let  go  greater  pleasures  for  it,  and  which 
do  not  draw  troubles  on  us  after  them  :  but 
they  look  upon  those  delights  which  men, 
by  a  foolish  though  common  mistake,  call 
pleasure,  as  if  they  could  change  the  nature 
of  things,  as  well  as  the  use  of  words,  as 
things  that  not  only  do  not  advance  our  hap- 
piness, but  do  rather  obstruct  it  very  much, 
because  they  do  so  entirely  possess  the 
minds  of  those  that  once  go  into  them  with 
a  false  notion  of  pleasure,  that  there  is  no 
room  left  for  truer  and  purer  pleasures. 

There  are  many  things  that  in  themselves 
have  nothing  that  is  truly  delighting  :  on  the 
contrary,  they  have  a  good  deal  of  bitterness 
in  them  ;  and  yet  by  our  perverse  appetites 
after  forbidden  objects,  are  not  only  ranked 
among  the  pleasures,  but  are  made  even  the 
greatest  designs  of  life.  Among  those  who 
pursue  these  sophisticated  pleasures  they 
reckon  those  whom  I  mentioned  before,  who 
think  themselves  really  the  better  for  having 
fine  clothes,  in  which  they  think  they  are 
doubly  mistaken,  both  in  the  opinion  that 
they  have  of  their  clothes,  and  in  the  opin- 
ion that  they  have  of  themselves;  for  if  you 
consider  the  use  of  clothes,  why  should  a 
tine  thread  be  thought  better  than  a  coarse 
one?  And  yet  that  sort  of  men,  as  if  they 
had  some  real  advantages  beyond  others, 
and  did  not  owe  it  wholly  to  their  mistakes, 
look  big,  and  seem  to  fancy  themselves  to 
be  the  more  valuable  on  that  account,  and 
imagine  that  a  respect  is  due  to  them  for  the 
sake  of  a  rich  garment,  to  which  they  would 
not  have  pretended  if  they  had  been  more 
meanly  clothed  ;  and  they  resent  it  ns  nn 
affront  if  that  respect  is  not  paid  them.  .  .  . 
Another  sort  of  bodily  pleasure  is  that  which 
consists  in  a  quiet  and  good  constitution  of 
body,  by  which  there  is  an  entire  healthi- 
ness spread  over  all  the  parts  of  the  body 
not  allayed  with  any  disease.  This,  when 
it  is  free  from  all  mixture  of  pain,  gives  an 
inward  pleasure  of  itself,  even  though  it 
should  not  be  excited  by  any  external  and 
delighting  object;  and  although  this  pleasure 
does  not  so  vigorously  affect  the  sense,  nor 
act  so  strongly  upon  it,  yet  as  it  is  the 
greatest  of  all  pleasures,  so  almost  all  the 
Utopians  reckon  it  the  foundation  and  bas.is 
of  all  the  other  joys  of  life  ;  since  this  alone 
makes  one's  state  of  life  to  be  easy  and  de- 
sirable; and  when  this  is  wanting,  a  man  is 
really  capable  of  no  other  pleasure.  Thoy 
look  upon  indolence  and  freedom  from  pain, 


GEORGE   CAVENDISH. 


25 


if  it  does  not  rise  from  a  perfect  health,  to 
be  a  state  of  stupidity  rather  than  of  pleas- 
ure. There  has  been  a  controversy  in  this 
matter  very  narrowly  canvassed  among 
them  :  Whether  a  firm  and  entire  health 
could  be  called  a  pleasure  or  not?  Some 
have  thought  that  there  was  no  pleasure  but 
that  which  was  excited  by  some  sensible 
motion  in  the  body.  But  this  opinion  has 
been  long  run  down  among  them,  so  that 
now  they  do  almost  all  agree  in  this,  that 
health  is  the  greatest  of  all  bodily  pleasures; 
and  that,  as  there  is  a  pain  in  sickness, 
•which  is  as  opposite  in  its  nature  to  pleasure 
as  sickness  itself  is  to  health,  so  they  hold 
that  health  carries  a  pleasure  along  with  it. 
And  if  any  should  say  that  sickness  is  not 
really  a  pain,  but  that  it  only  carries  a  pain 
along  with  it,  they  look  upon  that  as  a  fetch 
of  subtility  that  does  not  much  alter  the 
matter.  So  they  think  it  is  all  one  whether 
it  be  said  that  health  is  in  itself  a  plesvsure, 
or  that  it  begets  a  pleasure,  as  fire  gives 
heat,  so  it  be  granted  that  all  those  whose 
health  is  entire  have  a  true  pleasure  in  it; 
and  they  reason  thus:  What  is  the  pleasure 
of  eating,  but  that  a  man's  health  which 
had  been  weakened,  does,  with  the  assistance 
of  food,  drive  away  hunger,  and  so  recruit- 
ing itself,  recovers  its  former  vigour?  And 
being  thus  refreshed,  it  finds  a  pleasure  in 
that  conflict.  And  if  the  conflict  is  pleasure, 
the  victory  must  yet  breed  a  greater  pleasure, 
except  we  will  fancy  that  it  becomes  stupid 
as  soon  as  it  has  obtained  that  which  it  pur- 
sued, and  so  does  neither  know  nor  rejoice 
in  its  own  welfare. 

If  it  is  said  that  health  cannot  be  felt,  they 
absolutely  deny  that :  for  what  man  is  in 
health  that  does  not  perceive  it  when  he  is 
awake  ?  Is  there  any  man  that  is  so  dull  and 
stupid  as  not  to  acknowledge  that  he  feels  a 
delight  in  health  ?  And  what  is  delight  but 
another  name  for  pleasure  ? 

But  of  all  pleasures,  they  esteem  those  to 
be  the  most  valuable  that  lie  in  the  mind  ; 
and  the  chief  of  these  are  those  that  arise 
out  of  true  virtue,  and  the  witness  of  a  good 
conscience.  They  account  health  the  chief 
pleasure  that  belongs  to  the  body  ;  for  they 
think  that  the  pleasure  of  eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  all  the  other  delights  of  the  body, 
are  only  so  far  desirable  as  they  give  or 
maintain  health.  But  they  are  not  pleasant 
in  themselves,  otherwise  than  as  they  resist 
those  impressions  that  our  natural  infirmity 
is  still  making  upon  us  ;  and  as  a,  wise  man 
desires  rather  to  avoid  diseases  than  take 
physic,  and  to  be  freed  from  pain  rather  than 
to  find  ease  by  remedies,  so  it  were  a  more 
desirable  state  not  to  need  this  sort  of  pleas- 
ure than  to  be  obliged  to  indulge  it.  And 
if  any  man  imagines  that  there  is  a  real  hap- 


piness in  this  pleasure,  he  must  then  confess 
that  he  would  be  the  happiest  of  all  men  if 
he  were  to  lead  his  life  in  a  perpetual  hunger, 
thirst,  and  itching,  and  by  consequence  in 
perpetual  eating,  drinking,  and  scratching 
himself;  which  any  one  may  easily  see  would 
be  not  only  a  base,  but  a  miserable  state  of 
life.  These  are,  indeed,  the  lowest  of  pleas- 
ures, and  the  least  pure ;  for  we  can  never 
relish  them  but  where  they  are  mixed  with 
the  contrary  pains.  The  pain  of  hunger 
must  give  us  the  pleasure  of  eating ;  and 
here  the  pain  outbalances  the  pleasure  :  and 
as  the  pain  is  more  vehement,  so  it  lasts 
much  longer :  for,  as  it  is  upon  us  before  the 
pleasure  comes,  so  it  does  not  cease  but  with 
the  pleasure  that  extinguishes  it,  and  that 
goes  off  with  it:  so  that  they  think  none  of 
those  pleasures  are  to  be  valued  but  as  they 
are  necessary.  Yet  they  rejoice  in  them, 
and  with  due  gratitude  acknowledge  the  ten- 
derness of  the  great  author  of  nature,  who 
has  planted  in  us  appetites,  by  which  these 
things  that  are  necessary  for  our  preserva- 
tion are  likewise  made  pleasant  to  us.  For 
how  miserable  a  thing  would  life  be,  if  these 
daily  diseases  of  hunger  and  thirst  were  to 
be  carried  off  by  such  bitter  drugs  as  we 
must  use  for  those  diseases  that  return  sel- 
dorner  upon  us  1 


GEORGE   CAVENDISH, 

gentleman-usher  to  Cardinal  Wolsey,  and 
subsequently  to  Henry  VIII.,  died  1557,  left 
in  MS.  a  life  of  his  first-named  master,  en- 
titled, "  The  Negotiations  of  Woolsey,  the 
Great  Cardinal  of  England,"  Lond.,  1641, 4to. 

"  There  is  a  sincere  and  impartial  adherence  to 
truth,  a  reality,  in  Cavendish's  narrative,  which 
bespeaks  the  confidence  of  his  reader,  and  very 
much  increases  his  pleasure.  It  is  a  work  without 
pretension,  but  full  of  natural  eloquence,  devoid  of 
the  formality  of  a  set  rhetorical  composition,  un- 
spoiled by  the  affectation  of  that  cbtsxical  manner 
in  which  nil  biography  and  history  of  old  time  was 
prescribed  to  be  written,  and  which  often  divests 
such  records  of  the  attraction  to  be  found  in  the 
conversational  style  of  Cavendish.  .  .  .  Our  great 
poet  has  literally  followed  him  in  several  passnges 
of  his  King  Henry  VIII.,  merely  putting  his 
language  into  verse.  Add  to  this  the  historical 
importance  of  the  work,  as  the  only  sure  and  au- 
thentic source  of  information  upon  many  of  the 
most  interesting  events  of  that  reign ;  and  from 
which  all  historians  have  largely  drawn  (through 
the  secondary  medium  of  Holinshed  and  Stowo, 
who  adopted  Cavendish's  narrative),  and  its  in- 
trinsic value  need  not  be  more  fully  expressed." — 
S.  W.  SINGER:  The  Life  of  Cardinal  Wohey,  and 
Metrical  Versions  from  the  Original  Aiitoyrnph 
Manuscript,  with  Notes  and  other  Illustrations. 
Chiswick,  1825,  2  vols.  8vo,  1.  p.  50  copies. 


26 


NICHOLAS  RIDLEY. 


CAVENDISH'S  ACCOUNT    OP   KINO    HENRY'S 
VISITS  TO  WOLSEY'S  HOUSE. 

And  when  it  pleased  the  king's  majesty, 
for  his  recreation,  to  repair  unto  the  cardi- 
nal's house,  as  he  did  divers  times  in  the 
year,  at  which  time  there  wanted  no  prepa- 
rations or  goodly  furniture,  with  viands  of 
the  finest  sort  that  might  be  provided  for 
money  or  friendship ;  such  pleasures  were 
then  devised  for  the  king's  comfort  and  con- 
solation as  might  be  invented,  or  by  man's 
wit  imagined.  The  banquets  were  set  forth 
with  masks  and  mummeries,  in  so  gorgeous 
a  sort  and  costly  manner,  that  it  was  a 
heaven  to  behold.  There  wanted  no  dames 
or  damsels,  meet  or  apt  to  dance  with  the 
maskers,  or  to  garnish  the  place  for  the  time 
with  other  goodly  disports.  Then  was  there 
all  kind  of  music  and  harmony  set  forth, 
with  excellent  voices  both  of  men  and  chil- 
dren. I  have  seen  the  king  suddenly  come 
in  thither  in  a  mask,  with  a  dozen  of  other 
maskers,  all  in  garments  like  shepherds, 
made  of  fine  cloth  of  gold,  and  fine  crimson 
satin  paned,  and  caps  of  the  same,  with 
visors  of  good  proportion  of  visnomy  ;  their 
hairs  and  beards  either  of  fine  gold  wire,  or 
else  of  silver,  and  some  being  of  black  silk  ; 
having  sixteen  torch-bearers  ;  besides  their 
drums,  and  other  persons  attending  upon 
them  with  visors,  and  clothed  all  in  satin, 
of  the  same  colours.  And  at  his  coming, 
and  before  he  came  into  the  hall,  ye  shall 
understand  that  he  came  by  water  to  the 
water-gate,  without  any  noise,  where,  against 
his  coming,  were  laid  charged  many  cham- 
bers [short  guns],  and  at  his  landing  they 
were  all  shot  off,  which  made  such  a  rumble 
in  the  air  that  it  was  like  thunder.  It  made 
all  the  noblemen,  ladies,  and  gentlewomen 
to  muse  what  it  should  mean  coming  so  sud- 
denly, they  sitting  quietly  at  a  solemn  ban- 
quet. .  .  .  Then,  immediately  after  this 
great  shot  of  guns,  the  cardinal  desired  the 
lord  chamberlain  and  comptroller  to  look 
what  this  sudden  shot  should  ine.an,  as  though 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter.  They  there- 
upon looking  out  of  the  window  into  Thames, 
returned  again,  and  showed  him  that  it 
seemed  to  them  there  should  be  some  noble- 
men and  strangers  arrived  at  his  bridge,  as 
ambassadors  from  some  foreign  prince.  .  .  . 
Then  quoth  the  cardinal  to  my  lord  chamber- 
lain, "I  pray  you,"  quoth  he,  "show  them 
that  it  seemeth  me  that  there  should  be  among 
them  some  nobleman  whom  I  suppose  to  be 
much  more  worthy  of  honour  to  sit  and  oc- 
cupy this  room  and  place  than  I ;  to  whom  I 
would  most  gladly,  if  I  knew  him,  surrender 
my  place  according  to  my  duty."  Then  spake 
my  lord  chamberlain  unto  them  in  French, 
declaring  my  lord  cardinal's  mind  5  and  they 


rounding  [whispering]  them  again  in  the 
ear,  my  lord  chamberlain  said  to  my  lord 
cardinal,  "  Sir,  they  confess,"  quoth  he, 
"  that  among  them  there  is  such  a  noble 
personage,  whom,  if  your  grace  can  appoint 
him  from  the  other,  he  is  contented  to  dis- 
close himself,  and  to  accept  your  place  most 
worthily."  With  that,  the  cardinal,  taking 
a  good  advisement  among  them,  at  the  last, 
quoth  he,  "  Me  seemeth  the  gentleman  with 
the  black  beard  should  be  even  he."  And 
with  that  he  arose  out  of  his  chair,  and  of- 
fered the  same  to  the  gentleman  in  the  black 
beard,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand.  The  person 
to  whom  he  offered  then  his  chair  was  Sir 
Edward  Neville,  a  comely  knight,  of  a  goodly 
personage,  that  much  more  resembled  the 
king's  person  in  that  mask  than  any  other. 
The  king,  hearing  and  perceiving  the  car- 
dinal so  deceived  in  his  estimation  and 
choice,  could  not -forbear  laughing;  but 
plucked  down  his  visor,  and  Master  Neville's 
also,  and  dashed  out  with  such  a  pleasant 
countenance  and  cheer,  that  all  noble  estates 
there  assembled,  seeing  the  king  in  there 
amongst  them,  rejoiced  very  much.  The 
cardinal  eftsoons  desired  his  highness  to  take 
the  place  of  estate,  to  whom  the  king  an- 
swered that  he  would  go  first  and  shift  his 
apparel ;  and  so  departed,  and  went  straight 
into  my  lord's  bedchamber,  where  was  a 
great  fire  made  and  prepared  for  him,  and 
there  new-apparelled  him  with  rich  and 
princely  garments.  And  in  the  time  of  the 
king's  absence  the  dishes  of  the  banquet 
were  clean  taken  up,  and  the  table  spread 
.again  with  new  and  sweet-perfumed  cloths ; 
every  man  sitting  still  until  the  king  and  his 
maskers  came  in  among  them  again,  every 
man  being  newly  apparelled.  Then  the 
king  took  his  seat  under  the  cloth  of  estate, 
commanding  no  man  to  remove,  but  sit  still, 
as  they  did  before.  Then  in  came  a  new 
banquet  before  the  king's  majesty,  and  to  all 
the  rest  through  the  tables,  wherein,  I  sup- 
pose, were  served  two  hundred  dishes,  or 
above,  of  wondrous  costly  meats  and  devices, 
subtilly  devised. 

Thus  passed  they  forth  the  whole  night 
with  banquetting,  dancing,  and  other  tri- 
umphant devices,  to  the  great  comfort  of 
the  king,  and  pleasant  regard  of  the  nobility 
there  assembled. 

The  Negotiations  of  Woolsey. 


NICHOLAS   RIDLEY, 

born  about  1505,  became  Bishop  of  Roches- 
ter 1547,  Bishop  of  London  1550,  and  was 
burnt  at  the  stake,  with  Bishop  Latimer,  at 
Oxford,  Oct.  16,  1555. 


NICHOLAS  RIDLEY. 


FROM  RIDLEY'S  PITEOUS  LAMENTATION  OF 
THE  MISERABLE  ESTATE  OF  THE  CHURCH 
IN  ENGLAND,  IN  THE  TIME  OF  THE  LATE 
REVOLT  FROM  THE  GOSPEL,  1566. 

Of  God's  gracious  aid  in  extreme  perils 
toward  them  that  put  their  trust  in  him,  all 
Scripture  is  full  both  old  and  new.  What 
dangers  were  the  patriarchs  often  brought 
into,  as  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  but  of 
all  other  Joseph  ;  and  how  mercifully  were 
they  delivered  again  !  In  what  perils  was 
Moses  when  he  was  fain  to  fly  for  the  safe- 
guard of  his  life!  And  when  was  he  sent 
.again  to  deliver  the  Israelites  from  the  ser- 
vile bondage  ?  Not  before  they  were  brought 
into  extreme  misery.  And  when  did  the 
Lord  mightily  deliver  his  people  from  Pha- 
raoh's sword  ?  Not  before  they  were  brought 
into  such  straits  that  they  were  so  compassed 
on  every  side  (the  main  sea  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  main  host  on  the  other),  that  they 
could  look  for  none  other,  (yea,  what  did 
they  else  look  for  then  ?)  but  either  to  have 
been  drowned  in  the  sea,  or  else  to  have 
fallen  on  the  edge  of  Pharaoh  his  sword. 
Those  judges  which  wrought  most  wonder- 
ful things  in  the  delivery  of  the  people  were 
ever  given  when  the  people  were  brought  to 
most  misery  before,  as  Othoniel,  Aioth 
[Ehud],  Sangar,  Gedeon,  Jepthah,  Samson. 
And  so  was  Saul  endued  with  strength  and 
boldness  from  above,  against  the  Ammon- 
ites, Philistines,  and  Amalechites,  for  the 
defence  of  the  people  of  God.  David  like- 
wise felt  God's  help,  most  sensibly  ever  in 
his  extreme  persecutions.  What  shall  I 
speak  of  the  Prophets  of  God,  whom  God 
suffered  so  oft  to  be  brought  into  extreme 
perils,  and  so  mightily  delivered  them  again  ; 
as  Ilelias,  Ileremy,  Daniel,  Micheas,  and 
Jonas,  and  many  others,  whom  it  were  but 
too  long  to  rehearse  and  set  out  at  large? 
And  did  the  Lord  use  his  servants  otherwise 
in  the  new  law  after  Christ's  incarnation? 
Read  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  and  you  shall 
see,  no.  Were  not  the  Apostles  cast  into 
prison,  and  brought  out  by  the  mighty  hand 
of  God?  Did  not  the  angel  deliver  Peter 
out  of  the  strong  prison,  and  bring  him  out 
by  the  iron  gates  of  the  city,  and  set  him 
free?  And  when,  I  pray  you?  Even  the 
same  night  before  Herod  appointed  to  have 
brought  him  in  judgment  for  to  have  slain 
him,  as  he  had  a  little  before  killed  James, 
the  brother  of  John.  Paul  and  Silas,  when 
after  they  had  been  sore  scourged,  and  were 
put  into  the  inner  prison,  and  there  were 
held  fast  in  the  stocks ;  I  pray  you  what 
appearance  was  there  that  the  magistrates 
should  be  glad  to  come  the  next  day  them- 
selves to  them,  to  desire  them  to  be  content, 
and  to  depart  in  peace  ?  Who  provided  for 


Paul  that  he  should  be  safely  conducted  out 
of  .all  danger,  and  brought  to  Felix,  the 
Emperor's  deputy,  whenas  both  the  high 
priests,  the  pharisees,  and  rulers  of  the  Jews 
had  conspired  to  require  judgment  of  death 
against  him,  he  being  fast  in  prison,  and 
also  more  than  forty  men  had  sworn  each 
one  to  other  that  they  would  never  eat  nor 
drink  until  they  had  slain  Paul  !  A  thing 
wonderful,  that  no  reason  could  have  in- 
vented, or  man  could  have  looked  for:  God 
provided  Paul  his  own  sister's  son,  a  young 
man,  that  disappointed  that  conspiracy  and 
all  their  former  conjuration.  The  manner 
how  the  thing  came  to  pass,  thou  mayest 
read  in  the  twenty-third  of  the  Acts :  I  will 
not  be  tedious  unto  thee  here  with  the  re- 
hearsal thereof. 

Now,  to  descend  from  the  Apostles  to  the 
martyrs  that  followed  next  in  Christ's 
church,  and  in  them  likewise  to  declare  how 
gracious  our  good  God  ever  hath  been  to 
work  wonderfully  with  them  which  in  his 
cause  have  been  in  extreme  perils,  it  were  a 
matter  enough  to  write  a  long  book.  I  will 
here  name  but  one  man  and  one  woman, 
that  is,  Athanasias,  the  great  clerk  and 
godly  man,  stoutly  standing  in  Christ's 
cause  against  the  Arians ;  and  that  holy 
woman,  Blandina,  so  constantly  in  all  ex- 
treme pains,  in  the  simple  confession  of 
Christ.  If  thou  wilt  have  examples  of  more, 
look  and  thou  shalt  have  both  these  and  a 
hundred  more  in  Ecclesiastica  Ilistoria  of 
Eusebius,  and  in  Tripartita  Historia.  But 
for  all  these  examples,  both  of  holy  Scrip- 
ture and  of  other  histories,  I  fear  me  the 
weak  man  of  God,  encumbered  with  the 
frailty  and  infirmity  of  the  flesh,  will  have 
now  and  then  such  thoughts  and  qualms  (as 
they  call  them)  to  i-un  over  his  heart,  and  to 
think  thus:  All  these  things  which  are  re- 
hearsed out  of  the  Scripture,  I  believe  to  be 
true,  and  of  the  rest  truly  I  do  think  well, 
and  can  believe  them  also  to  be  true ;  but 
all  these  we  must  needs  grant  were  special 
miracles  of  God,  which  now  in  our  hands 
are  ceased,  we  see,  and  to  require  them  of 
God's  hands,  were  it  not  to  tempt  God? 

Well-beloved  brother.  I  grant  such  were 
great  wonderful  works  of  God,  and  we  have 
not  seen  many  such  miracles  in  our  time, 
either  for  that  our  sight  is  not  clear  (for 
truly  God  worketh  with  us  his  part  in  all 
times)  or  else  because  we  have  not  the  like 
faith  of  them  for  whose  cause  God  wrought 
such  things,  or  because  after  that  he  had  set 
forth  the  truth  of  his  doctrine  by  such  mira- 
cles then  sufficiently,  the  time  of  so  many 
miracles  to  be  done  was  expired  withal. 
Which  of  these  is  the  most  special  cause  of 
all  other,  or  whether  there  be  any  other, 
God  knoweth :  I  leave  that  to  God.  But 


28 


ROGER  AS  CHAM. 


know  thou  this,  my  well-beloved  in  God, 
that  God's  hand  is  as  strong  as  ever  it  was  ; 
he  may  do  what  his  gracious  pleasure  is,  and 
he  is  as  good  and  gracious  as  ever  he  was. 
Man  changeth  as  the  garment  doth ;  but 
God,  our  heavenly  Father,  is  even  the  same 
now  that  he  was,  and  shall  be  for  evermore. 

The  world  without  doubt  (this  I  do  be- 
lieve, and  therefore  I  say)  draweth  towards 
an  end,  and  in  all  ages  God  hath  hud  his 
own  manner,  after  his  secret  and  unsearch- 
able wisdom,  to  use  his  elect:  sometimes  to 
deliver  them,  and  to  keep  them  safe  ;  and 
sometimes  to  suffer  them  to  drink  of  Christ's 
cup.  that  is,  to  feel  the  smart,  and  to  feel  of 
the  whip.  And  though  the  flesh  smarteth 
at  the  one,  and  feeleth  ease  in  the  other,  is 
glad  of  the  one,  and  sore  vexed  in  the  other; 
yet  the  Lord  is  all  one  towards  them  in 
both,  and  loveth  them  no  less  when  he  suf- 
fereth  them  to  be  beaten,  yea,  and  to  be  put 
to  bodily  death,  than  when  he  worketh  won- 
ders for  their  marvellous  delivery.  Nay, 
rather  he  doth  more  for  them,  when  in  an- 
guish of  the  torments  he  standeth  by  them, 
and  strengtheneth  them  in  their  faith,  to 
suffer  in  the  confession  of  the  truth  and  his 
faith  the  bitter  pains  of  death,  than  when  he 
openeth  the  prison  doors  and  letteth  them 
go  loose:  for  here  he  doth  but  respite  them 
to  another  time,  and  leavoth  them  in  danger 
to  fall  in  like  peril  again ;  and  there  he 
maketh  them  perfect,  to  be  without  danger, 
pain,  or  peril,  after  that  for  evermore:  but 
this  his  love  towards  them,  howsoever  the 
world  doth  judge  of  it,  it  is  all  one,  both  when 
he  delivereth  and  when  he  suffereth  them  to 
be  put  to  death.  He  loved  as  well  Peter  and 
Paul,  when  (after  they  had,  according  to  his 
blessed  will,  pleasure,  and  providence,  fin- 
ished their  courses,  and  done  their  services 
appointed  them  by  him  here  in  preaching  of 
his  Gospel,)  the  one  was  beheaded,  and  the 
other  was  hanged  or  crucified  of  the  cruel 
tyrant  Nero  (as  the  ecclesiastical  history 
saith),  as  when  he  sent  the  angel  to  bring 
Peter  out  of  prison,  and  for  Paul's  delivery 
he  made  all  the  doors  of  the  prison  to  fly 
Avide  open,  and  the  foundation  of  the  same 
like  an  earthquake  to  tremble  and  shake. 

Thinkest  thou,  0  man  of  God,  that  Christ 
our  Saviour  had  less  affection  to  the  first 
martyr,  Stephen,  because  he  suffered  his 
enemies,  even  at  the  first  conflict,  to  stone 
him  to  death?  No,  surely:  nor  James, 
John's  brother,  which  was  one  of  the  three 
that  Paul  calleth  primates  or  principals 
amongst  the  Apostles  of  Christ.  He  loved 
him  never  a  whit  the  worse  than  he  did  the 
other,  although  he  suffered  Herod  the  ty- 
rant's sword  to  cut  off  his  head.  Nay.  doth 
not  Daniel  say,  speaking  of  the  cruelty  of 
Antichrist  his  time:  ''And  the  learned 


[he  meaneth  truly  learned  in  God's  law] 
shall  teach  many,  and  shall  fall  upon  the 
sword,  and  in  the  flame  [that  is,  shall  be 
burnt  in  the  flaming  tire],  and  in  captivity 
[that  is,  shall  be  in  prison],  and  be  spoiled 
and  robbed  of  their  goods  for  a  long  season." 
And  after  a  little,  in  the  same  place  of  Dan- 
iel, it  followeth :  "And  of  the  learned  there 
be  which  shall  fall  or  be  overthrown,  that 
they  may  be  known,  tried,  chosen,  and  lie 
made  white" — he  meaneth  be  burnished  and 
scoured  anew,  picked  and  chosen,  and  made 
fresh  and  lusty.  If  that,  then,  was  foreseen 
for  to  be  done  to  the  godly  learned,  and  for 
so  gracious  causes,  let  every  one  to  whom 
any  such  thing  by  the  will  of  God  doth 
chance,  be  merry  in  God  and  rejoice,  for  it 
is  to  God's  glory  and  to  his  own  everlasting 
wealth.  Wherefore  well  is  he  that  ever  he 
was  born,  for  whom  thus  graciously  God 
hath  provided,  having  grace  of  God,  and 
strength  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  to  stand  stead- 
fastly in  the  height  of  the  storm.  Happy  is 
he  that  ever  he  was  born  whom  God,  his 
heavenly  Father,  hath  vouchsafed  to  appoint 
to  glorify  him,  and  to  edify  his  church  by 
the  effusion  of  his  blood. 

To  die  in  Christ's  cause  is  an  high  honour, 
to  the  which  no  man  certainly  shall  or  can 
aspire  but  to  whom  God  vouchsafed!  that 
dignity  ;  for  no  man  is  allowed  to  presume 
for  to  take  unto  himself  any  office  of  honour 
but  he  which  is  thereunto  called  of  God. 
Therefore  John  saith  well,  speaking  of  them 
which  have  obtained  the  victory  by  the  blood 
of  the  Lamb,  and  by  the  word  of  his  testi- 
mony, that  they  loved  not  their  lives  even 
unto  death. 


ROGER    ASCHAM, 

tutor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  and  Latin 
secretary  to  Edward  VI.,  Queen  Mary,  and 
Queen  Elizabeth,  was  born  in  or  about  1515, 
and  died  1568. 

"  He  had  a  facile  and  fluent  Latin  style  (not  like 
those  who,  counting  obscurity  to  be  elegancy,  weed 
out  all  the  hard  words  they  meet  in  authors) :  wit- 
ness his  '  Epistles,'  which  some  say  are  the  only 
Latin  ones  extant  of  any  Englishman,  and  if  so, 
the  more  the  pity.  What  loads  have  we  of  letters 
from  foreign  pens,  as  if  no  author  were  complete 
without  those  necessary  appurtenances  \  \Vliilst 
surely  our  Englishmen  write  (though  not  so  many) 
as  good  as  any  other  nation.  In  a  word,  his  '  Tox- 
ophilus'  is  accounted  a  good  book  for  youiiff  men, 
his  '  Schoolmaster'  for  old  men,  his  '  Epistles'  for 
all  men." — FULLER  :  Worthies  of  England. 

EXTRACTS    FROM    ASCITAM'S    SCHOOLMASTER, 
Lond.,  1570,  4to. 

It  is  a  pity  that  coinmonly  more  care  is 
had,  and  that  among  very  wise  men,  to  find 


ROGER  AS  CHAM. 


out  rather  a  cunning  man  for  their  horse, 
than  a  cunning  man  for  their  children.  To 
the  one  they  will  gladly  give  a  stipend  of 
200  crowns  hy  the  year,  and  loth  to  offer  the 
other  200  shillings.  God,  that  sitteth  in 
heaven,  laugheth  their  choice  to  scorn,  and 
rewardeth  their  liberality  as  it  should;  for 
he  suffereth  them  to  have  tame  and  well- 
ordered  horse,  but  wild  and  unfortunate 
children. 

One  example,  whether  love  or  fear  doth 
work  more  in  a  child  for  virtue  arid  learning, 
I  will  gladly  report;  which  may  be  heard 
with  some  pleasure  and  followed  with  more 
profit.  Before  I  went  into  Germany,  1  came 
to  Broadgate,  in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my 
leave  of  that  noble  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom 
I  was  exceedingly  much  beholden.  Her 
parents,  the  duke  and  the  duchess,  with  all 
the  household,  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen, 
were  hunting  in  the  park.  I  found  her  in 
her  chamber,  reading  Phaedon  Platonis  in 
Greek,  and  that  Avith  as  much  delight  as 
some  gentlemen  would  read  a  merry  tale  in 
Bocace.  After  salutation  and  duty  done, 
with  some  other  talk,  I  asked  her  why  she 
would  lose  such  pastime  in  the  park?  Smil- 
ing, she  answered  me,  "I  wiss,  all  their 
sport  in  the  park  is  but  a  shadow  to  that 
pleasure  that  I  find  in  Plato.  Alas !  good 
folk,  they  never  felt  what  true  pleasure 
meant.''  ''  And  how  came  you,  madam." 
quoth  I,  "  to  this  deep  knowledge  of  pleas- 
ure? And  what  did  chiefly  allure  you  unto 
it,  seeing  not  many  wromen,  but  very  few 
men,  have  attained  thereunto?"  [Lady  Jane 
was  then  in  her  14th  year.]  ''I  will  tell 
you,"  quoth  she,  "  and  tell  you  a  truth 
which,  perchance,  ye  will  marvel  at.  One  of 
the  greatest  benefits  that  ever  God  gave  me, 
is,  that  he  sent  me  so  sharp  and  severe  pa- 
rents, and  so  gentle  a  schoolmaster.  For 
when  I  am  in  presence  either  of  father  or 
mother,  whether  I  speak,  keep  silence,  sit, 
stand,  or  go,  eat,  drink,  be  merry  or  sad, 
be  sewing,  playing,  dancing,  or  doing  any- 
thing else,  I  must  do  it,  as  it  were,  in  such 
weight,  measure,  and  number,  even  so  per- 
fectly as  God  made  the  world,  or  else  I  am 
so  sharply  taunted,  so  cruelly  threatened, 
yea.  presently,  sometimes  with  pinches,  nips, 
and  bobs,  and  other  ways,  which  I  will  not 
name  for  the  honour  I  bear  them,  so  with- 
out measure  misordered,  that  I  think  my- 
self in  hell  till  time  come  that  I  must  go  to 
Mr.  Elmer;  who  teacheth  me  so  gently,  so 
pleasantly,  with  such  fair  allurements  to 
learning,  that  I  think  all  the  time  nothing 
whiles  I  am  with  him.  And  when  I  am 
called  from  him,  I  fall  on  weeping,  because 
whatever  I  do  else  but  learning,  is  full  of 
grief,  trouble,  fear,  and  whole  misliking 
unto  me.  And  thus  my  book  hath  been  so 


much  my  pleasure,  and  bringeth  daily  to  me 
more  pleasure  and  more,  that,  in  respect  of 
it,  all  other  pleasures,  in  very  deed  be  but 
trifles  and  troubles  unto  me." 

Learning  teacheth  more  in  one  year  than 
experience  in  twenty  ;  and  learning  teacheth 
safely  when  experience  maketh  more  miser- 
able than  wise.  He  hazardeth  sore  that 
waxeth  wise  by  experience.  An  unhappy 
master  he  is  that  is  made  cunning  by  many 
shipwrecks;  a  miserable  merchant  that  is 
neither  rich  nor  wise  but  after  some  bank- 
routs.  It  is  costly  wisdom  that  is  bought 
by  experience.  We  know  by  experience 
itself  that  it  is  (a  marvellous  pain  to  find  out 
but  a  short  way  by  long  wandering.  And 
surely,  he  that  would  prove  wise  by  ex- 
perience, he  may  be  witty  indeed,  but  even 
like  a  swift  runner,  that  runneth  fast  out  of 
his  way,  and  upon  the  night,  lie  knoweth 
not  whither.  And  verily  they  be  fewest  in 
number  that  be  happy  or  wise  by  unlearned 
experience.  And  look  well  upon  the  former 
life  of  those  few,  whether  your  example  be 
old  or  young,  who  without  learning  have 
gathered  by  long  experience  a  little  wisdom 
and  some  happiness ;  and  when  you  do  con- 
sider what  mischief  they  have  committed, 
what  dangers  they  have  escaped  (and  yet 
twenty  to  one  do  perish  in  the  adventure), 
then  think  well  with  yourself  whether  ye 
would  that  your  own  son  should  come  to 
wisdom  and  happiness  by  the  way  of  such 
experience  or  no. 

It  is  a  notable  tale  that  old  Sir  Roger 
Chamloe,  sometime  chief  justice,  would  tell 
of  himself.  When  he  was  Ancient  in  inn 
of  court  certain  young  gentlemen  were 
brought  before  him  to  be  corrected  for  cer- 
tain misordcrs ;  and  one  of  the  lustiest  said, 
li  Sir,  we  be  young  gentlemen;  and  wise 
men  before  us  have  proved  all  fashions,  and 
}re(i  those  have  done  full  well."  This  they 
said  because  it  was  Avell  known  Sir  Roger 
had  been  a  good  fellow  in  his  youth.  But 
he  answered  them  very  wisely.  "Indeed," 
saith  he,  "in  my  youth  I  Avas  as  you  are 
now:  and  I  had  tweh'e  fellows  like  unto 
myself,  but  not  one  of  them  came  to  a  good 
end.  And  therefore,  follow  not  my  exam- 
ple in  youth,  but  follow  my  counsel  in  age, 
if  ever  ye  think  to  come  to  this  place,  or  to 
these  years  that  I  am  come  unto ;  less  ye 
meet  either  with  poverty  or  Tyburn  in  the 
way." 

Thus,  experience  of  all  fashions  in  youth 
being  in  proof  always  dangerous,  in  issue 
seldom  lucky,  is  a  Avay  indeed  to  overmuch 
knowledge  ;  yet  used  commonly  of  such  men 
which  be  either  carried  by  some  curious 
affection  of  mind,  or  driven  by  some  hard 
necessity  of  life,  to  hazard  the  trial  of  over- 
many  perilous  adventures. 


30 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE. 


MICHEL   DE   MONTAIGNE, 
born  in  Perigord,  France,  1533,  died  1592. 

"  Montaigne's  'Essays'  are  among  the  most  re- 
markable of  literary  productions.  Absolutely 
without  order,  method,  or  indeed  anything  like 
intelligible  purpose,  they  have  yet  exercised  an 
influence,  particularly  on  French  and  English 
literature,  greater  perhaps  thnn  that  of  any  other 
single  book  we  could  name.  Several  of  his  critics 
have  suffered  their  indignation  against  'the  con- 
fusion of  the  whole  book'  to  carry  them  a  great 
way  further  than  was  necessary;  for,  indeed,  it  is 
partly  this  want  of  formal  arrangement  that  gives 
to  the  '  Essays'  their  peculiar  excellence.  ...  It 
is  quite  impossible  to  convey  an  adequate  notion 
of  their  unrestrained  vivacity,  energy,  and  fancy, 
of  their  boldness  and  attractive  simplicity.  They 
range  over  every  subject  connected  with  human 
life  and  manners;  abound  in  observations — often 
most  felicitously  expressed — of  great  depth  and 
acuteness,  and  never  fail  to  entertain  with  their 
constant  eagerness  and  gaiety.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  they  supply  the  mind  with  tit  once  the 
best  stimulus  and  recreation  which  the  world  of 
books  contains." — REV.  ROBERT  MARTIN:  Imperial 
Diet,  of  Univ.  Bioy.,  v.,  I860,  434. 

OP  THE  INCONVENIENCE  OF  GREATNESS. 

Since  we  cannot  attain  unto  it,  let  us  re- 
venge ourselves  by  railing  at  it;  and  yet  it 
is  not  absolutely  railing  against  anything  to 
proclaim  its  defects,  because  they  are  in  all 
things  to  be  found,  how  beautiful  or  how 
much  to  be  coveted  soever.  It  has  in  gen- 
eral this  manifest  advantage,  that  it  can 
grow  less  when  it  pleases,  and  has  very  near 
the  absolute  choice  of  both  the  one  and  the 
other  condition.  For  a  man  does  not  fall 
from  all  heights;  there  are  several  from 
which  one  may  descend  without  falling 
down.  It  does  indeed  appear  to  me  that 
we  value  it  at  too  high  a  rate,  and  also  over- 
value the  resolution  of  those  whom  we  have 
either  seen  or  heard  have  contemned  it^or 
displaced  themselves  of  their  own  accord. 
Its  essence  is  not  evidently  so  commodious 
that  a  man  may  not  without  a  miracle  re- 
fuse it :  I  find  it  a  very  hard  thing  to  under- 
go misfortunes;  but  to  be  content  with  a 
competent  measure  of  fortune,  .and  to  avoid 
greatness,  I  think  a  very  easy  matter.  'Tis, 
methinks,  a  virtue  to  which  1,  who  am  none 
of  the  wisest,  could,  without  any  great  en- 
deavour, arrive.  What,  then,  is  to  be  expected 
from  them  that  would  yet  put  into  considera- 
tion the  glory  attending  this  refusal,  wherein 
there  may  lurk  worse  ambition  than  even 
in  the  desire  itself  and  fruition  of  greatness  ? 
Forasmuch  as  ambition  never  comports  itself 
better  according  to  itself  than  when  it  pro- 
ceeds by  obscure  and  unfrequented  ways,  I 
incite  my  courage  to  patience,  but  1  rein  it 
as  much  as  I  can  towards  desire. 

I  have  as  much  to  wish  for  as  another,  and 


allow  my  wishes  as  much  liberty  and  indis- 
cretion ;  but  yet  it  never  befell  me  to  wish 
for  either  empire  or  royalty,  for  the  eminency 
of  those  high  and  commanding  fortunes.  I 
do  not  aim  that  way  ;  I  love  myself  too  well. 
AVhen  I  think  to  grow  greater,  'tis  but  very 
moderately,  and  by  a  compelled  and  timorous 
advancement,  such  as  is  proper  for  me,  in 
resolution,  in  prudence,  in  health,  in  beauty, 
and  even  in  riches  too. 

But  this  supreme  reputation,  and  this 
mighty  authority,  oppress  my  imagination  ; 
and,  quite  contrary  to  some  others,  1  should, 
peradventure,  rather  choose  to  be  the  second 
or  third  in  Perigourd  than  the  first  in  Paris. 
I  would  neither  dispute  a  miserable  un- 
known with  a  nobleman's  porter,  nor  make 
crowds  open  in  adoration  as  I  pass.  I  am 
trained  up  to  a  moderate  condition,  as  well 
as  by  my  choice  as  fortune  ;  and  have  made 
it  appear  in  the  whole  conduct  of  my  life 
and  enterprises  that  I  have  rather- avoided 
than  otherwise  the  climbing  above  the  degree 
of  fortune  wherein  God  has  placed  me  by  my 
birth :  all  natural  constitution  is  equally 
just  and  easy.  My  soul  is  so  sneaking  and 
mean  that  I  measure  not  good  fortune  by  the 
height,  but  by  the  facility.  But  if  my  heart 
be  not  great  enough,  'tis  open  enough  to 
make  amends  at  any  one's  request  freely  to 
lay  open  its  weakness.  Should  any  one  put 
me  upon  comparing  the  life  of  L.  Thorius 
Balbus,  a  brave  man,  handsome,  learned, 
healthful,  understanding,  and  abounding  in 
all  sorts  of  conveniencies  and  pleasures, 
leading  a  quiet  life,  and  all  his  own  ;  his 
mind  well  prepared  against  death,  supersti- 
tion, pains,  and  other  incumbrances  of  hu- 
man necessity  ;  dying  at  last  in  battle  with 
his  sword  in  his  hand,  for  the  defence  of  his 
country,  on  the  one  part;  and  on  the  other 
part,  the  life  of  M.  Regulus,  so  great  and  as 
high  as  is  known  to  every  one,  and  his  end 
admirable  ;  the  one  without  name  and  with- 
out dignity,  the  other  exemplary  and  glori- 
ous to  a  wonder:  I  should  doubtless  say,  as 
Cicero  did,  could  I  speak  as  well  as  he.  But 
if  I  was  to  touch  it  in  my  own  phrase,  I 
should  then  also  say,  that  the  first  is  as  much 
according  to  my  capacity  and  desire,  which 
I  conform  to  my  capacity,  as  the  second  is 
far  beyond  it ;  that  I  could  not  approach  the 
last  but  with  my  veneration,  the  other  I 
would  willingly  attain  by  custom.  But  let 
us  return  to  our  temporal  greatness,  from 
which  we  have  digressed.  I  disrelish  all 
dominion,  whether  active  or  passive.  Otanes, 
one  of  the  seven  who  had  a  right  to  pretend 
to  the  kingdom  of  Persia,  did  as  I  should 
willingly  have  done;  which  was,  that  he 
gave  up  to  his  concurrents  his  right  of  being 
promoted  to  it,  either  by  election  or  by  lot, 
provided  that  he  and  his  might  live  in  the 


MICHEL  DE  MONTAIGNE. 


31 


empire  out  of  all  authority  and  subjection, 
those  of  the  ancient  laws  excepted,  and  might 
enjoy  all  liberty  that  was  not  prejudicial  to 
them,  as  impatient  of  commandingas  of  being 
commanded.  The  most  painful  and  difficult 
employment  in  the  world,  in  my  opinion,  is 
worthily  to  discharge  the  office  of  a  king.  I 
excuse  more  of  their  mistakes  than  men  com- 
monly do,  in  consideration  of  the  intolerable 
weight  of  their  function,  which  does  astonish 
me.  'Tis  hard  to  keep  measure  in  so  im- 
measurable a  power.  Yet  so  it  is,  that  it  is, 
to  those  who  are  not  the  best-natured  men, 
a  singular  incitement  to  virtue  to  be  seated 
in  a  place  where  you  cannot  do  the  least 
good  that  shall  not  be  put  upon  record  ;  and 
where  the  least  benefit  redounds  to  so  many 
men  ;  and  where  your  talent  of  administra- 
tion, like  that  of  preachers,  does  principally 
address  itself  to  the  people,  no  very  exact 
judge,  easy  to  deceive,  and  easily  content. 
There  are  few  things  wherein  we  can  give  a 
sincere  judgment,  by  reason  that  there  are 
few  wherein  we  have  not  in  some  sort  a  par- 
ticular interest. 

Superiority  and  inferiority,  dominion  and 
subjection,  are  bound  to  a  natural  envy  and 
contest,  and  must  necessarily  perpetually 
intrench  upon  one  another.  I  neither  be- 
lieve the  one  nor  the  other  touching  the 
rights  of  the  adverse  party:  let  reason, 
therefore,  which  is  inflexible  and  without 
passion,  determine.  'Tis  not  a  month  ago 
that  I  read  over  two  Scotch  authors  con- 
tending upon  this  subject;  of  which  he  who 
stands  for  the  people  makes  kings  to  be  in  a 
worse  condition  than  a  carter;  and  he  who 
writes  for  monarchy  places  him  some  degrees 
above  God  Almighty  in  power  and  sover- 
eignty. 

Now  the  inconveniency  of  greatness,  that 
I  have  made  choice  of  to  consider  in  this 
place,  upon  some  occasions  that  has  lately 
put  it  into  my  head,  is  this:  there  is  not 
peradventure  anything  more  pleasant  in  the 
commerce  of  men  than  the  trials  that  we 
make  against  one  another,  out  of  emulation 
of  honour  and  valour,  whether  in  the  exer- 
cises of  the  body  or  in  those  of  the  mind ; 
wherein  the  sovereign  greatness  can  have 
no  true  part.  And  in  earnest  I  have  often 
thought,  that  out  of  force  of  respect  men 
have  used  princes  disdainfully  and  injuri- 
ously in  that  particular.  For  the  thing  I 
was  infinitely  offended  at  in  my  childhood, 
that  they  who  exercised  with  me  forbore  to 
do  their  best  because  they  found  me  un- 
worthy of  their  utmost  endeavour,  is  what 
we  see  happen  to  them  every  day,  every  one 
finding  himself  unworthy  to  contend  with 
them.  If  we  discover  that  they  have  the 
least  passion  to  have  the  better,  there  is  no 
one  who  will  not  make  it  his  business  to 


give  it  them,  and  who  will  not  rather  betray 
his  own  glory  than  offend  theirs;  and  will 
therein  employ  so  much  force  only  as  is 
necessary  to  advance  their  honour.  What 
share  have  they,  then,  in  the  engagement 
wherein  every  one  is  on  their  side?  Me- 
thinks  I  see  those  paladins  of  ancient  times 
presenting  themselves  to  jousts,  with  en- 
chanted arms  and  bodies.  Crisson,  running 
against  Alexander,  purposely  missed  his 
blow,  and  made  a  fault  in  his  career;  Alex- 
ander chid  him  for  it,  but  he  ought  to  have 
had  him  whipped.  Upon  this  consideration, 
Carneades  said  that  the  sons  of  princes 
learned  nothing  right  but  to  ride  the  great 
horse;  by  reason  that  in  all  their  exercises 
every  one  bends  and  yields  to  them  ;  but  a 
horse  that  is  neither  a  flatterer  nor  a  court- 
ier, throws  the  son  of  a  king  with  no  more 
remorse  than  he  would  do  that  of  a  porter. 
Homer  was  compelled  to  consent  that  Venus, 
so  sweet  and  delicate  as  she  was,  should  be 
wounded  at  the  battle  of  Troy,  thereby  to 
ascribe  courage  and  boldness  to  her  ;  quali- 
ties that  cannot  possibly  be  in  those  who  are 
exempt  from  danger.  The  gods  are  made  to 
be  angry,  to  fear,  to  run  away,  to  be  jealous, 
to  grieve,  and  to  be  transported  Avith  pas- 
sions, to  honour  them  with  the  virtues  that 
amongst  us  are  built  upon  these  imperfec- 
tions. Who  does  not  participate  in  the 
hazard  and  difficulty  can  pretend  no  inter- 
est in  the  honour  and  pleasure  that  are  the 
consequents  of  hazardous  actions.  'Tis  a 
pity  a  man  should  be  so  potent  that  all 
things  must  give  way  to  him.  Fortune 
therein  sets  you  too  remote  from  society, 
and  places  you  in  too  great  a  solitude.  The 
easiness  and  mean  facility  of  making  all 
things  bow  under  you  is  an  enemy  to  all 
sorts  of  pleasure.  This  is  to  slide,  not  to 
go:  this  is  to  sleep,  and  not  to  live.  Con- 
ceive man  accompanied  with  omnipotency, 
you  throw  him  into  an  abyss:  he  must  beg 
disturbance  and  opposition  as  an  alms.  His 
being  and  his  good  is  indigence.  Their  good 
qualities  are  dead  and  lost ;  for  they  are  not 
to  be  perceived  but  by  comparison,  and  we 
put  them  out  of  it;  they  have  little  knowl- 
edge of  the  true  praise,  having  their  ears 
deafed  with  so  continued  and  uniform  an 
approbation.  Have  they  to  do  with  the 
meanest  of  all  their  subjects?  They  have 
no  means  to  take  any  advantage  of  him,  if 
he  say, 'Tis  because  he  is  my  king,  he  thinks 
he  has  said  enough  to  express  that  he  there- 
fore suffered  himself  to  he  overcome.  This 
quality  stifles  and  consumes  the  other  true 
and  essential  qualities.  They  are  involved 
in  the  royalty,  and  leave  them  nothing  to 
recommend  themselves  withal,  but  actions 
that  directly  concern  themselves,  and  that 
merely  respect  the  function  of  their  place. 


32 


MIGUEL  DE   CERVANTES. 


'Tis  so  much  to  he  a  king,  that  he  only  is  so 
by  being  so ;  the  strange  lustre  that  en- 
virons him  conceals  him  and  shrouds  him 
from  us;  our  sight  is  there  repelled  and  dis- 
sipated, bejng  stopped  and  filled  by  this  pre- 
vailing light.  The  senate  awarded  the  prize 
of  eloquence  to  Tiberius  :  he  refused  it,  sup- 
posing that,  though  it  had  been  just,  he  could 
derive  no  advantage  from  a  judgment  so  par- 
tial, and  that  was  so  little  free  to  judge.  As 
we  give  them  all  advantages  of  honour,  so  do 
we  soothe  and  authorize  all  their  vices  and 
defects,  not  only  by  approbation,  but  by  imi- 
tation also.  Every  one  of  Alexander's  fol- 
lowers carried  their  heads  on  one  side,  as 
he  did  ;  and  the  flatterers  of  Dionysius  ran 
against  one  another  in  his  presence,  stum- 
bled at  and  overturned  whatever  was  under- 
foot, to  show  that  they  were  as  purblind  as 
he.  Natural  imperfections  have  sometimes 
also  served  to  recommend  a  man  to  favour.  I 
have  seen  deafness  affected  ;  and  because  the 
master  hated  his  wife,  Plutarch  has  seen  his 
courtiers  repudiate  theirs,  whom  they  loved  ; 
and  which  is  yet  more,  uncleanness  and  all 
manner  of  dissoluteness  has  been  in  fashion  ; 
as  also  disloyalty,  blasphemies,  cruelty, 
heresy,  superstition,  irreligion,  effeminacy, 
and  worse,  if  worse  there  be.  And  by  an 
example  yet  more  dangerous  than  that  of 
Mithridates'  flatterers,  who,  by  how  much 
their  master  pretended  to  the  honour  of  a 
good  physician,  came  to  him  to  have  incision 
and  cauteries  made  in  their  limbs  ;  for  these 
others  suffered  the  soul,  a  more  delicate  and 
noble  thing,  to  be  cauterized.  But  to  end 
where  I  begun:  the  Emperor  Adrian  dis- 
puting with  the  philosopher  Favorinus  about 
the  interpretation  of  some  word,  Favorinus 
soon  yielded  him  the  victory,  for  which  his 
friends  rebuking  him, — "You  talk  simply," 
said  he ;  il  would  you  not  have  him  wiser 
than  I,  who  commands  thirty  legions?" 
Augustus  wrote  verses  against  Asinius  Pol- 
lio,  and  I,  said  Pollio,  say  nothing,  for  it  is 
not  prudence  to  write  in  contest  with  him 
who  has  power  to  proscribe  ;  ami  he  had 
reason  :  for  Dionysius  because  he  could  not 
equal  Philoxenus  in  poesy,  and  Plato  in  dis- 
course, condemned  one  to  the  quarries,  and 
sent  the  other  to  be  sold  for  a  slave  into  the 
island  of  ^Egina. 


MIGUEL     DE     CERVANTES 
SAAVEDRA, 

author  of  Don  Quixote,  was  born  at  Alcata 
de  Ilenares,  1547,  entered  the  order  of  Fran- 
ciscan friars  April  2,  1616,  and  died  April 
2-5  of  the  same  year.  His  Don  Quixote  was 
first  published  at  Madrid, — Part  I.  1605, 
small  4to  ;  Part  II.  1615,  small  4to. 


"  Both  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  are  thus  brought 
before  us  like  such  living  realities  that,  at  this  mo- 
ment, the  figures  of  the  crazed,  gaunt,  dignified 
knight  and  of  his  round,  selfish,  and  most  amusing 
esquire  dwell  bodied  forth  in  the  imaginations  of 
more,  among  all  conditions  of  men  throughout 
Christendom,  than  any  other  of  the  creations  of 
human  talent.  The  greatest  of  the  great  poets — 
Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Milton — have  no 
doubt  risen  to  loftier  heights,  aud  placed  them- 
selves in  more  imposing  relations  with  the  noblest 
attributes  of  our  nature;  but  Cervantes — always 
writing  under  the  unchecked  impulse  of  his  own 
genius,  and  instinctively  concentrating  in  his  fic- 
tion whatever  was  peculiar  to  the  character  of  his 
nation — has  shown  himself  of  kindred  to  all  times 
and  all  lands;  to  the  humblest  degrees  of  cultiva- 
tion as  well  as  to  the  highest ;  and  has  thus,  beyond 
all  other  writers,  received  in  return  a  tribute  of 
sympathy  and  admiration  from  the  universal  spirit 
of  humanity." — TICKNOR  :  Hint,  of  Spanish  Lit., 
3d  Amer.  edit.,  Boston,  1863,  ii.  146 :  Second  Part 
of  The  Don  Quixote. 

DESCRIPTION  OP  DON  QUIXOTE. 

Down  in  a  village  of  La  Mancha,  the 
name  of  which  I  have  no  desire  to  recollect, 
there  lived,  not  long  ago,  one  of  those  gen- 
tlemen who  usually  keep  a  lance  upon  a 
rack,  an  old  buckler,  a  lean  horse,  and  a 
coursing  greyhound.  Soup,  composed  of 
somewhat  more  mutton  than  beef,  the  frag- 
ments served  up  cold  on  most  nights,  lentils 
on  Fridays,  pains  and  breakings  on  Satur- 
days, and  a  pigeon,  by  way  of  addition,  on 
Sundays,  consumed  three-fourths  of  his  in- 
come ;  the  remainder  of  it  supplied  him  with 
a  cloak  of  fine  cloth,  velvet  breeches,  with 
slippers  of  the  same  for  holidays,  and  a  suit 
of  the  best  homespun,  in  which  he  adorned 
himself  on  week-days.  His  family  consisted 
of  a  housekeeper  above  forty,  a  niece  not 
quite  twenty,  and  a  lad  who  served  him  both 
in  the  field  and  at  home,  who  could  saddle 
the  horse  or  handle  the  pruning-hook.  The 
age  of  our  gentleman  bordered  upon  fifty 
years ;  he  was  of  a  strong  constitution, 
spare-bodied,  of  a  meagre  visage,  a  very 
early  riser,  and  a  lover  of  the  chase.  Some 
pretend  to  say  that  his  surname  was  Quixada, 
or  Quesada,  for  on  this  point  his  historians 
differ;  though,  from  very  probable  conjec- 
tures, we  may  conclude  that  his  name  w;is 
Quixana.  This  is,  however,  of  little  im- 
portance to  our  history :  let  it  suffice  that, 
m  relating  it,  we  do  not  swerve  a  jot  from 
the  truth. 

Be  it  known ,  then,  that  the  afore-mentioned 
gentleman,  in  his  leisure  moments,  which 
composed  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  gave 
himself  up  with  so  much  ardor  to  the  perusal 
of  books  of  chivalry,  that  he  almost  wholly 
neglected  the  exercise  of  the  chase,  and  even 
the  regulation  of  his  domestic  affairs;  in- 
deed, so  extravagant  was  his  zeal  in  this 
pursuit,  that  he  sold  many  acres  of  arable 


MIGUEL  DE   CERVANTES. 


33 


land  to  purchase  books  of  knight-errantry  ; 
collecting  as  many  as  he  could  possibly  ob- 
tain. Among  them  all  none  pleased  him  so 
much  as  those  written  by  the  famous  Felici- 
ano  de  Silva,  whose  brilliant  prose  and  in- 
tricate style  were,  in  his  opinion,  infinitely 
precious  ;  especially  thase  amorous  speeches 
and  challenges  in  which  they  so  much 
abound,  such  as :  "  The  reason  of  the  un- 
reasonable treatment  of  my  reason  so  en- 
feebles my  reason,  that  with  reason  I  com- 
plain of  your  beauty."  And  again:  ''The 
high  heavens  that,  with  your  divinity,  di- 
vinely fortify  you  with  the  stars,  rendering 
you  meritorious  of  the  merit  merited  by 
your  greatness."  These  and  similar  rhap- 
sodies distracted  the  poor  gentleman,  for  he 
laboured  to  comprehend  and  unravel  their 
meaning,  which  was  more  than  Aristotle 
himself  could  do,  were  he  to  rise  from  the 
dead  expressly  for  that  purpose. 

lie  was  not  quite  satisfied  as  to  the  wounds 
which  Don  Belianis  gave  and  received  ;  for 
he  could  not  help  thinking  that,  however 
skilful  the  surgeons  were  who  healed  them, 
his  face  and  whole  body  must  have  been 
covered  with  seams  and  scars.  Nevertheless, 
he  commended  his  author  for  concluding  his 
book  with  the  promise  of  that  interminable 
adventure  ;  and  he  often  felt  an  inclination 
to  seize  the  pen  himself  and  conclude  it,  lit- 
erally as  it  is  there  promised:  this  he  would 
doubtless  have  done,  and  with  success,  had 
he  not  been  diverted  from  it  by  meditations 
of  greater  moment,  on  which  his  mind  was 
incessantly  employed. 

He  often  debated  with  the  curate  of  the 
village,  a  man  of  learning,  and  a  graduate 
of  Siguenza,  which  of  the  two  was  the  best 
knight,  Palmerin  of  England  or  Amadis  de 
Gaul;  but  Master  Nicholas,  barber  of  the 
same  place,  declared  that  none  ever  came  up 
to  the  knight  of  the  sun  ;  if,  indeed,  any  one 
could  be  compared  to  him,  it  was  Don  Galaor, 
brother  of  Amadis  de  Gaul,  for  he  had  a 
genius  suited  to  everything :  he  was  no 
effeminate  knight,  no  whimperer,  like  his 
brother;  and  in  point  of  courage  he  was  by 
no  means  his  inferior.  In  short,  he  became 
so  infatuated  with  this  kind  of  study  that 
he  passed  whole  days  and  nights  over  these 
books;  and  thus,  with  little  sleeping,  and 
much  reading,  his  brains  were  dried  up  and 
his  intellects  deranged.  His  imagination 
was  full  of  all  that  he  had  read : — of  en- 
chantments, contests,  battles,  challenges, 
wounds,  courtships,  amours,  tortures,  and 
impossible  absurdities;  and  so  firmly  was 
he  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  the  whole  tis- 
sue of  visionary  fiction,  that,  in  his  mind, 
no  history  in  the  world  was  more  authentic. 

The  Cid  Ruy  Diaz,  he  asserted,  was  a 
very  good  knight,  but  not  to  be  compared 


with  the  knight  of  the  flaming  sword,  who, 
with  a  single  back-stroke,  cleft  asunder  two 
fierce  and  monstrous  giants.  lie  was  better 
pleased  with  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  because, 
at  Koncesvalles,  he  slew  Roland  the  en- 
chanted, by  availing  himself  of  the  strata- 
gem employed  by  Hercules  upon  Anteus, 
whom  he  squeezed  to  death  within  his  arms. 
He  spoke  very  favourably  of  the  giant  Mor- 
ganti,  for  although  of  that  monstrous  breed 
who  are  always  proud  and  insolent,  he  alone 
was  courteous  and  well  bred.  Above  all  he 
admired  Rinaldo  de  Montalvan,  particularly 
when  he  saw  him  sallying  forth  from  his 
castle  to  plunder  all  he  encountered  ;  and 
when,  moreover,  he  seized  upon  that  image 
of  Mohamet  which,  according  to  history,  was 
of  massive  gold.  But  he  would  have  given 
his  housekeeper,  and  even  his  niece  into  the 
bargain,  for  a  fair  opportunity  of  kicking 
the  traitor  Galalon. 

Adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  Jarvis's  Trans- 
lation, Loud.,  1742,  2  vols.  4to.  Book  I. 
Chapter  I. 

CAPTURE  OF  MAMBRINO'S  HELMET. 

About  this  time  it  begun  to  rain  a  little, 
and  Sancho  proposed  entering  the  fulling- 
mill  ;  but  Don  Quixote  had  conceived  such 
an  abhorrence  of  them  for  the  late  jest,  that 
he  would  by  no  means  go  in  :  turning,  there- 
fore, to  the  right  hand  they  struck  into 
another  road,  like  that  they  had  travelled 
through  the  day  before.  Soon  after,  Don 
Quixote  discovered  a  man  on  horseback, 
who  had  on  his  head  something  which  glit- 
tered as  if  it  had  been  of  gold;  and  scarcely 
had  he  seen  it  when,  turning  to  Sancho,  he 
said,  "  I  am  of  opinion  there  is  no  proverb 
but  Avhat  is  true,  because  they  are  all  sen- 
tences drawing  from  experience  itself,  the- 
mother  of  all  the  sciences;  especially  that 
which  says, '  Where  one  door  is  shut  .another 
is  opened.'  I  say  this  because,  if  fortune 
last  night  shut  the  door  against  what  we 
sought,  deceiving  us  with  the  fulling-mills, 
it  now  opens  wide  another,  for  a  better  and 
more  certain  adventure  ;  in  which,  if  I  am 
deceived,  the  fault  will  be  mine,  without 
imputing  it  to  my  ignorance  of  fulling-mill* 
or  to  the  darkness  of  night.  This  I  say  be- 
cause, if  I  mistake  not,  there  comes  one  to- 
wards us  who  carries  on  his  head  Mambrino's 
helmet,  concerning  which  thou  mayest  re- 
member I  swore  the  oath."  "  Take  care,  sir, 
what  you  say,  and  more  what  you  do,"  said 
Sancho ;  "  for  I  would  not  wish  for  other 
fulling-mills,  to  finish  the  milling  and  mash- 
ing our  senses."  "  The  devil  take  thee  !"  re- 
plied Don  Quixote:  "what  has  a  helmet  to 
do  with  fulling-mills?"  "  I  know  not,"  an- 
swered Sancho,  ''but  in  faith,  if  I  might 


34 


SIR    WALTER  RALEIGH. 


talk  as  much  as  I  used  to  do,  perhaps  I 
could  give  such  reasons  that  your  worship 
would  see  you  are  mistaken  in  what  you 
Bay."  "  How  can  I  be  mistaken  in  what  I 
say,  scrupulous  traitor?"  said  Don  Quixote. 
"  Tell  me,  seest  thou  not  yon  knight  coming 
towards  us  on  a  dapple-gray  steed,  with  a 
helmet  of  gold  on  his  head?"  "  What  I  see 
and  perceive,"  answered  Sancho,  "is  only  a 
man  on  a  gray  ass  like  mine,  with  something 
on  his  head  that  glitters."  "  Why,  that  is 
Mambrino's  helmet,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  "  re- 
tire, and  leave  me  alone  to  deal  with  him, 
and  thou  shalt  see  how,  in  order  to  save 
time,  I  shall  conclude  this  adventure  with- 
out speaking  a  word,  and  the  helmet  I  have 
so  much  desired  remain  my  own."  "  I  shall 
take  care  to  get  out  of  the  way,"  replied 
Sancho  ;  "  but  Heaven  grant,  I  say  again,  it 
may  not  prove  another  fulling-mill  adven- 
ture." "I  have  already  told  thee,  Sancho, 
not  to  mention  those  fulling-mills,  nor  even 
think  of  them,"  said  Don  Quixote:  "if  thou 
dost,  I  say  no  more,  but  I  vow  to  mill  thy 
soul  for  thee  !"  Sancho  held  his  peace,  fear- 
ing lest  his  master  should  perform  his  vow, 
which  had  struck  him  all  of  a  heap. 

Now  the  truth  of  the  matter  concerning 
the  helmet,  the  steed,  and  the  knight  which 
Don  Quixote  saw,  was  this.  There  were 
two  villages  in  that  neighbourhood,  one  of 
them  so  small  that  it  had  neither  shop  nor 
barber,  but  the  other  adjoining  to  it  had 
both ;  therefore  the  barber  of  the  larger 
served  also  the  less,  wherein  one  customer 
now  wanted  to  be  let  blood,  and  another  to 
be  shaved  ;  to  perform  which  the  barber  was 
now  on  his  way,  carrying  with  him  his  brass 
basin  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  while  upon 
the  road  it  began  to  rain,  and  to  save  his  hat, 
which  was  a  new  one,  he  clapped  the  basin 
on  his  head,  which  being  lately  scoured  was 
eeen  glittering  at  the  distance  of  half  a 
league ;  and  he  rode  on  a  gray  ass,  as  San- 
eho  had  affirmed.  Thus  Don  Quixote  took 
the  barber  for  a  knight,  his  ass  for  a  dapple- 
gray  steed,  and  his  basin  for  a  golden  helmet ; 
for  whatever  he  saw  was  quickly  adapted  to 
his  knightly  extravagances ;  and  when  the 
poor  knight  drew  near,  without  staying  to 
reason  the  case  with  him,  he  advanced  at 
Ilozinante's  best  speed,  and  couched  his 
lance,  intending  to  run  him  through  and 
through  :  but,  when  close  upon  him,  with- 
out checking  the  fury  of  his  career,  he  cried 
out,  "  Defend  thyself,  caitiff!  or  instantly 
surrender  what  is  justly  my  due."  The 
barber,  so  unexpectedly  seeing  this  phan- 
tom advancing  upon  him,  had  no  other  way 
to  avoid  the  thrust  of  the  lance  than  to  slip 
down  from  the  ass ;  and  no  sooner  had  he 
touched  the  ground  than,  leaping  up  nimbler 
than  a  roebuck,  he  scampered  over  the  plain 


with  such  speed  that  the  wind  could  not 
overtake  him. 

The  basin  he  left  on  the  ground :  with 
which  Don  Quixote  was  satisfied,  observing 
that  the  pagan  had  acted  discreetly,  and  in 
imitation  of  the  beaver,  which,  when  closely 
pursued  by  the  hunters,  tears  off  with  his 
teeth  that  which  it  knows  by  instinct  to  be 
the  object  of  pursuit.  He  ordered  Sancho 
to  take  up  the  helmet ;  who,  holding  it  in 
his  hand,  said,  "  Before  Heaven,  the  basin  is 
a  special  one,  and  is  well  worth  a  piece  of 
eight,  if  it  is  worth  a  farthing."  lie  then 
gave  it  to  his  master,  who  immediately 
placed  it  upon  his  head,  turning  it  round  in 
search  of  the  vizor;  but  not  finding  it,  he 
said,  "  Doubtless  the  pagan  for  whom  this 
famous  helmet  was  originally  forged  must 
have  had  a  prodigious  head, — the  worst  of 
it  is  that  one  half  is  wanting."  When  San- 
cho heard  the  basin  called  a  helmet,  he  could 
not  forbear  laughing;  which,  however,  he 
instantly  checked  on  recollecting  his  mas- 
ter's late  choler.  "  What  dost  thou  laugh  at, 
Sancho?"  said  Don  Quixote.  "I  am  laugh- 
ing," answered  he,  "  to  think  what  a  huge 
head  the  pagan  had  who  owned  that  helmet, 
which  is  for  all  the  world  just  like  a  bar- 
ber's basin."  "  Knowest  thou,  Sancho,  what 
I  conceive  to  be  the  case?  This  famous  piece, 
this  enchanted  helmet,  by  some  strange  acci- 
dent must  have  fallen  into  the  possession  of 
one  who,  ignorant  of  its  true  value  as  a  hel- 
met, and  seeing  it  to  be  of  the  purest  gold, 
hath  inconsiderately  melted  down  the  one 
half  for  lucre's  sake,  and  of  the  other  made 
this,  which,  as  thou  sayest,  doth  indeed  look 
like  a  barber's  basin  ;  but  to  me,  who  know 
what  it  really  is,  its  transformation  is  of  no 
importance,  for  I  will  have  it  so  repaired  in 
the  first  town  where  there  is  a  smith,  that  it 
shall  not  be  surpassed  nor  even  equalled  by 
that  which  the  god  of  smiths  himself  made 
and  forged  for  the  god  of  battles.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  will  wear  it  as  I  best  can,  for 
something  is  better  than  nothing;  and  it  will 
be  sufficient  to  defend  me  from  stones." 
u  It  will  so,"  said  Sancho,  "if  they  do  not 
throw  them  with  slings,  as  they  did  in  the 
battle  of  the  two  armies." 

Adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  Jarvis''s  Trans- 
lation, Book  III.  Chapter  XXI. 


SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH, 

a  distinguished  navigator  and  author,  was 
born  at  Hayes,  Devonshire,  1552,  and  was 
executed  for  alleged  treason  in  1618. 

"There  is  no  object  in  human  pursuits  which 
the  genius  of  Raleigh  did  not  embrace.  What 
science  was  that  unwearying  mind  not  buried  in  ? 
What  arts  of  hoar  antiquity  did  he  not  love  to 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGIL 


35 


peek  ?  What  sense  of  the  beautiful  ever  passed 
transient^7  over  his  spirit?  His  books  and  his 
pictures  ever  accompanied  him  in  his  voyages. 
Even  in  the  short  hour  before  his  last  morning  is 
he  not  still  before  us,  while  his  midnight  pen 
traces  his  mortuary  verse,  perpetuating  the  emo- 
tions of  the  sage,  and  of  the  hero  who  could  not 
fear  death  ?" — DISRAKU  :  Amenities  of  Lit.  :  Psy- 
cliolof/ical  Hist,  of  Rnwleiyh. 

"  Raleigh,  the  soldier,  the  sailor,  the  scholar, 
the  courtier,  the  orator,  the  poet,  the  historian, 
the  philosopher;  whom  we  picture  to  ourselves 
sometimes  reviewing  the  Queen's  guards,  some- 
times giving  chase  to  a  Spanish  galleon,  then 
answering  the  chiefs  of  the  country  party  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  then  again  murmuring  one  of 
his  sweet  love-songs  too  near  the  ears  of  her 
Highness's  maids  of  honour,  and  soon  after  por- 
ing over  the  Talmud,  or  collating  Polybius  with 
Livy." — LORD  MACAULAY:  Sm-leii/h  and  His 
Ti'me/i,  Edin.  Rev.,  Apr!!,  1832,  and  in  his  works, 
complete,  1866,  8  vols.  Svo,  v.  611. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  TO  PRINCE  HENRY, 
Sox  OF  JAMES  I. 

May  it  please  your  highness, 

The  following  lines  are  addressed' to  your 
highness  from  a  man  who  values  his  liberty, 
and  a  very  small  fortune  in  a  remote  part 
of  this  island,  under  the  present  constitu- 
tion, above  all  the  riches  and  honours  that 
he  could  anywhere  enjoy  under  any  other 
establishment. 

You  see,  sir,  the  doctrines  that  are  lately 
come  into  the  world,  and  how  far  the  phrase 
has  obtained  of  calling  your  royal  father 
God's  vicegerent ;  which  ill  men  have  turned 
both  to  the  dishonour  of  God  and  the  im- 
peachment of  his  majesty's  goodness.  They 
adjoin  vicegerency  to  the  idea  of  being  all- 

fowerful,  and  not  to  that  of  being  all-good. 
[is  majesty's  wisdom,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  will 
save  him  from  the  snare  that  may  lie  under 
gross  adulations:  but  your  youth,  and  the 
thirst  of  praise  which  I  have  observed  in 
you,  may  possibly  mislead  you  to  hearken 
to  these  charmers,  who  would  conduct  your 
noble  nature  into  tyranny.  Be  careful,  0 
my  prince!  Hear  them  not;  fly  from  their 
deceit :  you  are  in  the  succession  to  a  throne, 
from  whence  no  evil  can  be  imputed  to  you, 
but  all  good  must  be  conveyed  from  you. 
Your  father  is  called  the  vicegerent  of 
Heaven  :  while  he  is  good,  he  is  the  viceger- 
ent of  Heaven.  Shall  man  have  authority 
from  the  fountain  of  good  to  do  evil?  No, 
my  prince;  let  mean  and  degenerate  spirits, 
•which  want  benevolence,  suppose  your  power 
impaired  by  a  disability  of  doing  injuries. 
If  want  of  power  to  do  ill  be  an  incapacity 
in  a  prince,  with  reverence  be  it  spoken,  it 
is  an  incapacity  he  has  in  common  with  the 
Deity.  Let  me  not  doubt  but  all  pleas 
which  do  not  carry  in  them  the  mutual  hap- 
piness of  prince  and  people  will  appear  as 
absurd  to  your  great  understanding  as  dis- 


agreeable to  your  noble  nature.  Exert 
yourself,  0  generous  prince,  against  such 
sycophants,  in  the  glorious  cause  of  liberty  ; 
and  assume  such  an  ambition  worthy  of 
you,  to  secure  your  fellow-creatures  from 
slavery  ;  from  a  condition  as  much  below 
that  of  brutes  as  to  act  without  reason  is 
less  miserable  than  to  act  against  it.  Pre- 
serve to  your  future  subjects  the  divine 
right  of  free  agents;  and  to  your  own  royal 
house  the  divine  right  of  being  their  bene- 
factors. Believe  me.  my  prince,  there  is  no 
other  right  can  flow  from  God.  While  your 
highness  is  forming  yourself  for  a  throne, 
consider  the  laws  as  so  many  common-places 
in  your  study  of  the  science  of  government ; 
when  you  mean  nothing  but  justice  they 
are  an  ease  and  help  to  you.  This  way 
of  thinking  is  what  gave  men  the  glorious 
appellation  of  deliverers  and  fathers  of  their 
country;  this  made  the  sight  of  them  rouse 
their  beholders  into  acclamations,  and  man- 
kind incapable  of  bearing  their  very  appear- 
ance without  applauding  it  as  a  benefit. 
Consider  the  inexpressible  advantages  which 
will  ever  attend  your  highness  while  you 
make  the  power  of  rendering  men  happy 
the  measure  of  your  actions  !  While  this  is 
your  impulse,  how  easily  will  that  power  be 
extended  !  The  glance  of  your  eye  will  give 
gladness,  and  your  very  sentence  have  a 
fo/ce  of  beauty.  Whatever  some  men  would 
insinuate,  you  have  lost  your  subjects  when 
you  have  lost  their  inclinations.  You  are 
to  preside  over  the  minds  not  the  bodies  of 
men  ;  the  soul  is  the  essence  of  the  man,  and 
you  ca,nnot  have  the  true  man  against  his 
inclinations.  Choose  therefore  to  be  the 
king  or  the  conqueror  of  your  people:  it 
may  be  submission,  but  it  cannot  be  obedi- 
ence, that  is  passive. 
London,  Aug.  12,  1611. 

RALEIGH'S  THREE  RULES  TO  BE  OBSERVED  FOR 
THE  PRESERVATION  OF  A  MAN'S  ESTATE. 
Amongst  all  other  things  of  the  world 
take  care  of  thy  estate,  which  thou  shalt 
ever  preserve  if  thou  observe  three  things  : 
first,  that  thou  know  what  thou  hast,  what 
every  thing  is  worth  that  thou  hast,  and  to 
see  that  thou  art  not  wasted  by  thy  servants 
and  officers.  The  second  is,  that  thou  never 
spend  anything  before  thou  have  it ;  for  bor- 
rowing is  the  canker  and  death  of  every 
man's  estate.  The  third  is,  that  thou  suffer 
not  thyself  to  be  wounded  for  other  men's 
faults,  and  scourged  for  other  men's  offences  ; 
which  is  the  surety  for  another,  for  thereby 
millions  of  men  have  been  beggared  and 
destroyed,  paying  the  reckoning  of  other 
men's  riot  and  the  charge  of  other  men's 
folly  and  prodigality  ;  if  thou  smart,  smart 
for  thine  own  sins;  and,  above  all  things,  be 


36 


RICHARD  HOOKER. 


not  made  an  ass  to  carry  the  burdens  of  other 
men  :  if  any  friend  desire  thee  to  be  his 
surety,  give  him  a  part  of  what  thou  hast  to 
spare  ;  if  he  press  thee  farther,  he  is  not  thy 
friend  at  all,  for  friendship  rather  chooseth 
harm  to  itself  than  offereth  it.  If  thou 
be  bound  for  a  stranger,  thou  art  a  fool ;  if 
for  a  merchant,  thou  puttest  thy  estate  to 
learn  to  swim ;  if  for  a  churchman,  he  hath 
no  inheritance  ;  if  for  a  lawyer,  he  will  find 
an  invasion  by  a  syllable  or  a  word  to  abuse 
thee;  if  for  a  poor  man,  thou  must  pay  it 
thyself;  if  for  a  rich  man,  he  needs  not; 
therefore  from  suretyship,  as  from  a  man 
slayer  or  enchanter,  bless  thyself;  for  the 
best  profit  and  return  will  be  this,  that  if 
thou  force  him  for  whom  thou  art  bound  to 
pay  it  himself,  he  will  become  thy  enemy  ; 
if  thou  use  to  pay  it  thyself,  thou  wilt  be  a 
beggar  ;  and  believe  thy  father  in  this,  and 
print  it  in  thy  thought,  that  what  virtue  so- 
ever thou  hast,  be  it  never  so  manifold,  if 
thou  be  poor  withal,  thou  and  thy  qualities 
shall  be  despised.  Besides,  poverty  is  oft- 
times  sent  as  a  curse  of  God  ;  it  is  a  shame 
amongst  men,  an  imprisonment  of  the  mind, 
a  vexation  of  every  worthy  spirit ;  thou  shalt 
neither  help  thyself  nor  others  ;  thou  shalt 
drown  thee  in  all  thy  virtues,  having  no 
means  to  show  them  ;  thou  shalt  be  a  burden 
and  an  eyesore  to  thy  friends,  every  man 
will  fear  thy  company  ;  thou  shalt  be  driven 
basely  to  beg  and  depend  on  others,  to  flat- 
ter unworthy  men,  to  make  dishonest  shifts  ; 
and,  to  conclude,  poverty  provokes  a  man  to 
do  infamous  and  detested  deeds  ;  let  no  van- 
ity, therefore,  or  persuasion,  draw  thee  to 
that  worst  of  worldly  miseries. 

If  thou  be  rich,  it  will  give  thee  plesvuire 
in  health,  comfort  in  sickness,  keep  thy  mind 
and  body  free,  save  thee  from  many  perils, 
relieve  thee  in  thy  elder  years,  relieve  the 
poor  and  thy  honest  friends,  and  give  means 
to  thy  posterity  to  live  and  defend  themselves 
and  thine  own  fame.  Where  it  is  said  in  the 
Proverbs,  "  That  he  shall  be  sore  vexed  that 
is  surety  for  a  stranger,  and  he  that  hateth 
suretyship  is  sure  ;"  it  is  further  said,  "  The 
poor  is  hated  even  of  his  own  neighbour,  but 
the  rich  have  many  friends."  Lend  not  to 
him  that  is  mightier  than  thyself,  for  if  thou 
lendest  him.  count  it  but  lost;  be  not  surety 
above  thy  power,  for  if  thou  be  surety,  think 
to  pay  it. 

RICHARD    HOOKER, 

born  in  or  about  1553,  died  1600.  Works, 
arranged  by  the  Rev.  John  Keble,  Lond., 
1830.  4  vols.  8vo;  airain,  1841,  3  vols.  8vo  ; 
3d  edit.,  Oxf.,  1845/3  vols.  8vo. 

"The  finest  as  well  as  the  most  philosophical 
writer  of  the  Elizabeth  period  is  llooker.  The 


first  book  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  at  this  day 
one  of  the  master-pieces  of  English  eloquence. 
His  periods,  indeed,  are  generally  much  too  long 
and  too  intricate,  but  portions  of  them  are  often 
beautifully  rhythmical;  his  language  is  rich  in 
English  idiom  without  vulgarity,  and  in  words  of 
a  Latin  source  without  pedantry  ;  he  is  more  uni- 
formly solemn  than  the  usage  of  later  times  per- 
mits, or  even  than  writers  of  that  time,  such  as 
Bacon,  conversant  with  mankind  as  well  as  books, 
would  have  reckoned  necessary  :  but  the  example 
of  ancient  orators  and  philosophers,  upon  themes 
so  grave  as  those  which  he  discusses,  may  justify 
the  serious  dignity  from  which  he  does  not  depart. 
Hooker  is  perhaps  the  first  of  such  in  England 
who  adorned  his  prose  with  the  images  of  poetry; 
but  this  he  has  done  more  judiciously  and  with 
more  moderation  than  others  of  great  name;  and 
we  must  be  bigot  in  Attic  severity  before  we  can 
object  to  some  of  his  grand  figures  of  speech. 
We  may  praise  him  also  for  avoiding  the  super- 
fluous luxury  of  quotations; — a  rock  on  which  the 
writers  of  the  succeeding  age  were  so  frequently 
wrecked." — HALLAM:  Jutiuduction  to  Lit.  of 
Europe,  ed.  1854,  ii.  198. 

SCRIPTURE  AND  THE  LAW  OF  NATURE. 

What  the  Scripture  purposeth,  the  same 
in  all  points  it  doth  perform.  Ilowbeit.  that 
here  we  swerve  not  in  judgment,  one  thing 
especially  we  must  observe :  namely,  that 
the  absolute  perfection  of  Scripture  is  seen 
by  relation  unto  that  end  whereto  it  temleth. 
And  even  hereby  it  coineth  to  pass  that, 
first,  such  as  imagine  the  general  and  main 
drift  of  the  main  body  of  sacred  Scripture 
not  to  be  so  large  as  it  is,  nor  that  God  did 
thereby  intend  to  deliver,  as  in  truth  he 
doth,  a  full  instruction  in  all  things  unto 
salvation  necessary,  the  knowledge  whereof 
man  by  nature  could  not  otherwise  in  this 
life  attain  unto ;  they  are  by  this  very  menn 
induced,  either  still  to  look  for  new  revela- 
tions from  heaven,  or  else  dangerously  to 
add  to  the  word  of  God  uncertain  tradition, 
that  so  the  doctrine  of  man:s  salvation  may 
be  complete;  which  doctrine  we  constantly 
hold  in  all  respects,  without  any  such  things 
added,  to  be  so  complete,  that  we  utterly  re- 
fuse as  much  as  once  to  acquaint  ourselves 
with  anything  further.  Whatsoever,  to 
make  up  the  doctrine  of  man's  salvation, 
is  added  as  in  supply  of  the  Scripture's  in- 
sufficiency, we  reject  it ;  Scripture  purposing 
this,  hath  perfectly  and  fully  done  it.  Again, 
the  scope  and  purpose  of  God  in  delivering 
the  holy  Scripture,  such  as  do  take  more 
largely  than  behoveth,  they,  on  the  contrary, 
side-racking  and  stretching  it  further  than 
by  him  was  meant,  are  drawn  into  sundry 
as  great  inconveniences.  They  pretending 
the  Scripture's  perfection,  infer  thereupon, 
that  in  Scripture  all  things  lawful  to  be 
done  must  needs  be  contained.  We  count 
those  things  perfect  which  want  nothing 
requisite  for  the  end  whereto  they  were  in- 


PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


37 


stituted.  As,  therefore,  G,><1  created  every 
part  and  particle  of  man  exactly  perfect — 
that  is  to  say.  in  all  points  sufficient  unto 
that  use  for  which  he  appointed  it — so  the 
Scripture,  yea,  every  sentence  thereof,  is 
perfect,  and  \vanteth  nothing  requisite  unto 
that  purpose  for  which  God  delivered  the 
same.  So  that  if  hereupon  we  conclude, 
that  hecause  the  Scripture  is  perfect,  there- 
fore all  things  lawful  t;>  be  done  are  com- 
prehended in  the  Scripture:  we  may  even 
as  well  conclude  s'>  of  every  sentence,  as  of 
the  whole  sum  arid  body  thereof,  unless  we 
first  of  all  prove  that  it  was  the  drift,  scope, 
ami  purpose  of  Almighty  God  in  holy  Scrip- 
ture to  comprise  all  things  which  man  may 
practise.  But  admit  this,  and  mark,  I  be- 
seech you,  what  would  follow.  God,  in 
delivering  Scripture  to  his  church,  should 
clean  have  abrogated  among  them  the  Law 
of  Nature,  which  is  an  infallible  knowledge 
imprinted  in  the  minds  of  all  the  children 
of  men,  whereby  both  general  principles  for 
directing  of  human  actions  are  compre- 
hended, and  conclusions  derived  from  them  ; 
upon  which  conclusions  groweth  in  particu- 
larity the  choice  of  good  and  evil  in  the 
daily  affairs  of  this  life.  Admit  this,  and 
•what  shall  the  Scripture  be  but  a  snare  and 
a  torment  to  weak  consciences,  filling  them 
with  infinite  perplexities,  scrupulosities, 
doubts  insoluble,  .and  extreme  despairs? 
Not  that  the  Scripture  itself  doth  cause  any 
such  thing  (for  it  tendeth  to  the  clean  con- 
trary, and  the  fruit  thereof  is  resolute  as- 
surance and  certainty  in  that  it  teacheth)  ; 
but  the  necessities  of  this  life  urging  men 
to  do  that  which  the  light  of  nature,  com- 
mon discretion,  and  judgment  of  itself  di- 
recteth  them  unto ;  on  the  other  side  this 
doctrine  teaching  them  that  so  to  do  were  to 
sin  against  their  own  souls,  and  that  they 
put  forth  their  hands  to  iniquity,  whatsoever 
they  go  about,  and  have  not  first  the  sacred 
Scripture  of  God  for  direction  ;  how  can  it 
choose  but  bring  the  simple  a  thousand 
times  to  their  wit's  end;  how  can  it  choose 
but  vex  and  amaze  them?  Nor  in  every 
action  of  common  life,  to  find  out  some  sen- 
tence clearly  and  infallibly  setting  before 
our  eyes  what  we  ought  to  do  (seem  we  in 
Scripture  never  so  expert),  would  trouble  us 
more  than  we  are  aware.  In  weak  and 
tender  minds,  we  little  know  what  misery 
this  strict  opinion  would  breed,  besides  the 
stops  it  would  make  in  the  whole  course  of 
all  men's  lives  and  actions.  Make  all  things 
sin  which  we  do  by  direction  of  nature's 
light,  and  by  the  rule  of  common  discretion, 
without  thinking  at  all  upon  Scripture;  ad- 
mit this  position,  and  parents  shall  cause 
their  children  to  sin,  as  oft  as  they  cause 
them  to  do  anything  before  they  come  to 


years  of  capacity,  and  be  ripe  for  knowledge 
in  the  Scripture.  Admit  this,  and  it  shall 
not  be  with  masters  as  it  was  witli  him  in 
the  gospel ;  but  servants  being  commanded 
to  go,  shall  stand  still  till  they  have  their 
errand  warranted  unto  them  by  Scripture, 
which,  as  it  standeth  with  Christian  duty  in 
some  cases,  so  in  common  affairs  to  require 
it  were  most  unfit. 

The  Laics  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  Lond., 
Bookes  I'.-IV.  (1594),  fol. ;  Book  V.i 
1597,  fol. ;  Book  VI..  1618  ;  Bookes  VII., 
VIII.,  1618,  4to  ;  again,  Bookes  I.-VIII. 
(termed  The  Works),  Lond.,  1622,  fol. 

SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY, 

born  1554,  was  fatally  wounded  at  the  battle 
of  Zutphen,  September  22,  1586,  and  died  at 
Arnheim  on  the  17th  of  October  ensuing. 

As  a  writer  Sidney  is  best  known  by  the 
Countesse  of  Pembroke's  Arcadia,  Lond., 
1590,  4to,  a  romance,  and  An  Apologie  for 
Poetrie,  Lond.,  1595,  4to,  afterwards  en- 
titled The  Defence  of  Poetry,  and  The  De- 
fense of  Poesy. 

"  Sir  Philip  Sidney  is  a  writer  for  whom  I  can- 
not acquire  a  taste.  As  Mr.  Burke  said  he  '  could 
not  love  the  French  Republic,'  so  I  may  truly  say 
that  I  cannot  love  '  The  Countess  of  Pembroke's 
Arcadia,'  with  all  my  good  will  to  it.  ...  It  is  to 
me  one  of  the  great-st  monuments  of  the  abuse  of 
intellectual  power  on  record.  It  puts  one  in  mind 
of  the  court  dresses  and  preposterous  fashions  of 
the  time,  which  are  grown  obsolete  and  disgusting. 
It  is  not  romantic,  but  scholastic  ;  not  poetry,  but 
casuistry;  not  nature,  but  art,  ami  the  worst  sort 
of  art,  which  thinks  it  can  do  better  than  nature. 
Of  the  number  of  fine  things  that  are  constantly 
passing  through  the  author's  mind,  there  is  hardly 
one  th:it  he  has  not  contrived  to  spoil,  and  to 
spoil  purposely  and  maliciously,  in  order  to  ag- 
grandize our  idea  of  himself.  Out  of  five  hundred 
folio  pages,  there  are  hardly.  I  conceive,  half  a 
dozen  sentences  expressed  simply  and  directly, 
with  the  sincere  desire  to  convey  the  image  im- 
plied, and  without  a  systematic  interpolation  of  the 
wit,  learning,  ingenuity,  wisdom,  and  everlasting 
impertinence  of  the  writer,  so  as  to  disguise  the 
objeat,  instead  of  displaying  it  in  its  true  colours 
and  real  proportions." — HAXLITT:  Lectn.  on  the 
Dramat.  Art  of  the  Aye  of  Elizabeth,  Lect.  V. 

Horace  AValpole  also  thought  Sidney  vastly 
overrated ;  but  Dr.  Zouch,  Peter  Ileylin,  Isaac 
Disraeli,  Ilallam,  Dr.  Drake,  and  others, 
have  much  to  say  in  his  favour.  As  a  speci- 
men of  Sidney's  style,  we  shall  present  an 
extract  from  a  very  long  letter,  which  does 
great  credit  to  his  good  judgment,  honesty, 
and  courage. 

SlR    PHILIP    SlDNET    TO    QuEEN    ELIZABETH, 

ANNO  15SD,  PERSUADING  HER  NOT  TO 

MARRY    WITH    THE    DUKE    OF    ANJOU. 

Most  feared  and  beloved,  most  sweet  and 
gracious  sovereign  :  To  seek  out  excuses  of 


38 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


this  my  boldness,  and  to  arm  the  acknowl- 
edging of  a  fault  with  reasons  for  it,  might 
better  show  I  knew  I  did  amiss,  than  any 
•way  diminish  the  attempt,  especially  in  your 
judgment ;  who  being  able  to  discern  lively 
into  the  nature  of  the  thing  done,  it  were 
folly  to  hope,  by  laying  on  better  colours,  to 
make  it  more  acceptable. 

Therefore  carrying  no  other  olive  branch 
of  intercession  than  the  laying  myself  at 
your  feet,  nor  no  other  insinuation,  either 
for  attention  or  pardon,  but  the  true  vowed 
sacrifice  of  unfeigned  love,  I  will  in  simple 
and  direct  terms  (as  hoping  they  shall  only 
come  to  your  merciful  eyes)  set  down  the 
overflowing  of  my  mind  in  this  most  impor- 
tant matter,  importing,  as  I  think,  the  con- 
tinuance of  your  safety  :  and,  as  I  know,  the 
joys  of  my  life.  And  because  my  words  (I 
confess  shallow,  but  coining  from  the  deep 
well-spring  of  most  loyal  affection)  have  de- 
livered to  your  most  gracious  ear  what  is 
the  general  sum  of  my  travailing  thoughts 
therein  ;  I  will  now  but  only  declare  what 
be  the  reasons  that  make  me  think  that  the 
marriage  with  Monsieur  will  be  unprofitable 
unto  you  ;  then  will  I  answer  the  objection 
of  those  fears  which  might  procure  so  violent 
a  refuge. 

The  good  or  evil  that  will  come  by  it  must 
be  considered  either  according  to  your  estate 
or  person.  To  your  estate  what  can  be  added 
to  the  being  an  absolute  born  and  accord- 
ingly respected  princess?  But,  as  they  say 
the  Irishmen  are  wont  to  call  over  them  that 
die,  they  are  rich,  they  are  fair,  what  needed 
they  to  die  so  cruelly  ?  not  unfitly  of  you,  en- 
dowed with  felicity  above  all  others,  a  man 
might  well  ask,  What  makes  you  in  such  a 
calm  to  change  course  ;  to  so  healthful  a  body 
to  apply  so  unsavoury  a  medicine  ?  What  can 
recompense  so  hazardous  an  adventure?  In- 
deed, were  it  but  the  altering  of  a  well- 
maintained  and  well-approved  trade;  for,  as 
in  bodies  natural  every  sudden  change  is  full 
of  peril,  so  in  this  body  politic,  whereof  you 
are  the  only  head,  it  is  so  much  the  more 
dangerous,  as  there  are  more  humours  to  re- 
ceive a  hurtful  impression.  But  hazards  are 
then  most  to  be  regarded  when  the  nature  of 
the  patient  is  fitly  composed  to  occasion  them. 

The  patient  I  account  your  realm  ;  the 
agent  Monsieur  and  his  design  ;  for  neither 
outward  accidents  do  much  prevail  against 
a  true  inward  strength  ;  nor  doth  inward 
weakness  lightly  subvert  itself,  without 
being  thrust  at  by  some  outward  force. 

Your  inward  force  (for  as  for  your  treas- 
ures indeed,  the  sinews  of  your  crovrn.  your 
majesty  doth  best  and  only  know)  consisteth 
in  your  subjects,  generally  unexpert  in  war- 
like defence  ;  and  as  they  are  divided  now 
into  mighty  factions  (and  factions  bound  in 


the  never-dying  knot  of  religion).  The  one 
of  them,  to  whom  your  l.appy  government 
hath  granted  the  free  exercise  of  the  ex- 
ternal truth  ;  with  this,  by  the  continuance 
of  time,  by  the  multitude  of  them  ;  by  the 
principal  offices  and  strength  they  hold  ;  and 
lastly,  by  your  dealings  both  at  home  and 
abroad  against  the  adverse  party ;  your  state 
is  so  entrapped,  as  it  were  impossible  for 
you,  without  excessive  trouble,  to  pull  your- 
self out  of  the  party  so  long  maintained. 
For  such  a  course  once  taken  in  hand,  is  not 
much  unlike  a  ship  in  a  tempest,  which  how 
dangerously  soever  it  may  be  beaten  with 
waves,  yet  is  there  no  safety  or  succour  with- 
out it ;  these,  therefore,  .as  their  souls  live  by 
your  happy  government,  so  are  they  your 
chief  if  not  your  sole  strength;  these,  how- 
soever the  necessity  of  human  life  makes 
them  lack,  yet  can  they  not  look  for  better 
conditions  than  presently  they  enjoy  ;  these, 
how  their  hearts  will  be  galled,  if  not 
aliened,  when  they  shall  see  you  take  a  hus- 
band, a  Frenchman  and  a  Papist,  in  whom 
(howsoever  fine  wits  may  find  further  deal- 
ings or  painted  excuses)  the  very  common 
people  well  know  this,  that  he  is  the  son  of 
a  Jezebel  of  our  age;  that  his  brother  made 
oblation  of  his  own  sister's  marriage,  the 
easier  to  make  massacres  of  our  brethren  in 
belief;  that  he  himself,  contrary  to  his  prom- 
ise, and  all  gratefulness,  having  his  liberty 
and  principal  estate  by  the  Huguenots' 
means,  did  sack  Zacharists,  and  utterly  spoil 
them  with  fire  and  sword.  This  1  say,  even 
at  first  sight,  gives  occasion  to  all,  truly  re- 
ligious, to  abhor  such  u  master,  and  con- 
sequently to  diminish  much  of  the  hopeful 
love  they  have  long  held  to  you. 

The  other  faction,  most  rightly  indeed  to 
be  called. a  faction,  is  the  Papists;  men 
whose  spirits  are  full  of  anguish,  some 
being  infested  by  others,  whom  they  ac- 
counted damnable;  some  having  their  am- 
bition stopped,  because  they  are  not  in  the 
way  of  advancement :  some  in  prison  and 
disgrace  ;  some  whose  best  friends  are  ban- 
ished practisers;  many  thinking  you  an 
usurper;  many  thinking  also  you  had  dis- 
annulled your  right,  because  of  the  Pope's 
excommunication;  all  burthened  with  the 
weight  of  their  conscience ;  men  of  great 
numbers,  of  great  riches  (because  the  afliiirs 
of  state  have  not  lain  on  them),  of  united 
minds  (as  all  men  that  deem  themselves  op- 
pressed naturally  are);  with  these  I  would 
willingly  join  all  discontented  persons,  such 
as  want  and  disgrace  keep  lower  than  they 
have  set  their  hearts  ;  such  as  have  resolved 
what  to  look  for  at  your  hands  ;  such  aa 
Caesar  said,  Quibns  opus  est  bello  civili,  and 
are  of  his  mind,  malo  in  acie,  quam  in  fore 
cadere. 


FRANCIS  BACON. 


39 


FRANCIS    BACON, 

born  in  London,  1561,  was  created  Lord 
High  Chancellor  of  England  and  Baron 
Verulam,  1619;  Viscount  of  St.  Alban's, 
1620,  and  died  in  1626.  The  work  by  which 
Bacon  is  best  known  to  the  general  reader 
is  entitled  Essayes :  lleligious  Meditations  : 
Places  of  Perswasion  and  Disswasion,  Lond., 
1597,  16mo  ;  frequently  reprinted,  with  addi- 
tions. 

"  The  first  in  time,  and,  we  may  justly  say,  the 
first  in  excellence,  of  English  writers  on  moral 
prudence,  are  the  Essays  of  Bacon.  .  .  .  The  tran- 
scendent strength  of  Bacon's  mind  is  visible  in  the 
whole  tenor  of  these  Essays,  unequal  as  they  must 
be  from  the  very  nature  of  such  compositions. 
They  are  deeper  and  more  discriminating  than 
any  earlier,  or  almost  any  later  work  in  the  Eng- 
lish language :  full  of  recondite  observations, 
long  matured,  and  carefully  sifted.  .  .  .  Few  books 
are  more  quoted,  and,  what  is  not  always  the  case 
with  such  books,  we  may  add,  that  few  are  more 
generally  read.  In  this  respect  they  lead  the  van 
of  our  prose  literature  ;  for  no  gentleman  is 
ashamed  of  owning  that  he  has  not  read  the 
Elizabethan  writers ;  but  it  would  be  somewhat 
derogatory  to  a  man  of  the  slightest  claim  to 
polite  letters  were  he  unacquainted  with  the  Es- 
says of  Bacon." — HALLAM:  Introdao.  to  Lit.  of 
Europe. 

ESSAY  X.     OF  LOVE. 

The  stage  is  more  beholding  to  love  than 
the  life  of  men;  for  as  to  the  stage,  love  is 
even  matter  of  comedies,  and  now  and  then 
of  tragedies;  but  in  life  it  doth  much  mis- 
chief; sometimes  like  a  siren,  sometimes 
like  a  fury.  You  may  observe  that  amongst 
all  the  great  and  worthy  persons  (whereof 
the  memory  remaineth,  either  ancient  or  re- 
cent) there  is  not  one  that  hath  been  trans- 
ported to  the  mad  degree  of  love,  which 
shows  that  great  spirits  and  great  business 
do  keep  out  this  weak  passion.  You  must 
except,  nevertheless,  Marcus  Antonius,  the 
half  partner  of  the  empire  of  Home,  and 
Appius  Claudius,  the  decemvir  and  law- 
giver; whereof  the  former  was  indeed  a  vo- 
luptuous man,  and  inordinate  ;  but  the  latter 
was  an  austere  and  wise  mar| ;  and  therefore 
it  seems  (though  rarely)  that  love  can  find 
entrance,  not  only  into  an  open  heart,  but 
also  into  a  heart  well  fortified,  if  watch  be 
not  well  kept.  It  is  a  poor  saying  of  Epi- 
curus, "  Satis  magnum  alter  alter!  theatrum 
sumus  ;"  as  if  man,  made  for  the  contempla- 
tion of  heaven,  and  all  noble  objects,  should 
do  nothing  but  kneel  before  a  little  idol,  and 
make  himself  a  subject,  though  not  of  the 
mouth  (as  beasts  are),  yet  of  the  eye,  which 
was  given  him  for  higher  purposes.  It  is  a 
strange  thing  to  note  the  excess  of  this  pas- 
sion, and  how  it  braves  the  nature  and  value 
of  things  by  this,  that  the  speaking  in  a 


perpetual  hyperbole  is  comely  in  nothing 
but  love  ;  neither  is  it  merely  in  the  phrase  ; 
for  whereas  it  hath  been  well  said,  "  That 
the  arch  flatterer,  with  whom  all  the  pretty 
flatterers  have  intelligence,  is  a  man's  self ;;) 
certainly  the  lover  is  more  ;  for  there  was 
never  a  proud  man  thought  so  absurdly  well 
of  himself  as  the  lover  doth  of  the  person 
loved  ;  and  therefore  it  was  well  said,  *'  That 
it  is  impossible  to  love  and  to  be  wise." 
Neither  doth  this  weakness  appear  to  others 
only,  and  not  to  the  party  loved,  but  to  the 
loved  most  of  all,  except  the  love  be  recip- 
rocal ;  for  it  is  a  true  rule,  that  love  is  ever 
rewarded,  either  with  the  reciprocal,  or  with 
an  inward  or  secret  contempt ;  by  how  much 
more  the  men  ought  to  beware  of  this  pas- 
sion, which  loseth  not  only  other  things,  but 
itself.  As  for  the  other  losses,  the  poet's  re- 
lation doth  well  figure  them  :  "  That  he  that 
preferred  Helena  quitted  the  gifts  of  Juno 
and  Pallas :"  for  whosoever  esteemeth  too 
much  of  amorous  affection  quitteth  both 
riches  and  wisdom.  This  passion  hath  its 
floods  in  the  very  times  of  weakness,  which 
are  great  prosperity  and  great  adversity, 
though  this  latter  hath  been  less  observed; 
both  which  times  kindle  love,  and  make  it 
more  fervent,  and  therefore  show  it  to  be 
the  child  of  folly.  They  do  best  who,  if 
they  cannot  but  admit  love,  yet  make  it  keep- 
quarter,  and  sever  it  wholly  from  their  seri- 
ous affairs  and  actions  of  life  ;  for  if  it  check 
once  with  business,  it  troubleth  men's  for- 
tunes, and  maketh  men  that  they  can  nc 
ways  be  true  to  their  own  ends.  I  knovi 
not  how,  but  martial  men  are  given  to  love: 
I  think  it  is  but  as  they  are  given  to  wine ; 
for  perils  commonly  ask  to  be  paid  in  pleas- 
ures. 

There  is  in  man's  nature  a  secret  inclina- 
tion and  motion  towards  love  of  others, 
which,  if  it  be  not  spent  upon  some  one  or 
a  few,  doth  naturally  spread  itself  towards 
many,  and  maketh  men  become  humane  and 
charitable,  as  it  is  seen  sometimes  in  friars. 
Nuptial  love  maketh  mankind  ;  friendly  love 
perfecteth  it;  but  wanton  love  corrupteth 
and  embasseth  it. 

ESSAY  XLIV.    OF  BEAUTY. 

Virtue  is  like  a  rich  stone,  best  plain  set; 
and  surely  virtue  is  best  in  a  body  that  is 
comely,  though  not  of  delicate  features  ;  and 
that  hath  rather  dignity  of  presence  than 
beauty  of  aspect:  neither  is  it  at  most  seen 
that  very  beautiful  persons  are  otherwise  of 
great  virtue  ;  as  if  nature  were  rather  busy 
not  to  err,  than  in  labour  to  produce  excel- 
lency ;  and  therefore  they  prove  accom- 
plished, but  not  of  great  spirit:  and  study 
rather  behaviour  than  virtue.  But  this 


40 


FRANCIS  BACON. 


holds  not  always:  for  Augustus  Caesar, 
Titus  Vespasianus,  Philip  le  Belle  of  France, 
Edward  the  Fourth  of  England,  Aloibiades 
of  Athens,  Ismael  the  sophy  of  Persia,  were 
all  high  and  great  spirits,  and  yet  the  most 
beautiful  men  of  their  times.  In  beauty, 
that  of  favour  is  more  than  that  of  colour; 
and  that  of  decent  and  gracious  motion 
more  than  that  of  favour.  That  is  the  best 
part  of  beauty  which  a  picture  cannot  ex- 
press ;  no,  nor  the  first  sight  of  life.  There 
is  no  excellent  beauty  that  hath  not  some 
strangeness  in  the  proportion.  A  man  can- 
not tell  whether  Apelles  or  Albert  Durer 
were  the  more  trifler ;  whereof  the  one 
•would  make  a  personage  by  geometrical 
proportions  :  the  other,  by  taking  the  best 
parts  out  of  divers  faces  to  make  one  ex- 
cellent. Such  personages,  I  think,  would 
please  nobody  but  the  painter  that  made 
them  :  not  but  I  think  a  painter  may  make 
a  better  face  than  ever  was;  but  he  must 
do  it  by  a  kind  of  felicity  (as  a  musician 
that  maketh  an  excellent  air  in  music),  and 
not  by  rule.  A  man  shall  see  faces  that, 
if  you  examine  them  part  by  part,  you  shall 
find  never  a  good  ;  and  yet  altogether  do 
well.  If  it  be  true  that  the  principal  part 
of  beauty  is  in  decent  motion,  certainly  it 
is  no  marvel,  though  persons  in  years  seem 
many  times  more  amiable  :  "  pulchrorum  au- 
tummis  pulcher;"  for  no  youth  can  be 
comely  but  by  pardon,  and  considering  the 
youth  as  to  make  up  the  comeliness.  Beauty 
is  as  summer  fruits,  which  are  easy  to  cor- 
rupt, and  cannot  last;  and  for  the  most  part 
it  makes  a  dissolute  youth,  and  an  age  a 
little  out  of  countenance  ;  but  yet  certainly 
again,  if  it  light  well,  it  maketh  virtues 
shine  and  vices  blush. 

ESSAY  LI.     OF  STUDIES. 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament, 
and  for  ability.  Their  chief  use  for  delight 
is  in  privateness  and  retiring:  for  ornament 
is  in  discourse;  and  for  ability  is  in  the 
judgment  and  disposition  of  business;  for 
expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge 
of  particulars,  one  by  one;  but  the  general 
counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshalling  of 
affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned. 
To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  sloth  ; 
to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament  is  .affecta- 
tion ;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by  their 
rules  is  the  humour  of  a  scholar:  they  per- 
fect nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience  : 
for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants, 
that  need  pruning  by  study ;  and  studies 
themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much 
at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  ex- 
perience. Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  sim- 
ple men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use 
them ;  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use ;  but 


that  is  a  wisdom  without  them,  and  above 
them  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  con- 
tradict and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take 
for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse, 
but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are 
to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and 
some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested:  that 
is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ; 
others  to  be  read,  but  not  curiously  ;  and 
some  few  are  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with 
diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also 
may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made 
of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be  only 
in  the  less  important  arguments,  and  the 
meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else  distilled  books 
are  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy 
things.  Reading  maketh  a  full  man;  con- 
ference a  ready  man  ;  and  writing  an  exact 
man  :  and  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he 
had  need  have  a  great  memory  ;  if  he  con- 
fer little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit; 
and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much 
cunning  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 
Histories  make  men  wise  ;  poets,  witty;  the 
mathematics,  subtile ;  natural  philosophy, 
deep  ;  moral,  grave  ;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able 
to  contend:  "Abeunt  studiain  mores;"  nay, 
there  is  no  stand  or  impediment  in  the  wit 
but  may  be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies:  like 
as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appropri- 
ate exercises  :  boAvling  is  good  for  the  stone 
and  reins,  shooting  for  the  lungs  and  breast, 
gentle  walking  for  the  stomach,  riding  for 
the  head,  and  the  like  :  so,  if  a  man's  wit  be 
wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathematics ; 
for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called 
away,  never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again  ; 
if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find 
differences,  let  him  study  the  schoolmen,  for 
they  are  "  Cymini  Sectores;"  if  he  be  not 
apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  upon 
one  tiling  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let 
him  study  the  lawyer's  cases  :  so  every  de- 
fect of  the  mind  may  have  a  special  receipt. 

In  The  Tatler,  No.  267,  December  23, 1710, 
Addison  remarks : 

"I  was  infinitely  pleased  to  find  among  the 
works  of  this  extraordinary  man  a  prayer  of  his 
own  composing,  which  for  the  elevation  of  thought, 
and  greatness  of  expression,  seem  rather  the  de- 
votion of  an  angel  than  of  a  man.  His  principal 
fault,  seems  to  have  been  the  excess  of  that  virtue 
which  covers  a  multitude  of  faults.  This  betrayed 
him  to  so  great  an  indulgence  towards  his  ser- 
vants, who  made  a  corrupt  use  of  it,  that  it 
stripped  him  of  all  those  riches  and  honours  which 
a  long  series  of  merits  had  heaped  upon  him.  But 
in  this  prayer,  at  the  same  time  that  we  find  him 
prostrating  himself  before  the  great  mercy-seat, 
and  humbled  under  afflictions  which  at  that  time 
lay  heavy  upon  him,  we  see  him  supported  by  the 
sense  of  his  integrity,  his  zeal,  his  devotion,  and 
his  love  to  mankind ;  which  give  him  a  much 
higher  figure  in  the  minds  of  thinking  men  than 


JAMES  VI.   OF  SCOTLAND    AND  I.   OF  ENGLAND. 


41 


that  greatness  had  done  from  which  he  was  fallen. 
I  shall  beg  leave  to  write  down  the  prayer  itself, 
with  the  title  to  it,  as  it  was  found  amongst  his 
lordship's  papers,  written  in  his  own  hand;  not 
being  able  to  furnish  my  readers  with  an  enter- 
tainment more  suitable  to  this  solemn  time." 

A  PRAYER,  OR   PSALM,    MADE   BY  MY  LORD 
BACO\,  CHANCELLOR  OF  ENGLAND. 

Most  gracious  Lord  God,  my  merciful 
Father;  from  my  youth  up  my  Creator,  my 
Redeemer,  my  Comforter !  Thou,  0  Lord, 
soundest  and  scarchest  the  depths  and  secrets 
of  all  hearts;  thou  acknowledges!  the  up- 
right of  heart;  thou  judgest  the  hypocrite; 
thou  ponderest  men's  thoughts  and  doings 
as  in  a  balance  ;  thou  measurest  their  inten- 
tions as  with  a  line  ;  vanity  and  crooked 
ways  cannot  be  hid  from  thee. 

Remember,  0  Lord !  how  thy  servant  hath 
walked  before  thee ;  remember  what  I  have 
first  sought,  and  what  hath  been  principal 
in  my  intentions.  I  have  loved  thy  assem- 
blies, I  have  mourned  for  the  divisions  of 
thy  church,  I  have  delighted  in  the  bright- 
ness of  thy  sanctuary. 

This  vine  which  thy  right  hand  hath 
planted  in  this  nation,  I  have  ever  prayed 
unto  thee  that  it  might  have  the  first  and 
the  latter  rain,  and  that  it  might  stretch  her 
branches  to  the  seas  and  to  the  floods.  The 
state  and  bread  of  the  poor  and  oppressed 
have  been  precious  in  mine  eyes;  I  liavo 
hated  all  cruelty  and  hardness  of  heart;  I 
have,  though  in  a  despised  weed,  procured 
the  good  of  all  men.  If  any  have  been  my 
enemies,  I  thought  not  of  them,  neither  hath 
the  sun  almost  set  upon  my  displeasure  ;  but 
I  have  been  as  a  dove,  free  from  superfluity 
of  maliciousness.  My  creatures  have  been 
my  books,  but  thy  Scriptures  much  more.  I 
have  sought  thee  in  the  courts,  fields,  and  gar- 
dens ;  but  I  have  found  thee  in  thy  temples. 

Thousands  have  been  my  sins  and  ten 
thousands  my  transgressions,  but  thy  sanc- 
tifications  have  remained  with  me,  and  my 
heart,  through  thy  grace,  hath  been  an  un- 
quenched  coal  up'm  thine  altar. 

0  Lord,  my  strength  !  I  have  since  my 
youth  met  with  thee  in  all  my  ways,  by  thy 
fatherly  compassions,  by  thy  comfortable 
chastisements,  and  by  thy  most  visible  prov- 
idence. As  thy  favours  have  increased  upon 
me,  so  have  thy  corrections :  so  as  thou  hast 
been  always  near  me,  0  Lord  !  and  ever  as 
my  worldly  blessings  were  exalted,  so  secret 
darts  from  thee  have  pierced  me;  and  when 
I  have  ascended  before  men,  I  have  descended 
in  humiliation  before  thee.  And  now,  when 
I  thought  most  of  peace  and  honour,  thy  hand 
is  heavy  upon  me.  and  hath  humbled  me 
according  to  thy  former  loving  kindness, 
keeping  me  still  in  thy  fatherly  school,  not 
as  a  bastard,  but  as  a  child. 


Just  are  thy  judgments  upon  me  for  my 
sins,  which  are  more  in  number  than  the 
sands  of  the  sea,  but  have  no  proportion  to 
thy  mercies  ;  for  what  are  the  sands  of  the 
seas?  Earth,  heaven,  and  all  these  are 
nothing  to  thy  mercies.  Besides  my  innu- 
merable sins,  I  confess  before  thee  that  I  am 
debtor  to  thee  for  the  gracious  talent  of  thy 
gifts  and  graces,  which  I  have  neither  put 
in  a  napkin,  nor  put  it,  as  I  ought,  to  ex- 
changers, where  it  might  have  made  best 
profit,  but  misspent  it  in  things  for  which  I 
was  least  fit:  so  I  may  truly  say,  my  soul 
hath  been  a  stranger  in  the  course  of  my 
pilgrimage.  Be  merciful  unto  me,  0  Lord, 
for  my  Saviour's  sake,  and  receive  me  unto 
thy  bosom,  or  guide  me  in  thy  ways. 


JAMES    VI.    OF    SCOTLAND 
AND    I.    OF"    ENGLAND, 

born  1566,  died  1625.  His  best  known  pub- 
lication is  Dgeiuonologie,  in  Forme  of  a  Dia- 
logue divided  into  three  Bookes,  Edin., 
1597,  4to. 

"One  remark  I  cannot  avoid  making:  the 
king's  speech  is  always  supposed  by  Parliament 
to  be  the  speech  of  the  minister:  how  cruel  would 
it  have  been  on  King  James's  ministers  if  that 
interpretation  had  prevailed  in  his  reign !  .  .  . 
Bishop  Montague  translated  all  his  majesty's 
works  into  Latin  ;  a  man  of  so  much  patiense  was 
well  worthy  of  favour."  —  HORACE  WALPOI.F,  : 
li'n/al  and  Noble  Authors,  Park's  ed.,  i.  115-116, 
120. 

ON  SORCERY  AND  WITCHCRAFT. 

The  fearful  abounding  at  this  time  in  this 
country  of  these  detestable  slaves  of  the  devil, 
the  witches  or  enchanters,  hath  moved  me 
(beloved  reader)  to  despatch  in  post  this 
following  treatise  of  mine,  not  in  any  wise, 
(as  I  protest)  to  serve  for  a  show  of  my 
learning  and  ingine,  but  only,  moved  of 
conscience,  to  press  thereby,  so  far  as  I  can, 
to  resolve  the  doubting  hearts  of  many  ;  both 
that  such  assaults  of  Sathan  are  most  cer- 
tainly practised,  and  that  the  instruments 
thereof  merits  most  severely  to  be  punished  : 
against  the  damnable  opinions  of  two  princi- 
pally in  our  age,  whereof  the  one  called 
Scot,  an  Englishman,  is  not  ashamed  ir 
public  print  to  deny  that  there  can  be  such 
a  thing  as  witchcraft;  and  so  maintains  the 
old  error  of  the  Sadducees  in  denying  of 
spirits.  The  other  called  Wierus,  a  German 
physician,  sets  out  a  public  apology  for  all 
these  crafts-folks,  whereby,  procuring  for 
their  impunity,  he  plainly  bewrays  himself 
to  have  been  one  of  that  profession.  And 
to  make  this  treatise  the  more  pleasant  and 
facile,  I  have  put  it  in  form  of  a  dialogue, 


42 


JOSEPH  HALL. 


which  I  have  divided  into  three  books :  the 
first  speaking  of  magic  in  general,  and  nec- 
romancy in  special ;  the  second,  of  sorcery 
and  witchcraft ;  and  the  third  contains  a 
discourse  of  all  these  kinds  of  spirits  and 
spectres  that  appears  and  troubles  persons  : 
together  with  a  conclusion  of  the  whole 
work.  My  intention  in  this  labour  is  only 
to  prove  two  things,  as  I  have  already  said  : 
the  one,  that  such  devilish  arts  have  been 
and  are ;  the  other,  what  exact  trial  and 
severe  punishment  they  merit :  and  therefore 
reason  I,  what  kind  of  things  are  possible  to 
be  performed  in  these  arts,  and  by  what 
natural  causes  they  may  be.  Not  that  I 
touch  every  particular  thing  of  the  devil's 
power,  for  that  were  infinite :  but  only  to 
speak  scholasticly  (since  this  cannot  be 
spoken  in  our  language),  I  reason  upon 
genus,  leaving  species  and  differentia  to  be 
comprehended  therein.  As,  for  example, 
speaking  of  the  power  of  magicians  in  the 
first  book  and  sixth  chapter,  I  say  that  they 
can  suddenly  cause  be  brought  unto  them 
all  kinds  of  dainty  dishes  by  their  familiar 
spirit;  since  as  a  thief  he  delights  to  steal, 
and  as  a  spirit  he  can  eubtilly  and  suddenly 
enough  transport  the  same.  Now  under 
this  genus  may  be  comprehended  all  particu- 
lars depending  thereupon ;  such  as  the 
bringing  wine  out  of  a  wall  (as  we  have 
heard  oft  to  have  been  practised)  and  such 
others;  which  particulars  are  sufficiently 
proved  by  the  reasons  of  the  general. 
Dcemonologie. 

How  WITCIIES  TRAVEL. 

Philomathes. — But  by  what  way  say  they, 
or  think  ye  it  possi  ble,  they  can  come  to  these 
unlawful  conventions? 

Epistemon. — There  is  the  thing  which  I 
esteem  their  senses  to  be  deluded  in,  and, 
though  they  lie  not  in  confessing  of  it,  be- 
cause they  think  it  to  be  true,  yet  not  to  be 
so  in  substance  or  effect,  for  they  say.  that 
by  divers  means  they  may  convene  either  to 
the  adoring  of  their  master  or  to  the  putting 
in  practice  any  service  of  his  committed  unto 
their  charge:  one  way  is  natural,  which  is 
natural  riding,  going,  or  sailing,  at  what 
hour  their  master  comes  and  advertises  them. 
And  this  way  may  be  easily  believed.  An- 
other way  is  somewhat  more  strange,  and 
yet  it  is  possible  to  be  true:  which  is  by 
being  carried  by  the  force  of  the  spirit  which 
is  their  conductor,  either  above  the  earth  or 
above  the  sea,  swiftly,  to  the  place  where 
they  are  to  meet ;  which  I  am  persuaded  to 
be  likewise  possible,  in  respect  that  as  Ha- 
bakkuk  was  carried  by  the  angel  in  that  form 
to  the  den  where  Daniel  lay,  so  think  I  the 
devil  will  be  ready  to  imitate  God,  as  well 
in  that  as  in  other  things ;  which  is  much 


more  possible  to  him  to  do,  being  a  spirit, 
than  to  a  mighty  wind,  being  but  a  natural 
meteor,  to  transport  from  one  place  to  an- 
other a  solid  body,  as  is  commonly  and  daily 
seen  in  practice.  But  in  this  violent  form 
they  cannot  be  carried  but  a  short  bounds, 
agreeing  with  the  space  that  they  may  re- 
tain their  breath  ;  for  if  it  were  longer,  their 
breath  could  not  remain  unextinguished, 
their  body  being  carried  in  such  a  violent 
and  forcible  manner,  as,  by  example,  if  one 
fall  off  a  small  height,  his  life  is  but  in  peril 
according  to  the  hard  or  soft  lighting  ;  but 
if  one  fall  from  a  high  and  stay  [steep]  rock, 
his  breath  will  be  forcibly  banished  from  the 
body  before  he  can  win  [get]  to  the  earth, 
as  is  oft  seen  by  experience.  And  in  this 
transporting  they  say  themselves  that  they 
are  invisible  to  any  other,  except  amongst 
themselves.  For  if  the  devil  may  form  what 
kind  of  impressions  he  pleases  in  the  air.  as 
I  have  said  before,  speaking  of  magic,  why 
may  he  not  far  easier  thicken  and  obscure 
so  the  air  that  is  next  about  them,  by  con- 
tracting it  strait  together,  that  the  beams  of 
any  other  man's  eyes  cannot  pierce  through 
the  same  to  see  them  ?  But  the  third  way 
of  their  coining  to  their  conventions  is  that 
wherein  I  think  them  deluded ;  for  some  of 
them  saith  that,  being  transformed  in  the 
likeness  of  a  little  beast  or  fowl,  they  will 
come  and  pierce  through  whatsoever  house 
or  church,  though  all  ordinary  passages  be 
closed,  by  whatsoever  open  the  air  may  enter 
in  at.  And  some  saith  that  their  bodies  lying 
still,  as  in  an  ecstacy,  their  spirits  will  be 
ravished  out  of  their  bodies  and  carried  to 
such  places  ;  and  for  verifying  thereof  will 
give  evident  tokens,  as  well  by  witnesses  that 
have  se<sn  their  body  lying  senseless  in  the 
mean  time,  as  by  naming  persons  whom  with 
they  met,  and  giving  tokens  what  purpose 
was  against  them,  whom  otherwise  they 
could  not  have  known  ;  for  this  form  of 
journeying  they  affirm  to  use  most  when 
they  are  transported  from  one  country  to 
another. 

Dcemonologie. 


JOSEPH    HALL,  D.D., 

born  at  Ashby-de-la-Zouch,  1574  ;  became 
Bishop  of  Exeter,  1627  ;  was  translated  to 
Norwich,  1641  ;  and  died  1656.  His  Works, 
now  first  collected,  with  some  Account  of  his 
Life  and  Sufferings,  -written  by  himself,  etc., 
new  edition  (by  the  Rev.  Peter  Hall),  was 
published,  Oxford,  1837-9,  12  vols.  8vo. 

"  A  writer  as  distinguished  in  works  of  prnnti- 
cal  piety  was  Hall.  His  Art  of  Divine  Medita- 
tion, his  Contemplations,  nnd  indeed  many  of  his 
writings,  remind  us  frequently  of  [Jeremy]  Tay- 
lor. Both  had 'equally  pious  and  devotional  teiii- 


JOSEPH  HALL. 


43 


pers ;  both  were  full  of  learning ;  both  fertile  of 
illustration;  both  may  be  said  to  have  strong  im- 
agination and  poetical  genius,  though  Taylor  let 
his  predominate  a  little  more.  Taylor  is  also 
rather  more  subtle  and  argumentative:  his  copi- 
ousness has  more  real  variety.  Hall  keeps  more 
closely  to  his  subject,  dilates  upon  it  sometimes 
more  tediously,  but  more  appositely.  In  his  ser- 
mons there  is  some  excels  of  quotation  and  far- 
fetched illustration,  but  less  than  in  those  of  Tay- 
lor. In  some  of  their  writings  these  two  great 
divines  resemble  each  other,  on  the  whole,  so  much, 
that  we  might  for  a  short  time  not  discover  which 
we  were  reading.  I  do  not  know  that  any  third 
writer  comes  close  to  either." — II  AI.LAM  :  Lit.  Hist. 
of  Europe. 

ON  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

An  hypocrite  is  the  worst  kind  of  player, 
by  so  much  that  he  acts  the  better  part ; 
which  hath  always  two  faces,  ofttimes  two 
hearts ;  that  can  compose  his  forehead  to 
sadness  and  gravity,  while  he  bids  his  heart 
be  wanton  and  careless  within,  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  laughs  within  himself  to  think 
how  smoothly  he  hath  cozened  the  beholder. 
In  whose  silent  face  are  written  the  char- 
acters of  religion,  which  his  tongue  and  ges- 
tures pronounce,  but  his  hands  recant.  That 
hath  a  clear  face  and  garment,  with  a  foul 
soul ;  whose  mouth  belies  his  heart,  and  his 
fingers  bely  his  mouth.  Walking  early  up 
into  the  city,  he  turns  into  the  great  church, 
and  salutes  one  of  the  pillars  on  one  knee, 
worshipping  that  God  which  at  home  he 
cares  not  for,  while  his  eye  is  fixed  on  some 
window  or  some  passenger,  and  his  heart 
knows  not  whither  his  lips  go.  lie  rises, 
and  looking  about  with  admiration,  com- 
plains of  our  frozen  charity,  commends  the 
ancient.  At  church  he  will  ever  sit  where 
he  may  be  seen  best,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
sermon  pulls  out  his  tables  in  haste,  as  if  he 
feared  to  lose  that  note ;  when  he  writes 
either  his  forgotten  errand  or  nothing.  Then 
he  turns  his  Bible  with  a  noise,  to  seek  an 
omitted  quotation,  and  folds  the  leaf  as  if  he 
had  found  it,  and  asks  aloud  the  name  of 
the  preacher,  and  repeats  it,  whom  he  pub- 
licly salutes,  thanks,  praises  in  an  honest 
mouth.  He  can  command  tears  when  he 
speaks  of  his  youth,  indeed,  because  it  is 
past,  not  because  it  was  sinful ;  himself  is 
now  better,  but  the  times  are  worse.  All 
other  sins  he  reckons  up  with  detestation, 
while  he  loves  and  hides  his  darling  in  his 
bosom  :  .ill  his  speech  returns  to  himself,  and 
every  concurrent  draws  in  a  story  to  his 
own  praise.  When  he  should  give,  he  looks 
about  him,  and  says,  Who  sees  me?  No 
alms  nor  prayers  fall  from  him  without  a 
witness  ;  belike  lest  God  should  deny  that  he 
hath  received  them  ;  and  when  he  hath  done 
(lest  the  world  should  not  know  it),  his  own 
mouth  is  his  trumpet  to  proclaim  it.  With 


the  superfluity  of  his  usury  he  builds  an 
hospital,  and  harbours  them  whom  his  ex- 
tortion hath  spoiled :  so  when  he  makes 
many  beggars,  he  keeps  some.  He  turneth 
all  gnats  into  camels,  and  cares  not  to  undo 
the  world  for  a  circumstance.  Flesh  on  a 
Friday  is  more  abominable  to  him  than  his 
neighbour's  bed  ;  he  abhors  more  not  to  un- 
cover at  the  name  of  Jesus  than  to  swear  hy 
the  name  of  God. 

When  a  rhymer  reads  his  poem  to  him,  he 
begs  a  copy,  and  persuades  the  press.  There 
is  nothing  that  he  dislikes  in  presence, 
that  in  absence  he  censures  not.  He  comes 
to  the  sick  bed  of  his  step-mother  and  weeps, 
when  he  secretly  fears  her  recovery.  He 
greets  his  friend  in  the  street  with  a  clear 
countenance,  so  fast  a  closure,  that  the  other 
thinks  he  reads  his  heart  in  his  face:  and 
shakes  hands  with  an  indefinite  invitation 
of — When  will  you  come?  and  when  his 
back  is  turned,  joys  that  he  is  so  well  rid  of  a 
guest;  yet  if  that  guest  visit  him  unfeared, 
he  counterfeits  a  smiling  welcome,  and  ex- 
cuses his  cheer,  when  closely  he  frowns  on 
his  wife  for  too  much.  He  shows  well,  and 
says  well,  and  himself  is  the  worst  thing  he 
hath.  In  brief,  he  is  the  stranger's  saint,  the 
neighbour's  disease,  the  blot  of  goodness,  a 
rotten  stick  in  a  dark  night,  the  poppy  in  a 
cornfield,  an  ill-tempered  candle  with  a  great 
snuff,  that  in  going  out  smells  ill ;  an  angel 
abroad,  a  devil  at  home ;  and  worse  when 
an  angel  than  when  a  devil. 

ON    THE   BUSY-BODY. 

His  estate  is  too  narrow  for  his  mind  ;  and, 
therefore,  he  is  fain  to  make  himself  room 
in  others  affairs,  yet  ever  in  pretence  of 
love.  No  news  can  stir  but  by  his  door ; 
neither  can  he  know  that  which  he  must 
not  tell.  AVhat  every  man  ventures  in  a 
Guiana  voyage,  and  what  they  gained,  he 
knows  to  a  hair.  Whether  Holland  will 
have  peace  he  knows;  and  on  what  con- 
ditions, and  with  what  success,  is  familiar 
to  him,  ere  it  be  concluded.  No  post  can 
pass  him  without  a  question  ;  and  rather 
than  he  will  lose  the  news,  he  rides  back 
with  him  to  appose  [question]  him  of  tidings ; 
and  then  to  the  next  man  he  meets  he  sup- 
plies the  wants  of  his  hasty  intelligence, 
and  makes  up  a  perfect  tale  ;  wherewith  he 
so  haunteth  the  patient  auditor,  that,  after 
many  excuses,  he  is  fain  to  endure  rather 
the  censures  of  his  manners  in  running 
away,  than  the  tediousness  of  an  imperti- 
nent discourse.  His  speech  is  oft  broken 
off  with  a  succession  of  long  parentheses, 
which  he  ever  vows  to  fill  up  ere  the  con- 
clusion ;  and  perhaps  would  effect  it,  if  the 
other's  ear  were  as  unweariable  as  his 


44 


ROBERT  BURTON. 


tongue.  If  he  see  but  two  men  talk,  and 
read  a  letter  in  the  street,  he  runs  to  them, 
nnd  asks  if  he  may  not  be  partner  of  that 
secret  relation  ;  and  if  they  deny  it,  he  offers 
to  tell,  since  he  may  not  hear,  wonders; 
and  then  falls  upon  the  report  of  the  Scot- 
tish mine,  or  of  the  great  fish  taken  up  at 
Lynn,  or  of  the  freezing  of  the  Thames; 
and,  after  many  thanks  and  dismissions,  is 
hardly  intreated  silence.  He  undertakes  as 
much  as  he  performs  little.  This  man  will 
thrust  himself  forward  to  be  the  guide  of  the 
way  he  knows  not;  and  calls  at  his  neigh- 
bour's window,  and  asks  why  his  servants 
are  not  at  work.  The  market  hath  no  com- 
modity which  he  prizeth  not,  and  which  the 
next  table  shall  not  hear  recited.  His 
tongue,  like  the  tail  of  Samson's  foxes, 
carries  firebrands,  and  is  enough  to  set  the 
•whole  field  of  the  world  on  a  flame.  Him- 
self begins  table-talk  of  his  neighbour  at 
another's  board,  to  whom  he  bears  the  first 
news,  and  adjures  him.  to  conceal  the  re- 
porter :  whose  choleric  answer  he  returns 
to  his  first  host,  enlarged  with  a  second  edi- 
tion :  so,  as  it  uses  to  be  done  in  the  fight  of 
unwilling  mastiffs,  he  claps  each  (in  the  side 
apart,  and  provokes  them  to  an  eager  con- 
flict. There  can  no  act  pass  without  his 
comment;  which  is  ever  far-fetched,  rash, 
suspicious,  dilatory.  His  ears  are  long,  and 
his  eyes  quick,  but  most  of  all  to  imperfec- 
tions ;  which,  as  he  easily  sees,  so  he  in- 
(Creases  with  intermeddling. 

He  harbours  another  man's  servant;  and 
amidst  his  entertainment,  asks  what  fare  is 
usual  at  home,  what  hours  are  kept,  what 
talk  passeth  at  their  meals,  what  his  mas- 
ter's disposition  is,  what  his  government, 
•what  his  guests ;  and  when  he  hath,  by 
curious  inquiries,  extracted  all  the  juice  and 
spirit  of  hoped  intelligence,  turns  him  off 
whence  he  came,  and  works  on  a  new.  He 
hates  constancy,  as  an  earthen  dtilness, 
unfit  for  men  of  spirit;  and  loves  to  change 
his  work  and  his  place:  neither  yet  can  he 
be  so  soon  weary  of  any  place,  as  every  place 
is  weary  of  him  ;  for,  as  he  sets  himself  on 
work,  so  others  pay  him  with  hatred ;  and 
look,  how  many  masters  he  hath,  so  many 
enemies;  neither  is  it  possible  that  any 
should  not  hate  him,  but  who  know  him 
not.  So  then,  he  labours  without  thanks, 
talks  without  credit,  lives  without  love,  dies 
•without  tears,  without  pity — save  that  some 
say,  '  It  was  pity  he  died  no  sooner.' 


ROBERT    BURTON 

was  born  at  Lindley,  Leicestershire,  1576, 
and  died  January  25,  1639-40. 


Burton  was  the  author  of  the  famous  An- 
atomy of  Melancholy,  Oxford,  1621,  4to. 

"Burton's  'Anatomy  of  Melancholy,'  he  paid, 
was  the  only  book  that  ever  took  him  [Dr.  John- 
son] out  of  bed  two  hours  sooner  than  he  wished 
to  rise." — Bostcelt's  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  year  1771. 

"Me  composed  this  book  with  a  view  of  reliev- 
ing his  own  melancholy,  but  increased  it.  to  such  a 
degree  that  nothing  could  make  him  laugh  but 
going  to  the  bridge-foot  and  hearing  the  ribaldry 
of  the  bargemen,  whieh  rarely  failed  to  throw  him 
iuto  a  violent  fit  of  laughter.  Ik-fore  he  was  over- 
come with  this  horrid  disorder,  he,  in  the  intervals 
of  his  vapours,  was  esteemed  one  of  the  most  fa- 
cetious companions  in  the  university." — GRAN- 
GER :  Jiiog.  Hint,  of  EnyUnid. 

MELANCHOLY  AND  CONTEMPLATION. 
Voluntary  solitariness  is  that  which  is  fa- 
miliar with  melancholy,  and  gently  brings 
on,  like  a  siren,  a  shooing-horn,  or  some 
sphinx,  to  this  irrevocable  gulf:  a  primary 
cause  Piso  calls  it;  most  pleasant  it  is  at 
first,  to  such  as  are  melancholy  given,  to  lie 
in  bed  whole  days,  and  keep  their  chambers  ; 
to  walk  alone  in  some  solitary  grove,  betwixt 
wood  and  water,  by  a  brook-side  ;  to  medi- 
tate upon  some  delightsome  and  pleasant 
subject,  which  shall  affect  them  most;  "ama- 
bilis  insania,"  and  ''mentis  gratissim us  er- 
ror." A  most  incomparable  delight  it  is  so 
to  melancholise,  and  build  castles  in  the  air  ; 
to  go  smiling  to  themselves,  acting  an  infi- 
nite variety  of  parts,  which  they  suppose 
and  strongly  imagine  they  represent,  or  that 
they  see  acted  or  done.  "  Blanda  guidem 
ab  initio,"  saith  Lemnius,  to  conceive  and 
meditate  of  such  pleasant  things,  sometimes. 
present,  past,  or  to  come,  as  Uhasis  speaks. 
So  delightsome  these  toys  are  at  first,  they 
could  spend  whole  days  and  nights  without 
sleep,  even  whole  years  alone  in  such  contem- 
plations and  fantastical  meditations,  which 
are  like  unto  dreams ;  and  they  will  hardly 
be  drawn  from  them,  or  willingly  interrupt. 
So  pleasant  their  vain  conceits  are,  that 
they  hinder  their  ordinary  tasks  and  neces- 
sary business ;  they  cannot  address  them- 
selves to  them,  or  almost  to  any  study  or 
employment:  these  fantastical  and  bewitch- 
ing thoughts  so  covertly,  so  feelingly,  so  ur- 
gently, so  continually  set  upon,  creep  in, 
insinuate,  possess,  overcome,  distract,  and 
detain  them  ;  they  cannot,  I  say.  go  about 
their  more  necessary  business,  stave  off  or 
extricate  themselves,  but  are  ever  musing, 
melancholising,  and  carried  along  as  he 
(they  say)  that  is  led  about  an  heath,  with 
a  puck  in  the  night.  They  run  earnestly  on 
in  this  labyrinth  of  anxious  and  solicitous 
melancholy  meditations,  and  cannot  well  or 
willingly  refrain,  or  easily  leave  off  winding 
and  unwinding  themselves,  as  so  many 
clocks,  and  still  pleasing  their  humours,  un- 
til at  last  the  scene  is  turned  upon  a  sudden, 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 


45 


by  some  bad  object;  and  they,  being  now 
habituated  to  such  vain  meditations  and  sol- 
itary places,  can  endure  no  company,  can 
ruminate  of  nothing  but  harsh  and  dis- 
tasteful subjects.  Fear,  sorrow,  suspicion, 
"  subrusticus  pudor,"  discontent,  cai'es,  and 
weariness  of  life,  surprise  them  in  a  mo- 
ment; and  they  can  think  of  nothing  else: 
continually  suspecting,  no  sooner  are  their 
eyes  open  but  this  infernal  plague  of  melan- 
choly seizeth  on  them,  and  terrifies  their 
souls,  representing  some  dismal  object  to 
their  minds,  which  now,  by  no  means,  no 
labour,  no  persuasions,  they  can  avoid ; 
'•  haeret  later!  lethalis  arundo;"  they  may 
not  be  rid  of  it;  they  cannot  resist.  I  may 
not  deny  but  there  is  surne  profitable  medi- 
tation, contemplation,  and  kind  of  solitari- 
ness to  be  embraced  which  the  fathers  so 
highly  commended  (Hierom,  Chrysostome, 
Cyprian,  Austin,  in  whole  tracts,  which  Pe- 
trarch, Erasmus,  Stella,  and  others  so  much 
magnify  in  their  books) ;  a  paradise,  a  heaven 
on  earth,  if  it  be  used  aright,  good  for  the 
body  and  better  for  the  soul ;  as  many  of  these 
old  monks  used  it  to  divine  contemplation  ; 
as  Simulus,  a  courtier  in  Adrian's  time, 
Dioclesian,  the  emperor,  retired  themselves, 
&c.  In  that  sense,  ''  Vatia  solus  scit  vivere," 
which  the  Romans  were  wont  to  say  when 
they  commended  a  country  life  ;  or  to  the 
bettering  of  their  knowledge,  as  Democritus, 
Cleanthes,  and  those  excellent  philosophers 
have  ever  done,  to  sequester  themselves  from 
the  tumultuous  world  ;  or  as  in  Pliny's  Villa 
Lauren tanu,  Tully's  Tusculu,  Jovius's  study, 
that  they  might  better  "  vacare  studiis  et 
Deo."  Methinks,  therefore,  our  too  zealous 
innovators  were  not  so  well  advised  in  that 
general  subversion  of  abbeys  and  religious 
houses,  promiscuously  to  fling  down  all. 
They  might  have  taken  away  those  gross 
abuses  crept  in  amongst  them,  rectified  such 
inconveniences,  and  not  so  far  to  have  raved 
and  ravaged  against  those  fair  buildings  and 
everlasting  monuments  of  our  forefathers' 
devotion,  consecrated  to  pious  uses. 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 


GEORGE   SANDYS, 

seventh  son  of  Archbishop  Sandys,  was  born 
in  1577;  became  a  great  traveller ;  was  for 
some  time  in  Virginia  as  Treasurer  for  the 
English  colony,  and  completed  his  excellent 
translation  of  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid 
on  the  banks  of  the  James ;  returned  to 
England,  and  died  there  1643. 

He  published  A  Relation  of  a  Journey 
begun  A.D.  1610;  Four  Bookes,  containing 
a  Description  of  the  Turkish  Empire,  of 
Egypt,  of  the  Holy  Land,  of  the  remote 


Parts  of  Italy,  and  Islands  adjoining,  Lond., 
1615,  fol. 

"  The  descriptions  and  draughts  of  our  learned, 
sagacious  countryman,  Mr.  Sandys,  respecting  tho 
remarkable  places  in  and  about  Jerusalem,  must 
be  acknowledged  so  faithful  and  perfect  that  they 
leave  very  little  to  be  added  by  after-comers,  and 
nothing  to  be  corrected." — MADNDRF.LL:  Journey 
from  Aleppo  to  Jerusalem,  O.\f.,  1703,  8vo,  p.  68. 

We  give  an  extract  from  Sandys' s  dedica- 
tion of  his  Relation  to  Prince  Charles,  after- 
wards King  Charles  I. 

MODERN  STATE  OF  ANCIEXT  COUNTRIES. 

The  parts  I  speak  of  are  the  most  re- 
nowned countries  and  kingdoms;  once  the 
seats  of  most  glorious  and  triumphant  em- 
pires; the  theatres  of  valour  and  heroical 
actions ;  the  soils  enriched  with  all  earthly 
felicities  ;  the  places  where  Nature  hath  pro- 
duced her  wonderful  works  ;  where  arts  and 
sciences  have  been  invented  and  perfected  ; 
where  wisdom,  virtue,  policy,  and  civility 
have  been  planted,  have  flourished ;  and, 
lastly,  where  God  himself  did  place  his  own 
commonwealth,  gave  laws  and  oracles,  in- 
spired his  prophets,  sent  angels  to  converse 
with  men  ;  above  all,  where  the  Son  of  God 
descended  to  become  man ;  where  he  honoured 
the  earth  with  his  beautiful  steps,  wrought 
the  works  of  our  redemption,  triumphed 
over  death,  and  ascended  into  glory  ;  which 
countries,  once  so  glorious  and  famous  for 
their  happy  estate,  are  now,  through  vice 
and  ingratitude,  become  the  most  deplored 
spectacles  of  extreme  misery;  the  wild 
beasts  of  mankind  having  broken  in  upon 
them,  .and  rooted  out  all  civility,  and  the 
pride  of  a  stern  and  barbarous  tyrant  pos- 
sessing the  thrones  of  ancient  and  just  do- 
minion. Who,  aiming  only  at  the  height  of 
greatness  and  sensuality,  hath  in  tract  of 
time  reduced  so  great  and  goodly  a  part  of 
the  world  to  that  lamentable  distress  and 
servitude,  under  which  (to  the  astonishment 
of  the  understanding  beholders)  it  now  faints 
and  groaneth.  Those  rich  lands  at  this 
present  remain  waste  and  overgrown  with 
bushes,  receptacles  of  wild  beasts,  of  thieves 
and  murderers;  large  territories  dispeopled 
or  thinly  inhabited  ;  goodly  cities  made  des- 
olate;  sumptuous  buildings  become  ruins; 
glorious  temples  either  subverted  or  prosti- 
tuted to  impiety;  true  religion  discounte- 
nanced and  oppressed;  all  nobility  extin- 
guished; no  light  of  learning  permitted, 
nor  virtue  cherished  ;  violence  and  rapine 
insulting  over  all,  and  leaving  no  security 
except  to  an  abject  mind,  and  unlooked-ou 
poverty ;  which  calamities  of  theirs,  so  great 
and  deserved,  are  to  the  rest  of  the  world 
as  threatening  instructions.  For  assistance 


46 


SAMUEL  PURCHAS.—LORD  EDWARD  HERBERT. 


•wherein,  I  have  not  only  related  what  I  saw 
of  their  present  condition,  but,  so  far  as  con- 
venience might  permit,  presented  a  brief 
view  of  the  former  estates  and  first  an- 
tiquities of  those  peoples  and  countries; 
thence  to  draw  a  right  image  of  the  frailty 
of  man,  the  mutability  of  whatever  is 
worldly,  and  assurance  that,  as  there  is 
nothing  unchangeable  saving  God,  so  no- 
thing stable  but  by  his  grace  and  protection. 


SAMUEL   PURCHAS,    D.D., 

born  1577,  died  1628.  gained  well-deserved 
fame  by  his  collections  of  Voyages,  viz. : 
Ilaklvytvs  Posthumus,  or  Pvrchas  his  Pil- 
grimes,  contayning  a  History  of  the  World, 
in  Sea  Voyages  and  Lande  Travells,  by 
Englishmen  and  others,  Lond.,  1625-6,  5 
vols.  fol. 

"He  has  imitated  Ilakluyt  too  much,  swelling 
his  work  into  five  volumes  in  folio  :  yet  the  whole 
collection  is  very  valuable,  as  having  preserved 
many  considerable  voyages  that  might  otherwise 
have  perished.  But,  like  Ilakluyt,  he  has  thrown 
all  that  came  to  hand  to  fill  up  so  many  volumes, 
and  is  excessive  full  of  his  own  notions  and  of 
mean  quibbling  and  playing  words  :  yet  for  such 
as  can  make  choice  of  the  best,  the  collection  is 
very  valuable." — Ejcplan.  Cut.  of  Voy.  prefixed  to 
Churchill's  Collec.,  ascribed  to  John  Locke. 

ON  THE  SEA. 

As  God  hath  combined  the  sea  and  land 
into  one  globe,  so  their  joint  combination 
and  mutual  assistance  is  necessary  to  secu- 
lar happiness  and  glory.  The  sea  covereth 
one-half  of  this  patrimony  of  man,  whereof 
God  set  him  in  possession  when  he  said, 
"  Replenish  the  earth  and  subdue  it,  and 
have  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea,  and 
over  the  fowl  of  the  air,  and  over  every 
living  thing  that  moveth  upon  the  earth." 
.  .  .  Thus  should  man  at  once  lose  half  his 
inheritance,  if  the  art  of  navigation  did  not 
enable  him  to  manage  this  untamed  beast, 
and  with  the  bridle  of  the  winds  and  saddle 
of  his  shipping  to  make  him  serviceable. 
Now  for  the  services  of  the  sea,  they  are  in- 
numerable: it  is  the  great  purveyor  of  the 
world's  commodities  to  our  use ;  conveyer 
of  the  excess  of  rivers ;  uniter,  by  trafiick, 
of  all  nations :  it  presents  the  eye  with 
diversified  colours  and  motions,  and  is,  as  it 
were,  with  rich  brooches,  adorned  with 
various  islands.  It  is  an  open  field  for 
merchandise  in  peace :  a  pitched  field  for 
the  most  dreadful  fights  of  war;  yields 
diversity  offish  and  fowl  for  diet;  materials 
for  wealth,  medicine  for  health,  simples  for 
medicines,  pearls  and  other  jewels  for  orna- 
ment ;  amber  and  aiubergrise  for  delight ; 


"the  wonders  of  the  Lord  in  the  deep''  for 
instruction,  variety  of  creatures  for  use, 
multiplicity  of  natures  for  contemplation, 
diversity  of  accidents  for  admiration,  com- 
pendiousness  to  the  way,  to  full  bodies 
healthful  evacuation,  to  the  thirsty  earth 
fertile  moisture,  to  distant  friends  pleasant 
meeting,  to  weary  persons  delightful  re- 
freshing, to  studious  and  religious  minds  a 
map  of  knowledge,  mystery  of  temperance, 
exercise  of  continence ;  school  of  prayer, 
meditation,  devotion,  and  sobriety;  refuge 
to  the  distressed,  portage  to  the  merchant, 
passage  to  the  traveller,  customs  to  the 
prince,  springs,  lakes,  rivers,  to  the  earth  ; 
it  hath  on  it  tempests  and  calms  to  chastise 
the  sins,  to  exercise  the  faith,  of  seamen  ; 
manifold  affections  in  itself,  to  affect  and 
stupefy  the  subtlest  philosopher;  sustaineth 
movable  fortresses  for  the  soldier;  main- 
taineth  (as  in  our  island)  a  wall  of  defence 
and  watery  garrison  to  guard  tho  state ; 
entertains  the  sun  with  vapours,  the  moon 
with  obsequiousness,  the  stars  also  with  a 
natural  looking-glass,  the  sky  with  clouds, 
the  air  with  temperateness,  the  soil  with 
suppleness,  the  rivers  with  tides,  the  hills 
with  moisture,  the  valleys  with  fertility ; 
containeth  most  diversified  matter  for  me- 
,teors,  most  multiform  shapes,  most  various, 
numerous  kinds,  most  immense,  difformed, 
deformed,  unformed  monsters;  once  (for 
why  should  I  longer  detain  you?)  the  sea 
yields  action  to  the  body,  meditation  to  the 
mind,  the  world  to  the  world,  all  parta 
thereof  to  each  part,  by  this  art  of  arts, 
navigation. 
Pilgrimes. 


LORD    EDWARD    HERBERT, 

of  Cherbury,  born  1581,  and  died  1648. 
among  other  productions  gave  to  the  world 
a  History  of  the  Life  and  Reign  of  Henry 
VIII.  of 'England,  Lond.,  1649,  fol. 

"Has  ever  been  esteemed  one  of  the  best  his- 
tories in  the  English  language  ;  but  there  is  not 
in  it  that  perfect  candour  which  one  would  wish, 
or  expect  to  see,  in  so  celebrated  an  historian.  He 
has  given  us  a  much  juster  portrait  of  himself 
than  he  has  of  Henry,  lie  appears  to  have  laid 
open  every  foible  or  defect  in  his  own  character, 
but  has  cast  the  monstrous  vices  of  that  monstrous 
tyrant  into  shade,  and  has  displayed  to  great  ad- 
vantnge  his  gallantry,  magnificence,  and  gener- 
osity."— GRANGER:  Jiiog.  Hist,  of  Eng. 

SIR  THOMAS   MORE'S  RESIGNATION  OP  THE 
GREAT  SEAL. 

Sir  Thomas  More,  Lord  Chancellor  of 
England,  after  divers  suits  to  be  discharged 
of  his  place  (which  he  had  held  two  year? 
and  a  half)  did  at  length  by  the  king's  good 


SIB    THOMAS   OVERBURT. 


leave  resign  it.  The  example  whereof  being 
rare,  will  give  me  occasion  to  speak  more 
particularly  of  him.  Sir  Thomas  More,  a 
person  of  sharp  wit,  and  endued  besides  with 
excellent  parts  of  learning  (as  his  works 
may  testify),  was  yet  (out  of  I  know  not 
Avhat  natural  facetiousness)  given  so  much 
to  jesting  that  it  detracted  no  little  from  the 
gravity  and  importance  of  his  place,  which, 
though  generally  noted  and  disliked,  I  do 
not  think  was  enough  to  make  him  give  it 
over  in  that  merriment  we  shall  find  anon, 
or  retire  to  a  private  life.  Neither  can  I 
believe  him  so  much  addicted  to  his  private 
opinions  as  to  detest  all  other  governments 
by  his  own  Utopia,  so  that  it  is  probable 
some  vehement  desire  to  follow  his  book,  or 
secret  offence  taken  against  some  person  or 
matter  (among  which  perchance  the  king's 
new  intended  marriage,  or  the  like,  might  be 
accounted)  occasioned  this  strange  counsel ; 
though  yet  I  find  no  reason  pretended  for  it 
but  infirmity  and  want  of  health.  Our  king 
bereupon  taking  the  seal,  and  giving  it, 
together  with  the  order  of  knighthood,  to 
Thomas  Audeley,  speaker  of  the  Lower 
House,  Sir  Thomas  More,  without  acquaint- 
ing anybody  with  what  he  had  done,  repairs 
to  his  family  at  Chelsea,  where,  after  a  mass 
celebrated  the  next  day  in  the  church,  he 
came  to  his  lady's  pew,  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand  (an  office  formerly  done  by  one  of  his 
gentlemen),  and  says,  "Madam,  my  lord  is 
gone."  But  she  thinking  this  at  first  to  be 
but  one  of  his  jests,  was  little  moved,  till  he 
told  her  sadly,  he  had  given  up  the  great 
seal;  whereupon  she  speaking  some  passion- 
ate words,  he  called  his  daughters  then  pres- 
ent to  see  if  they  could  not  spy  some  fault 
about  their  mother's  dressing;  but  they 
after  search  after  search  saying  they  could 
find  none,  he  replied,  i%  Do  you  not  perceive 
that  your  mother's  nose  standeth  somewhat 
awry?" — of  which  jeer  the  provoked  lady 
was  so  sensible  that  she  went  from  him  in  a 
rage.  Shortly  after  he  acquainted  his  ser- 
vants with  what  he  had  done,  dismissing 
them  also  to  the  attendance  of  some  other 
great  personages,  to  whom  he  had  recom- 
mended them.  For  his  fool,  he  bestowed 
him  on  the  lord  mayor  during  his  office,  and 
afterwards  on  his  successors  in  that  charge. 
And  now  coming  to  himself,  he  began  to 
consider  how  much  he  had  left,  and  finding 
that  it  was  not  above  one  hundred  pounds 
yearly  in  lands,  besides  some  money,  he  ad- 
vised with  his  daughters  how  to  live  together. 
But  the  grieved  gentlewomen  (who  knew  not 
what  to  reply,  or  indeed  how  to  take  these 
jests)  remaining  astonished,  he  says,  "  We 
will  begin  with  the  slender  diet  of  the  stu- 
dents of  the  law,  and  if  that  will  not  hold 
out,  we  will  take  such  commons  as  they  have 


at  Oxford  ;  which  yet  if  our  purse  will  not 
stretch  to  maintain,  for  our  last  refuge  we 
will  go  a-begging,  and  at  every  man's  door 
sing  together  a  Saloe  Itegina  to  get  alms." 
But  these  jests  were  thought  to  have  in 
them  more  levity  than  to  be  taken  every- 
where for  current;  he  might  have  quitted 
his  dignity  without  using  such  sarcasms, 
and  be  taken  himself  to  a  more  retired  and 
quiet  life,  without  making  them  or  himself 
contemptible.  And  certainly  whatsoever  he 
intended  hereby,  his  family  so  little  under- 
stood his  meaning  that  they  needed  some 
more  serious  instructions.  So  that  I  cannot 
persuade  myself  for  all  this  talk,  that  so  ex- 
cellent a  person  would  omit  at  fit  times  to 
give  his  family  that  sober  account  of  his 
relinquishing  this  place  which  I  find  he  did 
to  the  Archbishop  Warham,  Erasmus,  and 
others. 

History  of  the  Life  and  Reign  of  Henry 

VU'L  " 


SIR  THOMAS    OVERBURY, 

born  1581,  became  a  companion  of  the  Earl 
of  Somerset,  and  for  opposing  his  marriage 
with  the  Countess  of  Essex,  was  murdered 
in  the  Tower  in  1613.  See  the  Great  Oyer  of 
Poisoning:  the  Trial  of  the  Earl  of  Somer- 
set for  the  poisoning  of  Sir  Thomas  Over- 
bury,  in  the  Tower  of  London,  and  various 
matters  connected  therewith,  from  contem- 
porary MSS.,  by  Andrew  Amos,  Lond., 
1846,  8vo.  Of  Overbury's  works,  the  best 
known  is  entitled  A  Wife,  now  the  Widdow 
of  Sir  Thomas  Overbvrye  ;  Being  a  most  ex- 
quisite and  singular  Poem  of  the  Choice  of  a 
Wife;  AVherevnto  are  added  many  witty 
Characters,  and  conceited  Newes,  written  by 
himselfe  and  other  learned  Gentlemen  his 
Friends,  Lond.,  1614,  4to,  second  edition. 

"  The  characters,  though  rather  too  antithetical 
in  their  style,  are  drawn  with'  a  masterly  hand, 
and  are  evidently  the  result  of  personal  observa- 
tion."— DRAKE  :  Shakupeare  and  hit  Times,  i. 
510. 

THE  TI.VKER. 

A  tinker  is  a  rnoveable,  for  he  hath  no 
abiding  in  one  place  ;  by  his  motion  he  gath- 
ers heat,  thence  his  choleric  nature.  He 
seems  to  be  very  devout,  for  his  life  is  a 
continual  pilgrimage;  and  sometimes  in  hu- 
mility goes  barefoot,  therein  making  neces- 
sity a  virtue.  His  house  is  .as  ancient  as 
Tubal  Cain's,  and  so  is  a  renegade  by  an- 
tiquity ;  yet  he  proves  himself  a  gallant,  for 
he  carries  all  his  wealth  upon  his  back ;  or 
a  philosopher,  for  he  bears  all  his  substance 
about  him.  From  his  art  was  music  first  in- 
vented, and  therefore  is  he  always  furnished 
with  a  song,  to  which  his  hammer  keeping 
tune,  proves  that  he  was  the  first  founder  of 


48 


JOHN  HALES. 


the  kcttle-drnin.  Note,  that  where  the  best 
ale  is,  there  stands  his  music  most  upon 
crotchets.  The  companion  of  his  travels  is 
some  foul,  sun-burnt  quean;  that,  since  the 
terrible  statute,  recanted  gipsyism,  and  is 
turned  pedlaress.  So  inarches  he  all  over 
Englnnd  with  his  bag  and  baggage  ;  his  con- 
versation is  irreproveable,  for  he  is  ever 
mending.  He  observes  truly  the  statutes, 
and  therefore  had  rather  steal  than  beg,  in 
which  he  is  irremoveably  constant,  in  spite 
of  whips  or  imprisonment;  and  so  strong 
an  enemy  to  idleness,  that  in  mending  one 
hole  he-  had  rather  make  three  than  want 
work  ;  and  when  he  hath  done  he  throws  the 
wallet  of  his  faults  behind  him.  He  ein- 
braceth,  naturally,  ancient  customs,  convers- 
ing in  open  fields  and  lowly  cottages;  if  he 
visit  cities  or  towns,  'tis  but  to  deal  upon  the 
imperfections  of  our  weaker  vessels.  His 
tongue  is  very  voluble,  which,  with  canting, 
proves  him  a  linguist.  lie  is  entertained  in 
every  place,  but  enters  no  farther  than  the 
door,  to  avoid  suspicion.  Some  would  take 
him  to  be  a  coward,  but,  believe  it,  he  is  a 
lad  of  mettle;  his  valour  is  commonly  three 
or  four  yards  long,  fastened  to  a  pike  in 
the  end  for  flying  off.  He  is  very  provi- 
dent, for  he  will  light  with  but  one  at  once, 
and  then  also  he  had  rather  submit  than 
be  counted  obstinate.  To  conclude,  if  he 
'scape  Tyburn  and  Banbury,  he  dies  a  beggar. 
Characters. 

A  FRANKLIN. 

His  outside  is  an  ancient  yeoman  of  Eng- 
land, though  his  inside  may  give  arms  (with 
the  best  gentleman)  and  never  fee  the  herald. 
There  is  no  truer  servant  in  the  house  than 
himself.  Though  he  be  master,  he  says  not 
to  his  servants,  go  to  field,  but,  let  us  go  ;  .and 
with  his  own  eye  doth  fatten  his  flock,  and  set 
forward  all  manner  of  husbandry.  He  is 
taught  by  nature  to  be  contented  with  a  little  ; 
his  own  fold  yields  him  both  food  and  rai- 
ment; he  is  pleased  with  any  nourishment 
God  sends,  whilst  curious  gluttony  ransacks, 
as  it  were,  Noah's  ark  for  food,  only  to 
feed  the  riot  of  one  meal.  He  is  never 
known  to  go  to  law;  understanding  to  be 
law-bound  among  men,  is  like  to  be  hide- 
bound among  his  beasts ;  they  thrive  not 
under  it,  and  that  such  men  sleep  as  un- 
quietly  as  if  their  .pillows  were  stuffed  with 
lawyers'  pen-knives.  When  he  builds,  no 
poor  tenant's  cottage  hinders  his  prospect; 
they  are,  indeed,  his  alms-houses,  though 
there  be  painted  on  them  no  such  superscrip- 
v  tion.  He  never  sits  up  late,  but  when  he 
hunts  the  badger,  the  vowed  foe  of  his  lambs ; 
nor  uses  he  any  cruelty,  but  when  he  hunts 
the  hare  ;  nor  subtlety,  but  when  he  setteth 


snares  for  the  snipe,  or  pitfalls  for  the  black- 
bird ;  nor  oppression,  but  when  in  the  month 
of  July  he  goes  to  the  next  river  and  shears 
his  sheep.  He  allows  of  honest  pastime, 
and  thinks  not  the  bones  of  the  dead  any- 
thing bruised,  or  the  worse  for  it,  though 
the  country  lasses  dance  in  the  church-yard 
after  even-song.  Rock-Monday,  and  the 
wake  in  summer,  shrovings,  the  wakeful 
catches  on  Christmas-eve,  the  hoky,  or  seed- 
cake, these  he  yearly  keeps,  yet  holds  them 
no  relics  of  Popery.  He  is  not  so  inquis- 
itive after  news  derived  from  the  privy-closet, 
when  the  finding  an  eyry  of  hawks  in  his 
own  ground,  or  the  foaling  of  a  colt  come  of 
a  good  strain,  are  tidings  more  pleasant  and 
more  profitable.  He  is  lord  paramount 
within  himself,  though  he  hold  by  never  so 
mean  a  tenure,  and  dies  the  more  contentedly 
(though  he  leave  his  heir  young),  in  regard 
he  leaves  him  not  liable  to  a  covetous  guar- 
dian. Lastly,  to  end  him,  he  cares  not  when 
his  end  comes:  he  needs  not  fear  his  audit, 
for  his  quietus  is  in  heaven. 
Characters. 


JOHN    HALES, 

a  famous  divine  of  the  Church  of  England, 
styled  from  his  learning  "  The  Ever-Memor- 
able," was  born  1584,  and  died  1C55. 

"  He  had  read  more  and  carried  more  about 
him,  in  his  excellent  memory,  than  any  man  I  ever 
knew,  lie  was  one  of  the  least  men  in  the  king- 
dom, and  one  of  the  greatest  scholars  in  Europe." 
— Lord  Clarendon. 

OF   INQUIRY    AND    PRIVATE   JUDGMENT    IN 
RELIGION. 

It  were  a  thing  worth  looking  into,  to 
know  the  reason  why  men  are  so  generally 
willing,  in  point  of  religion,  to  cast  them- 
selves into  other  men's  arms,  and,  leaving 
their  own  reason,  rely  so  much  upon  another 
man's.  Is  it  because  it  is  modesty  and 
humility  to  think  another  man's  reason 
better  than  our  own?  Indeed,  I  know  not 
how  it  comes  to  pass,  we  account  it  a  vice, 
a  part  of  envy,  to  think  another  man's  gouls, 
or  another  man's  fortunes,  to  be  better  than 
our  own  ;  and  yet  we  account  it  a  singular 
virtue  to  esteem  our  reason  and  wit  meaner 
than  other  men's.  Let  us  not  mistake  our- 
selves: to  contemn  the  advice  and  help 
others,  in  love  and  admiration  to  our  own 
conceits,  to  depress  and  disgrace  other  men's, 
this  is  the  foul  vice  of  pride;  on  the  con- 
trary, thankfully  to  entertain  the  advice  of 
others,  to  give  it  its  due,  and  ingenuously  to 
prefer  it  before  our  own  if  it  deserve  it,  this 
is  that  gracious  virtue  of  modesty  ;  but  alto- 
gether to  mistrust  and  relinquish  our  own 


JOHN  SELDEN. 


49 


faculties,  and  commend  ourselves  to  others, 
this  is  nothing  but  poverty  of  spirit  ;ind  in- 
discretion. I  will  not  forbear  to  open  unto 
you  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  causes  of  this 
so  general  an  error  amongst  men.  .  .  .  To 
return,  therefore,  and  proceed  in  the  refuta- 
tion of  this  gross  neglect  in  men  of  their 
own  reason,  and  casting  themselves  upon 
other  wits.  Hath  God  given  you  eyes  to 
see,  and  legs  to  support  you,  that  so  your- 
selves might  lie  still  or  sleep,  and  require 
the  use  of  other  men's  eyes  and  legs  ?  That 
faculty  of  reason  which  is  in  every  one  of 
you,  even  in  the  meanest  that  hears  me  this 
day,  next  to  the  help  of  God,  is  your  eyes 
to  direct  you,  and  your  legs  to  support  you, 
in  your  course  of  integrity  and  sanctity; 
you  may  no  more  refuse  or  neglect  the  use 
of  it,  and  rest  yourselves  upon  the  use  of 
other  men's  reason,  than  neglect  your  own 
and  call  for  the  use  of  other  men's  eyes  and 
legs.  The  man  in  the  gospel,  who  had 
bought  a  farm,  excuses  himself  from  going 
to  the  marriage-supper,  because  himself 
would  go  and  see  it:  but  we  have  taken  .an 
easier  course;  we  can  buy  our  farm,  and  go 
to  supper  too,  and  that  only  by  saving  our 
pains  to  see  it ;  we  profess  ourselves  to  have 
made  a  great  purchase  of  heavenly  doctrine, 
yet  we  refuse  to  see  it  and  survey  it  our- 
selves, but  trust  to  other  men's  eyes,  and 
our  surveyors :  and  wot  you  to  what  end? 
I  know  not,  except  it  be  that  so  we  may 
with  the  better  leisure  go  to  the  marriage- 
supper  ;  that,  with  Hainan,  we  may  the 
more  merrily  go  in  to  the  banquet  provided 
for  us  ;  that  so  we  may  the  more  freely  betake 
ourselves  to  our  pleasures,  to  our  profits,  to 
our  trades,  to  our  preferments  and  ambition. 
.  .  .  Would  you  see  how  ridiculously  we 
abuse  ourselves  when  we  thus  neglect  our 
own  knowledge,  and  securely  hazard  our- 
selves upon  others'  skill?  Give  me  leave, 
then,  to  show  you  a  perfect  pattern  of  it, 
and  to  report  to  you  what  I  find  in  Seneca 
the  philosopher  recorded  of  a  gentleman  in 
Rome,  who,  being  purely  ignorant,  yet 
greatly  desirous  to  seem  learned,  procured 
himself  many  servants,  of  whom  some  he 
caused  to  study  the  poets,  some  the  orators, 
some  the  historians,  some  the  philosophers, 
and,  in  a  strange  kind  of  fancy,  all  their 
learning  he  verily  thought  to  be  his  own, 
and  persuaded  himself  that  he  knew  all  that 
his  servants  understood ;  yea,  he  grew  to 
that  height  of  madness  in  this  kind,  that, 
being  weak  in  body  and  diseased  in  his  feet, 
he  provided  himself  of  wrestlers  and  runners, 
and  proclaimed  games  and  races,  and  per- 
formed them  by  his  servants;  still  applaud- 
ing himself,  as  if  himself  had  done  them. 
Beloved,  you  are  this  man :  when  you 
neglect  to  try  the  spirits,  to  study  the  means 


of  salvation  yourselves,  but  content  your- 
selves to  take  them  upon  trust,  and  repose 
yourselves  altogether  on  the  wit  and  knowl- 
edge of  us  that  are  your  teachers,  what  is 
this  in  a  manner  but  to  account  with  your- 
selves, that  our  knowledge  is  yours,  that 
you  know  all  that  we  know,  who  are  but 
your  servants  in  Jesus  Christ? 
Sermons  in  Golden  Remaines. 


JOHN   SELDEN, 

one  of  the  most  learned  men  whom  England 
has  produced,  was  born  at  Salvington,  Sus- 
sex, 1584,  occupied  many  important  public 
posts,  and  died  1654.  His  erudite  works 
are  now  known  only  to  scholars  and  anti- 
quaries, but  the  volume  of  his  Table-Talk, 
published  by  his  amanuensis,  llichard  Mil- 
ward,  "who  had  observed  his  discourses  for 
twenty  years  together,"  Lond.,  1689,  4to, 
and  later  editions,  still  commands  the  atten- 
tion of  the  general  reader. 

"  Mr.  Selden  was  a  person  whom  no  character 
can  flutter,  or  transmit  in  any  expressions  equal 
to  his  merit  and  virtue.  He  was  of  such  stupen- 
dous learning  in  all  kinds  and  in  all  languages,  as 
may  appear  from  his  excellent  and  transcendent 
writings,  that  a  man  would  have  thought  he  had 
been  entirely  conversant  among  books,  and  had 
never  spent  an  hour  but  in  reading  and  writing  ; 
yet  his  humanity,  courtesy,  and  aff;U>ility  were 
such,  that  he  would  have  been  thought  to  have 
been  bred  in  the  best  courts,  but  that  his  good  na- 
ture, charity,  and  delight  in  doing  good,  and  in 
communicating  all  he  knew,  exceeded  that  breed- 
ing."— EAUL  OF  CLARENDON  (his  intimate  friend 
for  many  years) :  Life. 

When  Selden  was  dying,  he  said  to  Arch- 
bishop Usher : 

"  I  have  surveyed  most  of  the  learning 
that  is  among  the  sons  of  men,  and  my  study 
is  filled  with  books  and  manuscripts  [he  had 
8000  volumes  in  his  library]  on  various  sub- 
jects; but  at  present  I  cannot  recollect  any 
passage  out  of  all  my  books  and  papers 
whereon  I  can  rest  my  soul,  save  this  from 
the  sacred  Scriptures  :  '  The  grace  of  God 
that  bringeth  salvation  hath  appeared  to  nil 
men,  teaching  us  that,  denying  ungodliness 
and  worldly  lusts,  we  should  live  soberly, 
righteously,  and  godly,  in  this  present  world  ; 
looking  for  that  blessed  hope,  and  the  glorious 
appearing  of  the  great  God  and  our  Saviour 
Jesus  Christ;  who  gave  himself  for  us,  that 
he  might  redeem  us  from  all  iniquity,  and 
purify  unto  himself  a  peculiar  people,  zeal- 
ous of  good  works.'  (Tit.  ii.  14.)" 

Dr.  Johnson  and  Ilallam  considered  Sel- 
den's  Table-Talk  to  be  far  superior  to  the 
Ana  of  the  Continent;  and  another  eminent 
authority  thus  speaks  of  Selden's  volume: 


50 


THOMAS  HOBBES. 


"  There  is  more  weighty  bullion  sense  in  this 
book  than  I  ever  found  in  the  same  number  of 
pages  of  any  uninspired  writer.  ...  0  to  have 
been  with  Selden  over  his  glass  of  wine,  making 
every  accident  an  outlet  and  a  vehicle  of  wisdom." 
— COLERIDGE:  Lit.  Remains,  ii.  361,  362. 

EVIL  SPEAKING. 

1.  lie   that  speaks  ill  of  another,    com- 
monly, before  he  is  aware,  makes  himself 
such  a  one  as  he  speaks  against ;  for  if  he 
had  civility  or  breeding,  he  would  forbear 
such  kind  of  language. 

2.  A  gallant  man  is  above  ill  words.     An 
example  we  have  in  the  old  Lord  of  Salis- 
bury, who  was  a  great  wise  man.     Stone  had 
called  some  lord  about  court  fool ;  the  lord 
complains,  and   has  Stone  whipped  ;  Stone 
cries,  "  I  might  have  called  iny  Lord  of  Salis- 
bury fool  often  enough  before  he  would  have 
had  me  whipped.'' 

3.  Speak  not  ill  of  a  great  enemy,  but 
rather  give  him  good  words,  that  he  may 
use  you  the  better,  if  you  chance  to  fall  into 
his  hands.     The  Spaniard  did  this  when  he 
was  dying;  his  confessor  told  him,  to  work 
him  to  repentance,  how  the  devil  tormented 
the  wicked  that  went  to  hell ;  the  Spaniard 
replying,  called  the  devil  my  lord:  "I  hope 
any  lord  the  devil  is  not  so  cruel."    His  con- 
fessor reproved  him.  "Excuse  me,"  said  the 
don,  "  for  calling  him  so ;  I  know  not  into 
what  hands   I    may  fall ;    and  if  I  happen 
into  his,  I  hope  he  will  use  me  the  better 
for  giving  him  good  words." 

Table-  Talk. 

HUMILITY. 

1.  Humility  is  a  virtue  all  preach,  none 
practice,  and   yet  everybody  is  content   to 
hear.     The  master  thinks  it  good  doctrine 
for  his  servant,  the  laity  for  the  clergy,  and 
the  clergy  for  the  laity. 

2.  There  is  humilitas  quccdam  in  vitio.   If 
a  man  does  not  take  notice  of  that  excel- 
lency and  perfection  that  is  in  himself,  how 
can  he  be  thankful  to  God,  who  is  the  author 
of  all  excellency  and  perfection?     Nay,  if  a 
man  hath  too  mean  an  opinion  of  himself, 
it  will  render  him  unserviceable  both  to  God 
and  man. 

3.  Pride  may  be  allowed  to  this  or  that  de- 
gree, else  a  man  cannot  keep  up  his  dignity. 
In  gluttons  there  must  be  eating,  in  drunken- 
ness there  must  be  drinking  :  it  is  not  the 
eating,  nor  it  is  riot  the  drinking,  that  is  to 
be  blamed,  but  the  excess.     So  in  pride. 

Table- Talk. 

DEVILS  IN  THE  HEAD. 

A  person  of  quality  came  to  my  chamber 

in  the  Temple,  and  told   me   he   had   two 

devils   in   his   head   (I  wondered  what  he 

meant),  and  just  at  that  time  one  of  them 


bid  him  kill  me.  With  that  I  began  to  be 
afraid,  and  thought  he  was  mad.  He  said 
he  knew  I  could  cure  him,  and  therefore  en- 
treated me  to  give  him  something,  for  he  was 
resolved  he  would  go  to  nobody  else.  I  per- 
ceiving what  an  opinion  he  had  of  me,  and 
that  it  was  only  melancholy  that  troubled 
him,  took  him  in  hand,  warranted  him, 
if  he  would  follow  my  directions,  to  cure 
him  in  a  short  time.  I  desired  him  to  let 
me  be  alone  about  an  hour,  and  then  to  come 
again  ;  which  he  was  very  willing  to.  In 
the  mean  time  I  got  a  card,  and  wrapped  it 
up  handsome  in  a  piece  of  taffeta,  and  put 
strings  to  the  taffeta;  and  when  he  came, 
gave  it  to  him  to  hang  about  his  neck ; 
withal  charged  him,  that  he  should  not  dis- 
order himself,  neither  with  eating  nor  drink- 
ing, but  eat  very  little  of  supper,  and  say  his 
prayers  duly  when  he  went  to  bed  ;  and  I 
made  no  question  but  he  would  be  well  in 
three  or  four  days.  Within  that  time  I  went 
to  dinner  to  his  house,  and  asked  him  how 
he  did.  He  said  he  was  much  better,  but 
not  perfectly  well ;  for,  in  truth,  he  had  not 
dealt  clearly  with  me ;  he  had  four  devils  in 
his  head,  and  he  perceived  two  of  them  were 
gone,  with  that  which  I  had  given  him,  but 
the  other  two  troubled  him  still.  "  Well," 
said  I,  "  I  am  glad  two  of  them  are  gone : 
I  make  no  doubt  to  get  away  the  other  two 
likewise."  So  I  gave  him  another  thing  to 
hang  about  his  neck.  Three  days  after,  he 
came  to  me  in  my  chamber,  and  professed 
he  was  now  as  well  as  ever  he  was  in  his 
life,  and  did  extremely  thank  me  for  the 
great  care  I  had  taken  of  him.  I,  fearing 
lest  he  might  relapse  into  the  like  distemper, 
told  him  that  there  was  none  but  myself 
and  one  physician  more  in  the  whole  town 
that  could  cure  the  devils  in  the  head,  and 
that  was  Dr.  Harvey  (whom  I  had  prepared), 
and  wished  him,  if  ever  he  found  himself  ill 
in  my  absence,  to  go  to  him,  for  he  could 
cure  his  disease  as  well  as  myself.  The 
gentleman  lived  many  years,  and  was  never 
troubled  after. 
Table- Talk. 


THOMAS    HOBBES, 

born  1588,  and  died  1679,  was  the  author  of 
Human  Nature;  or,  the  Fundamental  Prin- 
ciples of  Policy  concerning  the  Faculties  and 
Passions  of  the  Human  Soul,  Lond.,  1650, 
12mo,  Leviathan;  or,  the  Matter,  Forme, 
and  Power  of  a  Commonwealth,  ecclesiasti- 
call  and  civill,  1651,  fol.,  and  other  works. 

"  A  permanent  foundation  of  his  fame  remains 
in  his  admirable  style,  which  seems  to  be  the  very 
perfection  of  didactic  language.  Short,  clear,  pre- 
cise, pithy,  his  language  never  has  more  than  one 


SIR    THOMAS  ELYOT. 


51 


meaning,  which  it  never  requires  a  second  thought 
to  tnke.  By  the  help  of  his  exact  method  it  takes 
so  firm  a  hold  on  the  mind,  that  it  will  not  allow 
attention  to  slacken." — SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH: 
Second  Prelim.  JJiauert.  to  Encyc,  Brit. 

LAUGHTER. 

There  is  a  passion  that  hath  no  name ;  but 
the  sign  of  it  is  that  distortion  of  the  coun- 
tenance which  we  call  laughter,  which  is 
always  joy ;  but  what  joy,  what  we  think, 
and  wherein  we  triumph  when  we  laugh,  is 
not  declared  by  any.  That  it  consisteth  in 
wit,  or,  as  they  call  it,  in  the  jest,  experi- 
ence confuteth  ;  for  men  laugh  at  mischances 
and  indecencies,  wherein  there  lieth  no  wit 
nor  jest  at  all.  And  forasmuch  as  the  same 
thing  is  no  more  ridiculous  when  it  groweth 
stale  or  usual,  Avhatsoever  it  be  that  moveth 
laughter,  it  must  be  new  and  unexpected. 
Men  laugh  often  (especially  such  as  are 
greedy  of  applause  from  everything  they  do 
well)  at  their  own  actions  performed  never 
so  little  beyond  their  own  expectations;  as 
also  at  their  own  jests:  and  in  this  case  it  is 
manifest  that  the  passion  of  laughter  pro- 
ceedeth  from  a  sudden  conception  of  some 
ability  in  himself  that  laugheth.  Also,  men 
laugh  at  the  infirmities  of  others,  by  com- 
parison wherewith  their  own  abilities  are 
set  off  and  illustrated.  Also,  men  laugh  at 
jests,  the  wit  whereof  always  consisteth  in 
the  elegant  discovering  and  conveying  to  our 
minds  some  absurdity  of  another;  and  in 
this  case  also  the  passion  of  laughter  pro- 
ceeded from  the  sudden  imagination  of  our 
own  odds  and  eminency;  for  what  is  else  the 
recommending  of  ourselves  to  our  own  good 
opinion,  by  comparison  with  another  man's 
infirmity  or  absurdity?  For  when  a  jest  is 
broken  upon  ourselves,  or  friends,  of  whose 
dishonour  we  participate,  we  never  laugh 
thereat.  I  may  therefore  conclude  that  the 
passion  of  laughter  is  nothing  else  but  sud- 
den glory  arising  from  a  sudden  conception 
of  some  eminency  in  ourselves,  by  compari- 
son with  the  infirmity  of  others,  or  with  our 
own  formerly;  for  men  laugh  at  the  follies 
of  themselves  past,  when  they  come  sud- 
denly to  remembrance,  except  they  bring 
with  them  any  present  dishonour.  It  is  no 
wonder,  therefore,  that  man  take  heinously 
to  be  laughed  at  or  derided  ;  that  is,  tri- 
umphed over.  Laughing  without  offence, 
must  be  at  absurdities  and  infirmities  ab- 
stracted from  persons,  and  when  all  the  com- 
pany may  laugh  together  :  for  laughing  to 
one's  self  putteth  all  the  rest  into  jealousy, 
and  examination  of  themselves.  Besides,  it 
is  vain  glory,  and  an  argument  of  little 
worth,  to  think  the  infirmity  of  another 
sufficient  matter  for  his  triumph. 

Human  Nature. 


LOVE  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

Forasmuch  as  all  knowledge  beginneth 
from  experience,  therefore  also  new  experi- 
ence is  the  beginning  of  new  knowledge,  and 
the  increase  of  experience  the  beginning  of 
the  increase  of  knowledge.  Whatsoever, 
therefore,  happeneth  new  to  a  man,  giveth 
him  matter  of  hope  of  knowing  somewhat 
that  he  knew  not  before.  And  this  hope 
and  expectation  of  future  knowledge  from 
anything  that  happeneth  new  and  strange, 
is  tlrat  passion  which  we  commonly  call  ail- 
miration  ;  and  the  same  considered  as  appe- 
tite, is  called  curiosity,  which  is  appetite  of 
knowledge.  As  in  the  discerning  of  facul- 
ties, man  leaveth  all  community  with  beasts 
at  the  faculty  of  imposing  names,  so  also 
doth  he  surmount  their  nature  at  this  pas- 
sion of  curiosity.  For  when  a  beast  seeth 
anything  new  and  strange  to  him,  he  con- 
sidereth  it  so  far  only  as  to  discern  whether 
it  be  likely  to  serve  his  turn  or  hurt  him, 
and  accordingly  approacheth  nearer  to  it,  or 
fleeth  from  it :  whereas  man,  who  in  most 
events  remembereth  in  what  manner  they 
were  caused  and  begun,  looketh  for  the 
cause  and  beginning  of  everything  that 
ariseth  new  unto  him.  And  from  this  pas- 
sion of  admiration  and  curiosity  have  arisen 
not  only  the  invention  of  names,  but  also 
supposition  of  such  causes  of  all  things  as 
they  thought  might  produce  them.  And 
from  this  beginning  is  derived  all  philoso- 
phy:  as  astronomy  from  the  admiration  of 
the  course  of  heaven  ;  natural  philosophy 
from  the  strange  effects  of  the  elements  and 
other  bodies. 

And  from  the  degrees  of  curiosity  proceed 
also  the  degrees  of  knowledge  amongst  men  ; 
for,  to  a  man  in  the  chase  of  riches  or  author- 
ity (which  in  respect  of  knowledge  are  but 
sensuality)  it  is  a  diversity  of  little  pleasure 
whether  it  be  the  motion  of  the  sun  or  the 
earth  that  maketh  the  day  ;  or  to  enter  into 
other  contemplations  of  any  strange  acci- 
dent, otherwise  than  whether  it  conduce  or 
not  to  the  end  he  pursueth.  Because  curi- 
osity is  delight,  therefore  also  novelty  is  so; 
but  especially  that  novelty  from  which  a 
man  conceiveth  an  opinion,  true  or  false,  of 
bettering  his  own  estate;  for  in  such  case 
they  stand  affected  with  the  hope  that  all 
gamesters  have  while  the  cards  are  shuffling. 

Human  Nature. 


SIR  THOMAS    ELYOT, 

a  learned  physician,  employed  by  Henry 
VIII.  on  several  embassies,  published, 
among  other  works,  The  Castle  of  Helthe, 
Lond.,  1533,  IGmo. 


52 


WILLIAM  HARRISON. 


DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF  EXERCISE. 

The  qualify  of  exercise  is  the  diversity 
thereof,  for  as  much  as  therein  be  many 
differences  in  moving,  and  also  some  exer- 
cise inoveth  more  one  part  of  the  body,  some 
another.  In  difference  of  moving,  some  is 
slow  or  soft,  some  is  swift  or  fast,  some  is 
strong  or  violent,  some  be  mixed  with 
strength  and  swiftness.  Strong  or  violent 
exercises  be  these :  delving  (specially  in 
tough  clay  and  heavy),  bearing  or  sustain- 
ing of  heavy  burdens,  climbing  or  walking 
against  a  steep,  upright  hill,  holding  a  rope 
and  climbing  up  thereby,  hanging  by  the 
hands  on  anything  above  a  man's  reach, 
that  his  feet  touch  not  the  ground,  standing 
and  holding  up  or  spreading  the  arms,  with 
the  hands  fast  closed  and  abiding  so  a  long 
time.  Also,  to  hold  the  {inns  steadfast, 
causing  another  man  to  essay  to  pull  them 
out,  and  notwithstanding  he  keepeth  his  arm 
steadfast,  enforcing  thereunto  the  sinews  and 
muscles. 

Wrestling  also,  with  the  arms  and  legs,  if 
the  persons  be  equal  in  strength,  it  doth  ex- 
ercise the  one  and  the  other;  if  the  one  be 
stronger,  then  is  [it]  to  the  weaker  a  more 
violent  exercise.  All  these  kinds  of  exer- 
cise and  other  like  them  do  augment 
strength,  and  therefore  they  serve  only 
for  young  men  which  be  inclined  or  be 
apt  to  the  wars.  Swift  exercise  without 
violence  is  running,  playing  with  weapons, 
tennis,  or  throwing  of  the  ball,  trotting  a 
space  of  ground  forward  and  backward, 
going  on  the  toes  and  holding  up  the  hands; 
also,  stirring  up  and  down  his  arms  without 
plummets.  Vehement  exercise  is  compound 
of  violent  exercise  and  swift,  when  they  are 
joined  together  at  one  time,  as  dancing  or 
galiards,  throwing  of  the  ball  and  running 
after  it ;  foot-ball  play  may  be  in  the  num- 
ber thereof,  throwing  of  the  long  dart  and 
continuing  it  many  times,  running  in  har- 
ness, and  other  like.  The  moderate  exer- 
cise is  long  walking  or  going  a  journey. 
The  parts  of  the  body  have  sundry  exercises 
appropried  unto  them :  as  running  and  go- 
ing is  more  proper  for  the  legs ;  moving  of 
the  arms  up  and  down,  or  stretching  them 
out  and  playing  with  weapons  serveth  most 
for  the  arms  and  shoulders;  stooping  and 
rising  oftentimes,  or  lifting  great  weights, 
taking  up  plummets  or  other  like  poises  on 
the  ends  of  staves,  and  in  likewise  lifting  up 
in  every  hand  a  spear  or  morrispike  by  the 
ends,  specially  crossing  the  hands,  and  to 
lay  them  down  ngain  in  their  places ;  these 
do  exercise  the  back  and  loins.  Of  the  bulk 
[chest]  and  lungs  the  proper  exercise  is 
.  moving  of  the  breath  in  singing  or  crying. 
The  entrails,  which  be  underneath  the  mid- 


rift',  be  exercised  by  blowing  either  by  con- 
straint or  playing  on  shalms  or  sackbuts,  or 
other  like  instruments,  which  do  require 
much  wind.  The  muscles  are  best  exercised 
with  holding  of  the  breath  in  a  long  time, 
so  that  he  which  doth  exercise  hath  well  di- 
gested his  meat,  and  is  not  troubled  with 
much  wind  in  his  body.  Finally,  loud  read- 
ing, counterfeit  battle,  tennis  or  throwing 
the  ball,  running,  walking,  adde[d]  to  shoot- 
ing, which,  in  mine  opinion,  exceeds  all  the 
other,  do  exercise  the  body  commodiously. 
Always  remember  that  the  end  of  violent 
exercise  is  difficulty  in  fetching  of  .the 
breath ;  of  moderate  exercise  alteration  of 
breath  only,  or  the  beginning  of  sweat. 
Moreover,  in  winter,  running  and  wrestling 
is  convenient ;  in  summer,  wrestling  a  little, 
but  not  running  ;  in  very  cold  weather,  much 
walking:  in  hot  weather  rest  is  more  expe- 
dient. They  which  seern  to  have  moist 
bodies,  and  live  in  idleness,  they  have  need 
of  violent  exercise.  They  which  are  lean 
and  choleric  must  walk  softly,  and  exercise 
themselves  very  temperately.  The  plum- 
mets, called  of  Galen  alteres,  which  are  now 
much  used  with  great  men,  being  of  equal 
weight  and  according  to  the  strength  of  him. 
that  exerciseth.  are  very  good  to  be  used. 
The  Castle  of  Helthe. 


WILLIAM    HARRISON, 

rector  of  Radwinter,  died  1592(7),  wrote  a 
Historical  Description  of  the  Island  of  Brit- 
ain, prefixed  to  The  Chronicles  of  Englande, 
Scotlande,  and  Irelande,  by  Raphael!  IIol- 
inshed,  Lond.,  1577,  "1  vols.  fol.  ("  Shak- 
speare  edition.") 

TOE  LANGUAGES  OF  BRITAIN. 

The  British  tongue  called  Cymric  doth 
yet  remain  in  that  part  of  the  island  which 
is  now  called  Wales,  whither  the  Britons 
were  driven  after  the  Saxons  had  made  a 
full  conquest  of  the  other,  which  we  now 
call  England,  although  the  pristine  integrity 
thereof  be  not  a  little  diminished  by  mixture 
of  the  Latin  and  Saxon  speeches  withal. 
Ilowbeit,  many  poesies  and  writings  (in 
making  whereof  that  nation  hath  evermore 
delighted)  are  yet  extant  in  my  time,  where- 
by some  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
present  language  may  easily  be  discerned, 
notwithstanding  that  among  all  these  there 
is  nothing  to  be  found  which  can  set  down 
any  sound  and  full  testimony  of  their  own 
original,  in  remembrance  whereof  their  bards 
and  cunning  men  have  been  most  slack  and 
negligent.  .  .  .  Next  unto  the  British  speech, 
the  Latin  tongue  was  brought  in  by  the  Ro- 


WILLIAM  HARRISON. 


53 


mans,  and  in  manner  generally  planted 
through  the  whole  region,  as  the  French 
was  after  by  the  Normans.  Of  this  tongue 
I  will  not  say  much,  because  there  are  few 
which  be  not  skilful  in  the  same.  Ilowbeit, 
as  the  speech  itself -is  easy  and  delectable, 
so  hath  it  perverted  the  names  of  the  ancient 
rivers,  regions,  and  cities  of  Britain,  in  such 
wise,  that  in  these  our  days  their  old  British 
denominations  are  quite  grown  out  of  mem- 
ory, and  yet  those  of  the  new  Latin  left  at 
most  uncertain.  This  remaineth,  also,  unto 
my  time,  borrowed  from  the  Romans,  that 
all  our  deeds,  evidences,  charters,  and  writ- 
ings of  record  are  set  down  in  the  Latin 
tongue,  though  now  very  barbarous,  and 
thereunto  the  copies  anil  court-rolls,  and 
processes  of  courts  and  leets  registered  in 
the  same. 

The  third  language  apparently  known  is 
the  Scythian,  or  High  Dutch,  induced  at  the 
first  by  the  Saxons  (which  the  Britons  call 
Saysonace,  as  they  do  the  speakers  Sayson), 
a  hard  and  rough  kind  of  speech,  God  wot, 
when  our  nation  was  brought  first  into 
acquaintance  withal,  but  now  changed  with 
us  into  a  far  more  fine  and  easy  kind  of  utter- 
ance, and  so  polished  and  helped  with  new 
and  milder  words,  that  it  is  to  be  avouched 
how  there  is  no  one  speech  under  the 
sun  spoken  in  our  time  that  hath  or  can 
have  more  variety  of  words,  copiousness  of 
phrases,  or  figures  and  flowers  of  eloquence, 
than  hath  our  English  tongue,  although 
some  have  affirmed  us  rather  to  bark  as  dogs 
than  talk  like  men,  because  the  most  of  our 
words  (as  they  do  indeed)  incline  unto  one 
syllable.  This,  also,  is  to  be  noted  as  a  tes- 
timony remaining  still  of  our  language,  de- 
rived from  the  Saxons,  that  the  general 
name,  for  the  most  part,  of  every  skilful 
artificer  in  his  trade  endeth  in  here  with  us, 
albeit  the  h  be  left  out  and  er  only  inserted, 
as  scrivenhere,  writehere,  shiphere,  &c.,  for 
scrivener,  writer,  and  shipper,  &c. ;  besides 
many  other  relics  of  that  speech,  never  to  be 
abolished. 

After  the  Saxon  tongue  came  the  Norman 
or  French  language  over  into  our  country, 
and  therein  were  our  laws  written  for  a  long 
time.  Our  children,  also,  were,  by  an  espe- 
cial decree,  taught  first  to  speak  the  same, 
and  thereunto  enforced  to  learn  their  con- 
structions in  the  French,  whensoever  they 
were  set  to  the  grammar-school.  In  like 
sort,  few  bishops,  abbots,  or  other  clergy- 
men were  admitted  unto  any  ecclesiastical 
function  here  among  us,  but  such  as  came 
out  of  religious  houses  from  beyond  the  seas, 
to  the  end  they  should  not  use  the  English 
tongue  in  their  sermons  to  the  people.  In 
the  court,  also,  it  grew  into  such  contempt, 
that  most  men  thought  it  no  small  dishonour 


to  speak  any  English  there ;  which  bravery 
took  his  hold  at  the  last  likewise  in  the 
country  with  every  ploughman  that  even 
the  very  carters  began  to  wax  weary  of  their 
mother-tongue,  and  laboured  to  speak  French, 
which  as  then  was  counted  no  small  token  of 
gentility.  And  no  marvel;  for  every  French 
rascal,  when  he  came  once  hither,  was  taken 
for  a  gentleman,  only  because  he  was  proud, 
and  could  use  his  own  language.  And  all 
this  (I  say)  to  exile  the  English  and  British 
speeches  quite  out  of  the  country.  But  in 
vain :  for  in  the  time  of  King  Edward  I.,  to 
wit,  toward  the  latter  end  of  his  reign,  the 
French  itself  ceased  to  be  spoken  generally, 
but  most  of  all  and  by  law  in  the  midst  of 
Edward  III.,  and  then  began  the  English  to 
recover  and  grow  in  more  estimation  than 
before ;  notwithstanding  that,  among  our 
artificers,  the  most  part  of  their  implements, 
tools,  and  words  of  art  retain  still  their 
French  denominations  even  to  these  our 
days,  as  the  language  itself  is  used  likewise 
in  sundry  courts,  books  of  record,  and  mat- 
ters of  law;  whereof  here  is  no  place  to 
make  any  particular  rehearsal.  Afterward, 
also,  by  diligent  travail  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer 
and  John  Gower,  in  the  time  of  Richard  II., 
and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and  John 
Lydgate,  monk  of  Bury,  our  said  tongue  was 
brought  to  an  excellent  pass,  notwithstand- 
ing that  it  never  came  unto  the  type  of  per- 
fection until  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
wherein  John  Jewel,  bishop  of  Sarum,  John 
Fox,  and  sundry  learned  and  excellent 
writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  ornature 
of  the  same,  to  their  great  praise  and  im- 
mortal commendation  ;  although  not  a  few 
other  do  greatly  seek  to  stain  the  same  by 
fond  affectation  of  foreign  and  strange  words, 
presuming  that  to  be  the  best  English  which 
is  most  corrupted  with  external  terms  of 
eloquence  and  sound  of  many  syllables. 

But  as  this  excellency  of  the  English  tongue 
is  found  in  one,  and  the  south  part  of  this 
island,  so  in  Wales  the  greatest  number  (as 
I  said)  retain  still  their  own  ancient  lan- 
guage, that  of  the  north  part  of  the  said 
country  being  less  corrupted  than  the  other, 
and  therefore  reputed  for  the  better  in  their 
own  estimation  and  judgment.  This,  also, 
is  proper  to  us  Englishmen,  that  since  ours 
is  a  middle  or  intermediate  language,  and 
neither  too  rough  nor  too  smooth  in  utter- 
ance, we  may  with  much  facility  learn 
any  other  language,  beside  Hebrew,  Greek, 
and  Latin,  and  speak  it  naturally,  as  if  we 
were  home-born  in  those  countries;  and  yet 
on  the  other  side  it  falleth  out,  I  wot  not  by 
what  other  means,  that  few  foreign  nations 
can  rightly  pronounce  ours,  without  some 
and  that  great  note  of  imperfection,  espe- 
cially the  Frenchmen,  who  also  seldom 


54 


IZAAK   WALTON. 


write  anything  that  savoureth  of  English 
truly.  But  this  of  all  the  rest  doth  breed 
most  admiration  with  me,  that  if  any  stran- 
ger do  hit  upon  some  likely  pronunciation 
of  our  tongue,  yet  in  age  he  swerveth  so  much 
from  the  same,  that  he  is  worse  therein  than 
ever  he  was,  and  thereto,  peradventure, 
halteth  not  a  little  also  in  his  own,  as  I  have 
seen  by  experience  in  Reginald  Wolfe,  and 
others,  whereof  I  have  justly  marvelled. 

The  Cornish  and  Devonshire  men,  whose 
country  the  Britons  call  Cerniw,  have  a 
speech  in  like  sort  of  their  own,  and  such 
as  hath  indeed  more  affinity  with  the  Amori- 
can  tongue  than  I  can  well  discuss  of.  Yet 
in  mine  opinion  they  are  both  but  a  cor- 
rupted kind  of  British,  albeit  so  far  degen- 
erating in  these  days  from  the  old,  that  if 
either  of  them  do  meet  with  a  Welshman, 
they  are  not  able  at  the  first  to  understand 
one  another,  except  here  and  there  in  some 
odd  words,  without  the  help  of  interpreters. 
And  no  marvel,  in  mine  opinion,  that  the 
British  of  Cornwall  is  thus  corrupted,  since 
the  Welsh  tongue  that  is  spoken  in  the 
north  and  south  part  of  Wales  doth  differ  so 
much  in  itself  as  the  English  used  in  Scot- 
land doth  from  that  which  is  spoken  among 
us  here  in  this  side  of  the  island,  as  I  have 
said  already. 

The  Scottish-English  hath  been  much 
broader  and  less  pleasant  in  utterance  than 
ours,  because  that  nation  hath  not,  till  of 
late,  endeavoured  to  bring  the  same  to  any 
perfect  order,  and  yet  it  was  such  in  manner 
as  Englishmen  themselves  did  speak  for  the 
most  part  beyond  the  Trent,  whither  any 
great  amendment  of  our  language  had  not, 
as  then,  extended  itself.  Ilowbeit.  in  our 
time  the  Scottish  language  endeavoureth  to 
come  near,  if  not  altogether  to  match,  our 
tongue  in  fineness  of  phrase  and  copiousness 
of  words,  and  this  may  in  part  appear  by  a 
history  of  the  Apocrypha  translated  into 
Scottish  verse  by  Hudson,  dedicated  to  the 
king  of  that  country,  and  containing  six 
books,  except  my  memory  do  fail  me. 

Historical  Description  of  the  Island  of 
ttritain. 


IZAAK  WALTON, 

"The  Father  of  Angling,"  born  at  Stafford, 
1593,  died  at  Winchester,  1683. 

His  Complete  Angler  ;  or,  The  Contem- 
plative Man's  Recreation,  Lond.,  1653, 
16ino,  is  an  English  classic. 

"Whether  we  consider  the  elegant  simplicity  of 
the  style,  the  ease  and  unaffected  humour  of  the 
dialogue,  the  lovely  scenes  which  it  delineates,  the 
enchanting  pastoral  poetry  which  it  contains,  or 
the  fine  morality  it  so  sweetly  inculcates,  it  has 


hardly  its  fellow  among  any  of  the  modern  lan- 
guages."— SIR  JOHN  HAWKINS. 

"Among  all  your  quaint-readings  did  you  ever 
light  upon  '  Walton's  Complete  Angler'?  I  asked 
you  the  question  once  before ;  it  breathes  the  very 
spirit  of  innocence,  purity,  and  simplicity  of  heart : 
there  are  many  choice  old  verses  interspersed  in, 
it:  it  would  Christianize  every  discordant  angry 
passion.  Pray  make  yourself  acquainted  with  it." 
— CHARLES  LAMB  TO  COLERIDGE,  Oct.  28,  1796. 

CONTENTMENT. 

Well,  scholar,  having  now  taught  you  to 
paint  your  rod,  and  we  having  still  a  mile 
to  Tottenham  High  Cross,  I  will  as  we  walk 
towards  it  in  the  cool  shade  of  this  sweet 
honeysuckle  hedge,  mention  to  you  some  of 
the  thoughts  and  joys  that  have  possessed 
my  soul  since  we  met  together.  And  these 
thoughts  shall  be  told  you,  that  you  -also 
may  join  with  me  in  thankfulness  to  the 
Giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift  for  our 
happiness.  And  that  our  present  happiness 
may  appear  to  be  the  greater,  and  we  the 
more  thankful  for  it,  I  will  beg  you  to  con- 
sider with  me  how  many  do,  even  at  this 
very  time,  lie  under  the  torment  of  the 
stone,  the  gout,  and  toothache;  and  this  we 
are  free  from.  And  every  misery  that  I 
miss  is  a  new  mercy ;  and  therefore  let  us 
be  thankful.  There  have  been,  since  we 
met,  others  that  have  met  disasters  of  broken 
limbs  ;  some  have  been  blasted,  others  thun- 
der-strucken  ;  and  we  have  been  freed  from 
these  and  all  those  many  other  miseries  that 
threaten  human  nature:  let  us  therefore 
rejoice  and  be  thankful.  Nay,  which  is  a 
far  greater  mercy,  we  are  free  from  the  in- 
supportable burthen  of  an  accusing  torment- 
ing conscience — a  misery  that  none  can 
hear;  and  therefore  let  us  praise  Him  for 
his  preventing  grace,  and  say,  Every  misery 
that  I  miss  is  a  new  mercy.  Nay,  let  me 
tell  you,  there  be  many  that  have  forty  times 
our  estates,  that  would  give  the  greatest 
part  of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like 
us,  who,  with  the  expense  of  a  little  money, 
have  eat,  and  drank,  and  laughed,  and 
angled,  and  sung,  and  slept  securely  ;  and 
rose  next  day,  and  cast  away  care,  and  sung, 
and  laughed,  and  angled  again,  which  are 
blessings  rich  men  cannot  purchase  with  all 
their  money.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  I 
have  a  rich  neighbour  that  is  always  so 
busy  that  he  has  no  leisure  to  laugh  ;  the 
whole  business  of  his  life  is  to  get  money, 
and  more  money,  that  he  may  still  get  more 
and  more  money:  he  is  still  drudging  on, 
and  says  that  Solomon  says,  "  The  hand  of 
the  diligent  maketh  rich;"  and  it  is  true 
indeed :  but  he  considers  not  that  it  is  not 
in  the  power  of  riches  to  make  a  man  happy  ; 
for  it  was  wisely  said  by  a  man  of  great 
observation,  "  That  there  be  as  many  mis- 


JAMES  HO  WELL. 


55 


cries  beyond  riches  as  on  this  side  them." 
And  yet  God  deliver  us  from  pinching  pov- 
erty, and  grant  that,  having  a  competency, 
we  may  be  content  and  thankful !  Let  us 
not  repine,  or  so  much  as  think  the  gifts  of 
God  unequally  dealt,  if  we  see  another 
abound  with  riuhes,  when,  as  God  knows, 
the  cares  that  are  the  keys  that  keep  those 
riches  hang  often  so  heavily  at  the  rich 
man's  girdle,  that  they  clog  him  with  weary 
days  and  restless  nights,  even  when  others 
sleep  quietly.  We  see  but  the  outside  of 
the  rich  man's  happiness  •,  few  consider  him 
to  be  like  the  silkworm,  that,  \vhen  she 
seems  to  play,  is  at  the  very  same  time 
spinning  her  own  bowels,  and  consuming 
herself:  and  this  many  rich  men  do,  loading 
themselves  with  corroding  cares  to  keep 
what  they  have,  probably,  unconscionably 
got.  Let  us,  therefore,  be  thankful  for  health 
and  competence,  and,  above  all,  for  a  quiet 
conscience.  Let  me  tell  you,  scholar,  that 
Diogenes  Avalked  on  a  day,  with  his  friend, 
to  see  a  country  fair,  where  he  saw  ribbons, 
and  looking-glasses,  and  nut-crackers,  and 
fiddles,  and  hobby-horses,  and  many  other 
gimcracks ;  and  having  observed  them,  and  all 
the  other  finnimbruns  that  make  a  complete 
country  fair,  he  said  to  his  friend,  "  Lord,  how 
many  things  are  there  in  this  world  of  which 
Diogenes  hath  no  need !"  And  truly  it  is 
so,  or  might  be  so,  with  very  many  who 
vex  and  toil  themselves  to  get  what  they 
have  no  need  of.  Can  any  man  charge  God 
that  he  hath  not  given  him  enough  to  make 
his  life  happy?  No,  doubtless  ;  for  nature 
is  content  with  a  little.  And  yet  you  shall 
hardly  meet  with  a  man  that  complains  not 
of  some  want,  though  he  indeed  wants 
nothing  but  his  will ;  it  may  be,  nothing 
but  his  will  of  his  poor  neighbour,  for  not 
worshipping  or  not  flattering  him:  and 
thus,  when  we  might  be  happy  and  quiet, 
we  create  trouble  to  ourselves.  I  have 
heard  of  a  man  that  was  anirry  with  him- 
self because  he  was  no  taller ;  and  of  a 
woman  that  broke  her  looking-glass  because 
it  did  not  show  her  face  to  be  as  young  and 
handsome  as  her  next  neighbour's  was. 
And  I  knew  another  to  whom  God  had 
given  health  and  plenty,  but  a  wife  that 
nature  had  made  peevish,  and  her  husband's 
riches  had  made  purse-proud ;  and  must, 
because  she  was  rich,  and  for  no  other  vir- 
tue, sit  in  the  highest  pew  in  the  church  ; 
which  being  denied  her,  she  engaged  her 
husband  into  a  contention  for  it,  and  at  last 
into  a  lawsuit  with  a  dogged  neighbour, 
who  was  as  rich  as  he,  and  had  a  wife  as 
peevish  and  purse-proud  as  the  other ;  and 
this  lawsuit  begot  higher  oppositions  and 
actionable  words,  and  more  vexations  and 
lawsuits  ;  for  you  must  remember  that  both 


were  rich,  and  must  therefore  have  their 
wills.  Well,  this  wilful,  purse-proud  law- 
suit lasted  during  the  life  of  the  first  hus- 
band, after  which  his  wife  vexed  and  chid, 
and  chid  and  vexed,  till  she  also  chid  and 
vexed  herself  into  her  grave ;  and  so  the 
wealth  of  these  poor  rich  people  was  cursed 
into  a  punishment,  because  they  wanted 
meek  and  thankful  hearts,  for  those  only 
can  make  us  happy.  I  knew  a  man  that 
had  health  and  riches,  and  several  houses, 
all  beautiful  and  ready-furnished,  and  would 
often  trouble  himself  and  family  to  be  re- 
moving from  one  house  to  another ;  and 
being  .asked  by  a  friend  why  he  removed  so 
often  from  one  house  to  another,  replied, 
"  It  was  to  find  content  in  some  one  of  them." 
But  his  friend,  knowing  his  temper,  told 
him,  "If  he  would  find  content  in  any  of 
his  houses,  he  must  leave  himself  behind 
him  ;  for  content  will  never  dwell  but  in  a 
meek  and  quiet  spirit."  And  this  may  ap- 
pear, if  we  read  and  consider  what  our 
Saviour  says  in  St.  Matthew's  gospel,  for  he 
there  says,  "  Blessed  be  the  merciful,  for  they 
shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed  be  the  pure 
in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God.  Blessed 
be  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the 
kingdom  of  heaven.  And  blessed  be  the 
meek,  for  they  shall  possess  the  earth." 
Not  that  the  meek  shall  not  also  obtain 
mercy,  and  see  God.  and  be  comforted,  and 
at  last  come  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ;  but, 
in  the  mean  time,  he,  and  he  only,  possesses 
the  earth,  as  he  goes  toward  that  kingdom 
of  heaven,  by  being  humble  and  cheerful, 
and  content  with  what  his  good  God  has 
allotted  him.  lie  has  no  turbulent,  repin- 
ing, vexatious  thoughts  that  he  deserves 
better ;  nor  is  vexed  when  he  sees  others 
possessed  of  more  honour  or  more  riches 
than  his  wise  God  has  allotted  for  his  share  ; 
but  he  possesses  what  he  has  with  a  meek 
and  contented  quietness;  such  a  quietness 
as  makes  his  very  dreams  pleasing,  both  to 
God  and  himself. 

The  Complete  Angler. 


JAMES    HOWELL, 

born  1594,  from  1619  travelled  in  Holland, 
Flanders,  Spain,  France,  and  Italy,  as  stew- 
ard to  a  glassware  manufactory,  and  from 
the  Restoration  until  his  death,  in  1660,  was 
Historiographer-Royal  of  England.  Of  his 
nearly  fifty  works  and  translations,  the  best 
known  is  his  Epistolae  IIo-Elianae  ;  or,  Fa- 
miliar Letters,  Domestic  and  Foreign,  Lond., 
1645,  4to. 

"I  believe  the  second  published  correspondence 
of  this  kind,  and,  in  our  own  language  at  least,  of 
any  importance  after  [Joseph]  Hall,  will  be  found 


5G 


PETER  IIEYLIN. 


to  be  Epistolae  IIo-EIiante,  or  the  letters  of  James 
JIowcll,  a  great  traveller,  an  intimate  friend  of 
Johnson,  and  the  first  who  bore  the  office  of  the 
royal-historiographer,  which  discover  a  variety  of 
literature,  and  abound  with  much  entertaining 
and  useful  information." — WAKTO.N:  Ui»t.  of  Eng. 
Poet.,  ed.  1840,  iii.  440,  441. 

ROME  ix  1621. 

The  following  is  an  extract  from  a  letter 
•written  by  Howell  to  Sir  William  St.  John, 
Knight,  dated  Rome,  September  13,  1621 : 

SIR, — Having  seen  Antenor's  tomb  in 
Padua,  and  the  amphitheatre  of  Flaminius 
in  Arerona.  with  other  brave  towns  in  Lom- 
bardy,  I  am  now  come  to  Rome,  and  Rome, 
they  say,  is  every  man's  country  :  she  is 
called  Communis  Patris,  for  every  one  that 
is  within  the  compass  of  the  Latin  church 
finds  himself  here,  as  it  were,  at  home  and 
in  his  mother's  house,  in  regard  of  interest 
in  religion,  which  is  the  cause  that  for  one 
native  there  be  five  strangers  that  sojourn 
in  this  city ;  and  without  any  distinction  or 
mark  of  strangeness,  they  come  to  prefer- 
ments and  offices,  both  in  church  and  state, 
according  to  merit,  which  is  more  valued  and 
Bought  after  here  than  anywhere. 

But  whereas  I  expected  to  have  found 
Rome  elevated  upon  seven  hills.  I  met  her 
rather  spreading  upon  a  flat,  having  hum- 
bled herself  since  she  was  made  a  Christian, 
smd  descended  from  those  hills  to  Campus 
Martins  :  with  Trasieren,  and  the  suburbs  of 
Saint  Peter,  she  hath  yet  in  compass  about 
fourteen  miles,  which  is  far  short  of  that 
vast  circuit  she  had  in  Claudius  his  time: 
for  Vopiscus  writes  she  was  then  of  fifty 
miles  in  circumference,  and  she  had  five 
hundred  thousand  free  citizens  in  a  famous 
cense  that  was  made,  which,  allowing  but 
six  to  every  family,  in  women,  children,  and 
servants,  came  to  three  millions  of  souls; 
but  she  is  now  a  wilderness  in  comparison 
of  that  number.  The  pope  is  grown  to  be 
a  great  temporal  prince  of  late  years,  for 
the  state  of  the  church  extends  above  three 
hundred  miles  in  length  and  two  hundred 
miles  in  breadth  ;  it  contains  Ferrara,  Bo- 
logna, Romagnia,  the  Marquisate  of  Ancona, 
Umbria,  Sabina,  Perugia,  with  a  part  of 
Tuscany,  the  patrimony,  Rome  herself,  and 
Latium.  In  these  there  are  above  fifty 
bishopricks ;  the  pope  hath  also  the  duchy 
of  Spoleto,  and  the  exarchate  of  Ravenna ; 
he  hath  the  town  of  Benevento  in  the  king- 
dom of  Naples,  and  the  country  of  Venissa, 
called  Avignon,  in  France.  He  hath  title 
also  good  enough  to  Naples  itself;  but  rather 
than  offend  his  champion,  the  king  of  Spain, 
he  is  contented  with  a  white  mule,  and 
purse  of  pistoles  about  the  neck,  which  he 
receives  every  year  for  a  heriot,  or  homage, 


or  what  you  will  call  it ;  he  pretends  also  to 
be  lord  paramount  of  Sicily,  Urbin,  Parma, 
and  Masseran ;  of  Norway.  Ireland,  and 
England,  since  King  John  did  prostrate  our 
crown  at  Pandelfo  his  legate's  feet.  .  .  . 
The  air  of  Rome  is  not  so  wholesome  as  of 
old  ;  and  amongst  other  reasons,  one  is  be- 
cause of  the  burning  of  stubble  to  fatten 
their  fields.  For  her  antiquities,  it  would 
take  up  a  whole  volume  to  write  them  ; 
those  which  I  hold  the  chiefest  are  Ves- 
pasian's amphitheatre,  where  fourscore  thou- 
sand people  might  sit;  the  stoves  of  An- 
thony ;  divers  rare  statues  at  Belvidere  and 
St.  Peter's,  specially  that  of  Laocoon ;  the 
obelisk ;  for  the  genius  of  the  Roman  hath 
always  been  much  taken  with  imagery, 
limning,  and  sculptures,  insomuch  that,  as 
in  former  times,  so  now  I  believe,  the  statues 
and  pictures  in  Rome  exceed  the  number  of 
living  people.  .  .  .  Since  the  dismembering 
of  the  empire,  Rome  hath  run  through  many 
vicissitudes  and  turns  of  fortune ;  and  had 
it  not  been  for  the  residence  of  the  pope,  I 
believe  she  had  become  a  heap  of  stones,  a 
mount  of  rubbish,  by  this  time:  and  how- 
ever that  she  bears  up  indifferent  well,  yet 
one  may  say, — 

Qui  miseranda  videt  veteris  vestigia  RomsB, 
Ille  potest  merito  dicere,  Roma  fuit. 

"They  who  the  ruins  of  first  Rome  behold, 
May  say,  Rome  is  not  now,  but  was  of  old." 

Present  Rome  may  be  said  to  be  but  a 
monument  of  Rome  past,  when  she  was  in 
that  flourish  that  St.  Austin  desired  to  see 
her  in.  She  who  tamed  the  world  tamed 
herself  at  last,  and  falling  under  her  own 
weight,  fell  to  be  a  prey  to  time ;  yet  there 
is  a  providence  seems  to  have  a  care  of  her 
still ;  for  though  her  air  be  not  so  good,  nor 
her  circumjacent  soil  so  kindly  as  it  was, 
yet  she  hath  wherewith  to  keep  life  and  soul 
together  still,  by  her  ecclesiastical  courts, 
which  is  the  sole  cause  of  her  peopling  now  ; 
so  that  it  may  be  said,  when  the  pope  came 
to  be  her  head,  she  was  reduced  to  her  first 
principles  ;  for  as  a  shepherd  was  founder, 
so  a  shepherd  is  still  governor  and  pre- 
server. 

Epistolce  Ho-Eliance. 


PETER    HEYLIN,   D.D., 

born  1600,  died  1662,  was  the  author  of  at 
least  thirty-seven  works, — theological,  polit- 
ical, educational,  historical,  &c.  From  the 
Voyage  of  France :  or,  a  compleat  Journey 
through  France  (in  1625),  Lond.,  1673,  8vo, 
also  1679,  we  give  some  quotations. 

"This  volume,  however,  we  assure  our  readers, 
in  of  a  most  amusing  description,  and  indicative 


PETER  HEYLIN. 


57 


of  great  reading  anJ  acquirements  for  the  age  nt 
which  it  was  written.  It  is  full  of  the  efferves- 
cence of  young  life  and  animal  spirits.  The  air 
of  Krance  seems  to  have  actually  converted  the 
author  into  a  Frenchman,  whose  vivacity,  point, 
and  badinage  he  seems  to  have  imbibed.  The 
very  moment  he  touched  the  Gallic  soil  he  cast 
away  his  canonicals,  and  became  the  most  fa- 
cetious and  joyous  of  good  fellows,  the  most  lively 
of  tourists." — (London)  lietrospec.  lieo.,  iii.  22-31, 
1821. 

CHARACTER  OP  THE  FRENCH. 

The  present  French  is  nothing  but  an  old 
Gaul  moulded  into  a  new  name;  as  rash  he 
is,  as  headstrong,  and  as  hair-brained.  A 
nation  whom  you  shall  win  with  a  feather, 
and  lose  with  a  straw;  upon  the  first  sight 
of  him  you  shall  have  him  as  familiar  as 
your  sleep,  or  the  necessity  of  breathing. 
In  one  hour's  conference  you  may  endear 
him  to  you,  in  the  second  unbutton  him,  the 
third  pumps  him  dry  of  all  his  secrets,  and 
lie  gives  them  you  as  faithfully  as  if  you  were 
his  ghostly  father,  and  bound  to  conceal  them 
'sub  sigillo  confessiones' ;  when  you  have 
learned  this  you  may  lie  him  aside,  for  he  is 
no  longer  serviceable.  If  you  have  any  hu- 
mour in  holding  him  in  a  further  acquaint- 
ance (a  favour  which  he  confesseth,  and  I  be- 
lieve him,  he  is  unworthy  of),  himself  will 
make  the  first  separation  :  he  hath  said  over 
his  lesson  now  unto  you,  and  now  must  find 
out  somebody  else  to  whom  to  repeat.  Fare 
him  well :  he  is  a  garment  whom  I  would 
be  loath  to  wear  above  two  days  together, 
for  in  that  time  he  will  be  threadbare. 

"  Familiare  est  hominis  omnia  sibi  remit- 
tere,"  saith  Velleius  of  all :  it  holdeth  most 
properly  in  this  people.  He  is  very  kind- 
hearted  to  himself,  and  thinketh  himself  as 
free  from  wants  as  he  is  full ;  so  much  he 
hath  in  him  the  nature  of  a  Chinese,  that  he 
thinketh  all  men  blind  but  himself.  In  this 
private  self-conceitedness  he  hateth  the 
Spaniard,  loveth  not  the  English,  and  con- 
temneth  the  German  ;  himself  is  the  only 
courtier  and  complete  gentleman,  but  it  is 
his  own  glass  which  he  seeth  in.  But  of 
this  conceit  of  his  own  excellency  and  partly 
out  of  a  shallowness  of  brain,  he  is  very 
liable  to  exceptions ;  the  least  distaste  that 
can  be  draweth  his  sword,  and  a  minute's 
pause  sheatheth  it  to  your  hand  ;  afterwards, 
if  you  boat  him  into  better  manners,  he  shall 
take  it  kindly,  and  cry  serviteur.  In  this 
one  thing  they  are  wonderfully  like  the  devil : 
meekness  or  submission  makes  them  insolent, 
a  little  resistance  putteth  them  to  their  heels, 
or  makes  them  your  spaniels.  In  a  word 
(for  I  have  held  him  too  long),  he  is  a  walk- 
ing vanity  in  a  new  fashion. 

I  will  give  you  now  a  taste  of  his  table, 
which  you  shall  find  in  a  measure  furnished 
(I  speak  not  of  the  present),  but  not  with  so 


full  a  manner  as  with  us.  Their  beef  they 
cut  out  into  such  chops  that  that  which 
goeth  there  for  a  laudable  dish,  would  be 
thought  here  a  university  commons,  new 
served  from  the  hatch.  A  loin  of  mutton 
serves  amongst  them  for  three  roastings, 
besides  the  hazard  of  making  pottage  with 
the  rump.  Fowl,  also,  they  have  in  good 
plenty,  especially  such  as  the  king  found  in 
Scotland;  to  say  truth,  that  which  they 
have  is  sufficient  for  nature  and  a  friend, 
were  it  not  for  the  mistress  or  the  kitchen 
witch.  I  have  heard  much  fame  of  the 
French  cooks,  but  their  skill  lieth  not  in  the 
neat  handling  of  beef  and  mutton.  They 
have  (as  generally  have  all  this  nation)  good 
fancies,  and  are  speci.il  fellows  for  the  mak- 
ing of  puff-pastes,  and  the  ordering  of  ban- 
quets. Their  trade  is  not  to  feed  the  belly, 
but  the  palate.  It  is  now  time  you  were  set 
down,  where  the  first  thing  you  must  do  is 
to  say  your  grace ;  private  graces  are  as 
ordinary  there  as  private  masses,  and  from 
thence  I  think  they  learned  them.  That 
done,  fall  to  where  you  like  best;  they  ob- 
serve no  method  in  their  eating,  and  if  you 
look  for  a  carver,  you  may  rise  fasting. 
When  you  are  risen,  if  you  can  digest  the 
sluttishness  of  the  cookery  (which  is  most 
abominable  at  first  sight),  I  dare  trust  you 
in  a  garrison.  Follow  him  to  church,  and 
there  he  will  show  himself  most  irreligious 
and  irreverent.  I  speak  not  of  all,  but  the 
general.  At  a  mass,  in  Cordeliers'  church, 
in  Paris,  I  saw  two  French  papists,  even 
when  the  most  sacred  mystery  of  their  faith 
was  celebrating,  break  out  into  such  a  blas- 
phemous and  atheistical  laughter  that  even 
an  Ethnic  would  have  hated  it;  it  was  well 
they  were  Catholics,  otherwise  some  French 
hothead  or  other  would  have  sent  them 
laughing  to  Pluto. 

The  French  language  is,  indeed,  very  sweet 
and  delectable  ;  it  is  cleared  of  all  harshness 
by  the  cutting  and  leaving  out  the  conso- 
nants, which  inaketh  it  fall  off  the  tongue 
very  volubly  ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  rather 
elegant  than  copious  ;  and,  therefore,  is  much 
troubled  for  want  of  words  to  find  out  para- 
phrases. It  expresseth  very  much  of  itself 
in  the  action  ;  the  head,  body,  and  shoulders 
concur  all  in  the  pronouncing  of  it;  and  he 
that  hopeth  to  speak  it  with  a  good  grace 
must  have  something  in  him  of  the  mimic. 
It  is  enriched  with  a  full  number  of  signifi- 
cant proverbs,  which  is  a  great  help  to  the 
French  humour  in  scoffing;  and  very  full  of 
courtship,  which  inaketh  all  the  people  com- 
plimental.  The  poorest  cobbler  in  the  village 
hath  his  court  cringes,  and  his  eau  benite  de 
cour;  his  court  holy-water  as  perfectly  as 
the  prince  of  Conde.  ...  At  my  being  there, 
the  sport  was  dancing,  an  exercise  much 


58 


SIR    THOMAS  BROWNE. 


used  by  the  French,  who  do  naturally  affect 
it.  And  it  seems  this  natural  inclination  is 
so  strong  and  deep-rooted,  that  neither  age 
nor  the  absence  of  a  smiling  fortune  can 
prevail  against  it.  For  on  this  dancing 
green  there  assembleth  not  only  youth  and 
gentry,  but  also  age  and  beggary  ;  old  wives 
which  could  not  set  foot  to  ground  without 
a  crutch  in  the  streets  had  here  taught  their 
feet  to  amble ;  you  would  have  thought  by 
the  cleanly  conveyance  and  carriage  of  their 
bodies  that  they  had  been  troubled  with  the 
sciatica,  and  yet  so  eager  in  the  sport  as  if 
their  dancing  days  should  never  be  done. 
Some  there  was  so  ragged  that  a  swift  gal- 
liard  would  almost  have  shaken  them  into 
nakedness,  and  they,  also,  most  violent  to 
have  their  carcasses  directed  in  a  measure. 
To  have  attempted  the  staying  of  them  at 
home,  or  the  persuading  of  them  to  work 
when  they  heard  the  fiddle,  had  been  a  task 
too  unwieldy  for  Hercules.  In  this  mixture 
of  age  and  condition  did  we  observe  them  at 
their  pastimes  ;  the  rags  being  so  interwoven 
witlr  the  silks,  and  wrinkled  brows  being  so 
interchangeably  mingled  with  fresh  beauties, 
that  you  would  have  thought  it  to  have  been 
a  mummery  of  fortunes  ;  as  for  those  of  both 
sexes  which  were  altogether  past  action, 
they  had  caused  themselves  to  be  carried 
thither  in  their  chairs,  and  trod  the  meas- 
ures with  their  eyes. 
The  Voyage  of  France. 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE,  M.D., 

born  1605,  died  1682,  was  the  author  of  four 
works  of  great  merit :  Keligio  Medici,  Lond., 
1642,  12mo;  Pseudodoxia  Epidemica:  En- 
quiries into  very  many  received  Tenets,  and 
commonly  presumed  Truths,  or  Enquiries 
into  vulgar  and  common  Errors,  Lond., 
1646,  sm.  fol.  ;  Hydriotaphia:  Urn  Buriall, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1658, 8vo ;  and  Christian  Morals, 
Camb.,  1716,  8vo. 

"  It  is  not  on  the  praises  of  others,  but  on  his 
own  writings,  that  he  is  to  depend  for  the  esteem  of 
posterity;  of  which  he  will  not  easily  be  deprived 
while  learning  shall  have  any  reverence  among 
men;  for  there  is  no  science  in  which  he  does  not 
discover  some  skill ;  and  scarce  any  kind  of  knowl- 
edge, profane  or  sacred,  abstruse  or  elegant,  which 
he  does  not  appear  to  have  cultivated  with  suc- 
cess."— DR.  S.  JOHNSON:  Life  of  Sir  T.  Browne. 

THE  JUDGMENTS  OF  GOD. 

And  to  be  true,  and  speak  my  soul,  when 
I  survey  the  occurrences  of  my  life,  and  call 
into  account  the  finger  of  God,  I  can  per- 
ceive nothing  but  an  abyss  and  mass  of  mer- 
cies, either  in  general  to  mankind,  or  in 
particular  to  myself:  and  whether  out  of 


the  prejudice  of  my  affection,  or  an  invert- 
ing and  partial  conceit  of  his  mercies.  I 
know  not ;  but  those  which  others  term 
crosses,  afflictions,  judgments,  misfortunes, 
to  me  who  inquire  farther  into  them  than 
their  visible  effects,  they  both  appear,  and 
in  event  have  ever  proved,  the  secret  and 
dissembled  favours  of  his  affection.  It  is  a 
singular  piece  of  wisdom  to  apprehend  truly, 
and  without  passion,  the  works  of  God,  and 
so  well  to  distinguish  his  justice  from  his 
mercy  as  not  to  miscall  those  noble  attri- 
butes :  yet  it  is  likewise  an  honest  piece  of 
logic,  so  to  dispute  and  argue  the  proceed- 
ings of  God,  as  to  distinguish  even  his  judg- 
ments into  mercies. 

For  God  is  merciful  unto  all,  because  bet- 
ter to  the  worst  than  the  best  deserve ;  and 
to  say  he  punisheth  none  in  this  world, 
though  it  be  a  paradox,  is  no  absurdity.  To 
one  that  hath  committed  murder,  if  the 
judge  should  only  ordain  a  fine,  it  were  a 
madness  to  call  this  a  punishment,  and  to 
repine  at  the  sentence,  rather  than  admire 
the  clemency  of  the  judge  :  thus  our  offences 
being  mortal,  and  deserving  not  only  death, 
but  damnation,  if  the  goodness  of  God  be 
content  to  traverse  and  pass  them  over  with 
a  loss,  misfortune,  or  disease,  what  phrenzy 
were  it  to  term  this  a  punishment,  rather 
than  an  extremity  of  mercy,  and  to  groan 
under  the  rod  of  his  judgments,  rather  than 
admire  the  sceptre  of  his  mercies !  There- 
fore to  adore,  honour,  and  admire  him  is  a 
debt  of  gratitude  due  from  the  obligation 
of  our  nature,  states,  and  conditions ;  and 
with  these  thoughts,  he  that  knows  them 
best  will  not  deny  that  I  adore  him.  That 
I  obtain  heaven,  and  the  bliss  thereof,  is  ac- 
cidental, and  not  the  intended  work  of  my 
devotion;  it  being  a  felicity  I  can  neither 
think  to  deserve,  nor  scarce  in  modesty  to 
expect.  For  these  two  ends  of  us  all,  either 
as  rewards  or  punishments,  are  mercifully 
ordained  and  disproportionably  disposed 
unto  our  actions ;  the  one  being  so  far  be- 
yond our  deserts,  the  other  so  infinitely  be- 
low our  demerits. 

There  is  no  salvation  to  those  that  believe 
not  in  Christ,  that  is,  say  some,  since  his 
nativity,  and,  as  divinity  affirmeth,  before 
also;  which  makes  me  much  apprehend  the 
end  of  those  honest  worthies  and  philoso- 
phers which  died  before  his  incarnation.  It 
is  hard  to  place  those  souls  in  hell  whoso 
worthy  lives  do  teach  us  virtue  on  earth  ; 
methinks  amongst  those  many  subdivisions 
of  hell  there  might  have  been  one  limbo  left 
for  these. 

What  a  strange  vision  will  it  be  to  see 
their  poetical  fictions  converted  into  verities, 
and  their  imagined  and  fancied  furies  into 
real  devils !  How  strange  to  them  will 


SIR    THOMAS  BROWNE. 


59 


sound  the  history  of  Adam,  when  they  shall 
suffer  for  him  they  never  heard  of!  when 
they  that  derive  their  genealogy  from  the 
god's,  shall  know  they  are  the  unhappy  issue 
of  sinful  man  ! 
Keligio  Medici. 

THE  CONDUCT  OF  LIFE. 

Since  thou  hast  an  alarum  in  thy  breast 
which  tells  thee  thou  hast  a  living  spirit  in 
tliee  above  two  thousand  times  in  an  hour, 
dull  not  away  thy  days  in  slothful  supinity 
and  the  tediousness  of  doing  nothing.  To 
strenuous  minds  there  is  an  inquietude  in 
over-quietness,  and  no  laboriousness  in  la- 
bour; and  to  tread  a  mile  after  the  slow 
pace  of  a  snail,  or  the  heavy  measures  of  the 
lazy  of  Brasilia,  were  a  most  tiring  penance, 
and  worse  than  a  race  of  some  furlongs  at 
the  Olympics.  The  rapid  courses  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  are  rather  imi table  by  our 
thoughts  than  our  corporeal  motions:  yet 
the  solemn  motions  of  our  lives  amount  unto 
a  greater  measure  than  is  commonly  appre- 
hended. Some  few  men  have  surrounded 
the  globe  of  the  earth  ;  yet  many  in  the  set 
locomotions  and  movements  of  their  days 
have  measured  the  circuit  of  it,  and  twenty 
thousand  miles  have  been  exceeded  by  them. 
Move  circumspectly,  not  meticulously,  and 
rather  carefully  solicitous  than  anxiously 
solicitudinous.  Think  not  there  is  a  lion  in 
the  way,  nor  walk  with  leaden  sandals  in 
the  paths  of  goodness ;  but  in  all  virtuous 
motions  let  prudence  determine  thy  meas- 
ures. Strive  not  to  run,  like  Hercules,  a  fur- 
long in  a  breath  :  festination  may  prove  pre- 
cipitation :  deliberating  delay  may  be  wise 
cunctation,  and  slowness  no  sloth  fulness. 

Since  virtuous  actions  have  their  own 
trumpets,  and,  without  any  noise  from  thy- 
self, will  have  their  resound  abroad,  busy 
not  thy  best  member  in  the  encomium  of 
thy  self.  Praise  is  a  debt  we  owe  unto  the 
virtues  of  others,  and  due  unto  our  own 
from  all  whom  malice  hath  not  made  mutes, 
or  envy  struck  dumb.  Fall  not,  however, 
into  the  common  prevaricating  way  of  self- 
commendation  and  boasting,  by  denoting 
the  imperfections  of  others.  He  who  dis- 
commendeth  others  obliquely  commendeth 
himself.  He  who  whispers  their  infirmities 
proclaims  his  own  exemption  from  them  ; 
and  consequently  says,  I  am  not  as  this 
publican,  or  hie  niger,  whom  I  talk  of. 
Open  ostentation  and  loud  vainglory  is  more 
tolerable  than  this  obliquity,  as  but  contain- 
ing some  froth,  no  ink  ;  as  but  consisting  of 
a  personal  piece  of  folly,  nor  complicated 
with  uncharitableness.  Superfluously  we 
seek  a  precarious  applause  abroad  ;  every 
good  man  hath  his plaudite  within  himself; 
and  though  his  tongue  be  silent,  is  not  with- 


out loud  cymbals  in  his  breast.  Conscience 
will  become  his  panegyrist,  and  never  for- 
get to  crown  and  extol  him  unto  himself. 

Bless  not  thyself  only  that  thou  wert  born 
in  Athens,  but,  among  thy  multiplied  ac- 
knowledgments, lift  up  one  hand  unto 
heaven  that  thou  wert  born  of  honest  par- 
ents;  that  modesty,  humility,  patience,  and 
veracity  lay  in  the  same  egg,  and  came 
into  the  world  with  thee.  From  such  foun- 
dations thou  mayst  be  happy  in  a  virtuous 
precocity,  and  make  an  early  and  long  walk 
in  goodness  ;  so  mayst  thou  more  naturally 
feel  the  contrariety  of  vice  unto  nature,  and 
resist  some  by  the  antidote  of  thy  temper. 

Christian  Morals. 

OBLIVION. 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course  of 
time,  and  oblivion  shares  with  memory  a 
great  part  even  of  our  living  beings.  We 
slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  the 
smartest  strokes  of  affliction  leave  but  short 
smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth  no  extrem- 
ities, and  sorrows  destroy  us  or  themselves. 
To  weep  into  stones  are  fables.  Afflictions 
induce  callosities;  miseries  are  slippery,  or 
fall  like  snow  upon  us,  which,  notwithstand- 
ing, is  no  unhappy  stupidity.  To  be  igno- 
rant of  evils  to  come,  and  forgetful  of  evils 
past,  is  a  merciful  provision  in  nature, 
whereby  we  digest  the  mixture  of»our  few 
and  evil  days,  and  our  delivered  senses  not 
relapsing  into  cutting  remembrances,  our 
sorrows  are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of 
repetitions.  A  great  part  of  antiquity  con- 
tented their  hopes  of  subsistency  with  a 
transmigration  of  their  souls;  a  good  way 
to  continue  their  memories,  while,  having 
the  advantage  of  plural  successions,  they 
could  not  but  act  something  remarkable  in 
such  variety  of  beings,  and  enjoying  the 
fame  of  their  passed  selves,  make  accumula- 
tion of  glory  unto  their  last  durations. 
Others,  rather  than  be  lost  in  the  uncom- 
fortable night  of  nothing,  were  content  to 
recede  into  the  common  being,  and  make 
one  particle  of  the  public  soul  of  all  things, 
which  was  no  more  than  to  return  into  their 
unknown  and  divine  original  again.  Egyp- 
tian ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  contriv- 
ing their  bodies  in  sweet  consistencies  to 
attend  the  return  of  their  souls.  But  all 
was  vanity,  feeding  the  wind  and  folly. 
The  Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses 
or  time  hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth. 
Mummy  is  become  merchandise,  Mizraim 
cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  bal- 
sams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  immor- 
tality, or  any  patent  from  oblivion,  in  pres- 
ervations below  the  moon.  Men  have  been 
deceived  even  in  their  flatteries  above  the 


GO 


OWEN  FELL  TEAM. 


sun,  and  studied  conceits  to  perpetuate  their 
name  in  heaven.  The  various  cosmography 
of  that  part  hath  already  varied  the  names 
of  contrived  constellations.  Nimrod  is  lost 
in  Orion,  and  Osiris  in  the  Dog-star.  While 
we  look  for  incorruption  in  the  heavens,  we 
find  they  are  but  like  the  earth,  durable  in 
their  main  bodies,  alterable  in  their  parts ; 
whereof,  beside  comets  and  new  stars,  per- 
spectives begin  to  tell  tales,  and  the  spots 
that  wander  about  the  sun,  with  Pharethon's 
favour,  would  make  clear  conviction. 
Urn  Burial. 


OWEN    FELL/THAM,  OR   FEL- 
THAM, 

born  about  1608,  died  about  1678,  lived  for 
some  years  in  the  family  of  the  Earl  of  Tho- 
mond,  was  the  author  of  Resolves,  Divine, 
Moral,  and  Political,  Lond.,  without  date, 
12mo  ;  2d  edit.,  Lond.,  1628,  4to ;  3d,  the  first 
complete  edit.,  Lond.,  1628,  4to ;  12th  edit.. 
1709,  13th  edit.,  1806,  &c.,  14th  edit.,  1820, 
&c.  Both  of  the  last  two  editions  were 
edited,  with  an  Account  of  the  Author,  by  J. 
Gumming.  New  edit.,  Lond.,  Pickering, 
1839,  12mo;  Century  I.,  1840,  cr.  4to ;  The 
Beauties  of  Owen  Feltliam,  Selected  from 
his  Resolves,  by  J.  A.,  Lond.,  1818,  12mo. 

"  We  lay  aside  the  Revolves  as  we  part  from  our 
dearest  friends,  in  the  hope  of  frequently  return- 
ing to  them.  We  recommend  the  whole  of  them 
to  our  readers'  perusal.  They  will  find  therein 
more  solid  maxims,  as  much  piety,  and  far  better 
writing,  than  in  most  of  the  pulpit  lectures  now 
current  among  us."  (London)  Retrospective  Re- 
view, x.  365. 

"  For  myself,  I  can  only  say  that  Feltham  ap- 
pears not  only  a  laboured  and  artificial,  but  a 
shallow  writer.  Among  his  many  faults,  none 
strike  me  more  than  a  want  of  depth,  which  his 
pointed  and  sententious  manner  renders  more 
ridiculous.  .  .  .  He  is  one  of  our  worst  writers  in 
point  of  style;  with  little  vigour,  he  has  less  ele- 
gance."— HALLAM  :  Lit.  Hint,  of  Europe,  Introduc, 

AGAINST  DETRACTIONS 

In  some  dispositions  there  is  such  an  envi- 
ous kind  of  pride,  that  they  cannot  endure 
that  any  but  themselves  shoujd  be  set  forth 
as  excellent ;  so  that,  when  they  hear  one 
justly  praised,  they  will  either  openly  de- 
tract from  his  virtues,  or,  if  those  virtues  be 
like  a  clear  and  shining  light,  eminent  and 
distinguished,  so  that  he  cannot  be  safely 
traduced  by  the  tongue,  they  will  then  raise 
a  suspicion  against  him  by  a  mysterious 
silence,  as  if  there  were  something  remain- 
ing to  be  told,  which  over-clouded  even  his 
brightest  glory.  Surely,  if  we  considered 
detraction  to  proceed,  as  it  does,  from  envy, 
and  to  belong  only  to  deficient  minds,  we 
should  find  that  to  applaud  virtue  would 


procure  us  far  more  honour  than  under- 
imndedly  seeking  to  disparage  her.  The 
former  would  show  that  we  loved  what  we 
commended,  while  the  latter  tells  the  world 
we  grudge  that  in  others  which  we  want  in 
ourselves.  It  is  one  of  the  basest  offices  of 
man  to  make  his  tongue  the  lash  of  the 
worthy.  Even  if  we  do  know  of  faults  in 
others,  I  think  we  can  scarcely  show  our- 
selves more  nobly  virtuous  than  in  having 
the  charity  to  conceal  them ;  so  that  we  do 
not  flutter  or  encourage  them  in  their  fail- 
ings. But  to  relate  anything  we  may  know 
iigainst  our  neighbour,  in  his  absence,  is 
most  unbeseeming  conduct.  And  who  will 
not  condemn  him  as  a  traitor  to  reputation 
and  society  who  tells  the  private  fault  of 
his  friend  to  the  public  and  ill-natured 
world  ?  When  two  friends  part  they  should 
lock  up  one  another's  secrets,  and  exchange 
their  keys.  The  honest  man  will  rather  be 
a  grave  to  his  neighbours  errors  than  in 
any  way  expose  them. 

OF  NEGLECT. 

There  is  the  same  difference  between  dili- 
gence and  neglect  that  there  is  between  a 
garden  properly  cultivated  and  the  slug- 
gard's field  which  fell  under  Solomon's  view, 
when  overgrown  with  nettles  and  thorns. 
The  one  is  clothed  with  beauty,  the  other  is 
unpleasant  and  disgusting  to  the  sight. 
Negligence  is  the  rust  of  the  soul,  that  cor- 
rodes through  all  her  best  resolutions.  What 
nature  made  for  use,  for  strength,  for  or- 
nament, neglect  alone  converts  to  trouble, 
weakness,  and  deformity.  We  need  only  sit 
still,  and  diseases  will  arise  from  the  mere 
want  of  exercise. 

How  fair  soever  the  soul  may  be,  yet 
while  connected  with  our  fleshy  nature  it 
requires  continual  care  and  vigilance  to  pre- 
vent its  being  soiled  and  discoloured.  Take 
the  weeders  from  the  Floralinm  and  a  very 
little  time  will  change  it  to  a  wilderness, 
and  turn  that  which  was  before  a  recreation 
for  men  into  a  habitation  for  vermin.  Our 
life  is  a  warfare ;  and  we  ought  not,  while 
passing  through  it,  to  sleep  without  a  sen- 
tinel, or  march  without  a  scout.  He  who 
neglects  either  of  these  precautions  exposes 
himself  to  surprise,  and  to  becoming  a  prey 
to  the  diligence  and  perseverance  of  his  ad- 
versary. The  mounds  of  life  and  virtue,  as 
well  as  those  of  pastures,  will  decay  ;  and  if 
we  do  not  repair  them,  all  the  beasts  of  the 
field  will  enter,  and  tear  up  everything  good 
which  grows  within  them.  With  the  re- 
ligious and  well-disposed  a  slight  deviation 
from  wisdom's  laws  will  disturb  the  mind's 
fair  peace.  Macarius  did  penance  for  only 
killing  a  gnat  in  anger.  Like  the  Jewish 


THOMAS  FULLER. 


61 


touch  of  things  unclean,  the  least  miscar- 
riage requires  purification.  Man  is  like  a 
watch :  if  evening  and  morning  he  be  not 
wound  up  with  prayer  and  circumspection 
he  is  unprofitable  and  false,  or  serves  to  mis- 
lead. If  the  instrument  be  not  truly  set  it 
will  be  harsh  and  out  of  tune:  the  diapason 
dies  wlien  every  string  does  not  perform  his 
part.  Surely  without  a  union  to  God  we 
cannot  be  secure  or  well.  Can  he  be  happy 
who  from  happiness  is  divided?  To  be 
united  to  God  we  must  be  influenced  by  his 
goodness  and  strive  to  imitate  his  perfec- 
tions. Diligence  alone  is  a  good  patrimony; 
but  neglect  will  waste  the  fairest  fortune. 
One  preserves  and  gathers  ;  the  other,  like 
death,  is  the  dissolution  of  all.  The  indus- 
trious bee,  by  her  sedulity  in  summer,  lives 
on  honey  all  the  winter.  But  the  drone  is 
not  only  cast  out  from  the  hive,  but  beaten 
and  punished. 
Resolves. 


THOMAS    FULLER, 

born  1608,  died  1661,  was  the  author  of  The 
Historic  of  the  Holy  Warre,  Camb.,  1639, 
fol.,  The  Holy  and  Profane  State,  Camb., 
1642,  fol.,  The  Church  History  of  Britain, 
from  the  Birth  of  Jesus  Christ  untill  the 
Year  MDCXLVIII.,  Lond.,  1655,  fol.,  The 
History  of  the  Worthies  of  England,  Lond., 
1662,  fol.,  and  other  works. 

"  Next  to  Shakspeare,  I  am  not  certain  whether 
Thomas  Fuller  beyond  all  other  writers  does  not 
excite  in  me  the  sense  and  emotion  of  the  marvel- 
lous; the  degree  in  which  any  given  faculty,  or 
combination  of  faculties,  is  possessed  and  mani- 
fested, so  far  surpassing  what  we  would  have 
thought  possible  in  a  single  mind,  as  to  give  one's 
admiration  the  flavour  and  qualify  of  wonder. 
Fuller  \yas  incomparably  the  most  sensible,  the 
least  prejudiced,  great  man  of  an  age  that  boasted 
of  a  galaxy  of  great  men.  In  all  his  numerous 
volumes,  on  so  many  different  subjects,  it  is 
scarcely  too  much  to  say,  that  you  will  hardly  find 
a  page  in  which  some  one  sentence  out  of  every 
three  does  not  deserve  to  be  quoted  for  itself  as  a 
inotto  or  as  a  maxim." — S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

•'The  historical  works  of  Fuller  are  simply  a 
caricature  of  the  species  of  composition  to  which 
they  professedly  belong;  a  systematic  violation  of 
all  its  proprieties.  The  gravity  and  dignity  of 
the  historic  muse  are  continually  violated  by  him. 
But  not  only  is  he  continually  cracking  his  jokes 
and  perpetrating  his  puns  ;  his  matter  is  as  full  of 
treason  against  the  laws  of  history  as  his  manner." 
— HENRY  ROGERS:  Edin.  llev.,  Ixxiv.  352-353, 
and  in  his  Essays. 

RULES  FOR  IMPROVING  THE  MEMORY. 
First,  soundly  infix  in  thy  mind  what  thou 
desirest  to  remember.  What  wonder  is  it  if 
agitation  of  business  jog  that  out  of  thy 
head  which  was  there  rather  tacked  than 
fastened?  Whereas  those  notions  which  get 


in  by  "  violenta  possessio''  will  abide  there 
till  "  ejcctio  firma,"  sickness,  or  extreme  age 
dispossess  them.  It  is  best  knocking  in  the 
nail  overnight,  and  clinching  it  the  next 
morning. 

Overburden  not  thy  memory  to  make  so 
faithful  a  servant  a  slave  !  Remember  Atlas 
was  weary.  Have  as  much  reason  as  a 
camel,  to  rise  when  thou  hast  thy  full  load. 
Memory,  like  a  purse,  if  it  be  overfull  that 
it  cannot  shut,  all  will  drop  out  of  it:  take 
heed  of  a  gluttonous  curiosity  to  feed  on 
many  things,  lest  the  greediness  of  the 
.appetite  of  thy  memory  spoil  the  digestion 
thereof.  Beza's  case  was  peculiar  and  memo- 
rable ;  being  above  fourscore  years  of  age, 
he  perfectly  could  say  by  heart  any  Greek 
chapter  in  St.  Paul's  epistles,  or  anything 
else  which  he  had  learnt  long  before,  but 
forgot  whatsoever  was  newly  told  him  ;  his 
memory,  like  an  inn,  retaining  old  guests, 
but  having  no  room  to  entertain  new. 

Spoil  not  thy  memory  by  thine  own  jeal- 
ousy, nor  make  it  bad  by  suspecting  it. 
How  canst  thou  find  that  true  which  thou 
wilt  not  trust?  St.  Augustine  tells  of  his 
friend  Simplicius,  who,  being  asked,  could 
tell  all  Virgil's  verses  backward  and  for- 
ward, and  yet  the  same  party  avowed  to  God 
that  he  knew  not  that  he  could  do  it  till 
they  did  try  him.  Sure  there  is  concealed 
strength  in  men's  memories,  which  they 
take  no  notice  of. 

Marshal  thy  notions  into  a  handsome 
method.  One  will  carry  twice  more  weight 
trussed  and  packed  up  in  bundles,  than 
when  it  lies  untoward  flapping  and  hanging 
about  his  shoulders.  Things  orderly  far- 
died  up  under  heads  are  most  portable. 

Adventure  not  all  thy  learning  in  one 
bottom,  but  divide  it  betwixt  thy  memory 
and  thy  note-books.  He  that  with  Bias 
carries  all  his  learning  about  him  in  his 
head,  will  utterly  be  beggared  and  bankrupt 
if  a  violent  disease,  a  merciless  thief,  should 
rob  and  strip  him.  I  know  some  have  a 
commonplace  against  commonplace  books, 
and  yet,  perchance,  will  privately  make  use 
of  what  they  publicly  declaim  against.  A 
commonplace  book  contains  many  notions  in 
garrison,  whence  the  owner  may  draw  out 
an  army  into  the  field  on  competent  Avaru- 
ing. 

CONVERSATION. 

The  study  of  books  is  a  languishing  and 
feeble  motion  that  heats  not ;  whereas  con- 
ference teaches  and  exercises  at  once.  If  I 
confer  with  an  understanding  man  and  a 
rude  jester,  he  presses  hard  upon  me  on 
both  sides;  his  imaginations  raise  up  mine 
in  more  than  ordinary  pitch.  Jealousy, 
glory,  and  contention  stimulate  and  raise 


62 


JOHN  MILTON. 


me  up  to  something  above  myself;  and  a 
consent  of  judgment  is  a  quality  totally 
offensive  in  conference.  But,  as  our  minds 
fortify  themselves  by  the  communication  of 
vigorous  and  able  understandings,  'tis  not 
to  be  expressed  how  much  they  lose  and 
degenerate  by  the  continual  commerce  and 
frequentation  we  have  with  those  that  are 
mean  and  low.  There  is  no  contagion  that 
spreads  like  that.  I  know  sufficiently,  by 
experience,  what  'tis  worth  a  yard.  I  love 
to  discourse  and  dispute,  but  it  is  with  few 
men,  and  for  myself:  for  to  do  it  as  a  spec- 
tacle and  entertainment  to  great  persons, 
and  to  vaunt  of  a  man's  wit  and  eloquence,  is 
in  my  opinion  very  unbecoming  a  man  of 
honour.  Impertinency  is  a  scurvy  quality  ; 
but  not  to  be  able  to  endure  it,  to  fret  and 
vex  at  it,  as  I  do,  is  another  sort  of  disease, 
little  inferior  to  impertinence  itself,  and  is 
the  thing  that  I  will  now  accuse  in  myself. 
I  enter  into  conference  and  dispute  with 
great  liberty  and  facility,  forasmuch  as 
opinion  meets  in  me  with  a  soil  very  unfit 
for  penetration,  and  wherein  to  take  any 
deep  root:  no  propositions  astonish  me,  no 
belief  offends  me,  though  never  so  contrary 
to  my  own.  There  is  no  frivolous  and  ex- 
travagant fancy  that  does  not  seem  to  me 
suitable  to  the  product  of  human  wit.  .  .  . 
The  contradictions  of  judgments,  then,  do 
neither  offend  nor  alter,  they  only  rouse 
and  exercise  me.  We  evade  correction, 
whereas  we  ought  to  offer  and  present  our- 
selves to  it,  especially  when  it  appears  in 
the  form  of  conference,  and  not  of  authority. 
At  every  opposition,  we  do  not  consider 
whether  or  no  it  be  just,  but  right  or  wrong 
how  to  disengage  ourselves ;  instead  of  ex- 
tending the  arms,  we  thrust  out  our  claws. 
I  could  suffer  myself  to  be  rudely  handled 
by  my  friend,  so  much  as  to  tell  me  that  I 
am  a  fool,  and  talk  I  know  not  of  what.  I 
love  stout  expressions  amongst  brave  men, 
and  to  have  them  speak  as  they  think.  We 
must  fortify  and  harden  our  hearing  against 
this  tenderness  of  the  ceremonious  sound  of 
words.  I  love  a  strong  and  manly  famili- 
arity in  conversation ;  a  friendship  that 
flatters  itself  in  the  sharpness  and  vigour 
of  communication,  like  love  in  biting  and 
scratching.  It  is  not  vigorous  and  gener- 
ous enough  if  it  be  not  quarrelsome ;  if 
civilized  and  artificial,  if  it  treads  nicely, 
and  fears  the  shock.  When  any  one  con- 
tradicts rne,  he  raises  my  attention,  not  my 
anger ;  I  advance  towards  him  that  contro- 
verts, that  instructs  me.  The  cause  of 
truth  ought  to  be  the  common  cause  both 
of  one  and  the  other.  ...  I  embrace  and 
caress  truth  in  what  hand  soever  I  find  it, 
and  cheerfully  surrender  myself  and  my 
conquered  arms,  as  far  off  as  I  can  discover 


it;  and.  provided  it  be  not  too  imperiously, 
take  a  pleasure  in  being  reproved ;  and  ac- 
commodate myself  to  my  accusers,  very  often 
more  by  way  of  civility  than  amendment, 
loving  to  gratify  and  nourish  the  liberty  of 
admonition  by  my  facility  of  submitting  to 
it.  ...  In  earnest,  I  rather  choose  the  fre- 
quentation of  those  that  ruffle  me  than  those 
that  fear  me.  'Tis  a  dull  and  hurtful  pleasure 
to  have  to  do  with  people  who  admire  us  and 
approve  of  all  we  say. 


JOHN  MILTON, 

born  1608,  died  1674,  is  but  little  known  to 
general  readers  as  a  prose  writer,  great  as 
he  was  in  this  species  of  composition.  We 
give  some  specimens,— taken  from  the  Reason 
of  Church  Government  urged  against  Prela- 
tory,  in  two  Books,  Lond.,  1641,  4to,  Letter 
to  Master  Hartlib  on  Education,  Lond..  lf>44, 
4to,  and  Areopagitica ;  a  Speech  to  the  Par- 
liament of  England  for  the  liberty  of  unli- 
censed Printing,  Lond.,  1644,  4to. 

"  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  writings  of 
Milton  should,  in  our  time,  be  so. little  rend.  As 
compositions,  they  deserve  the  attention  of  every 
man  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
full  power  of  the  English  language.  They  abound 
with  passages  compared  with  which  the  finest  dec- 
lamations of  Burke  sink  into  insignificance.  They 
are  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold.  The  style  is 
stiff  with  gorgeous  embroidery.  Not  even  in  the 
earlier  books  of  the  Paradise  Lost  has  the  great 
poet  ever  risen  -higher  than  in  those  parts  of  hia 
controversial  works  in  which  his  feelings,  excited 
by  conflict,  find  a  vent  in  bursts  of  devotional  and 
lyric  rapture.  It  is.  to  borrow  hia  own  majestic 
language,  'a  sevenfold  chorus  of  hallelujahs  and 
harping  symphonies.'" — LOUD  MACAULAY  :  Edin. 
lte<\,  xliii.  345,  and  in  his  Essays. 

"His  prose  writings  are  disagreeable,  though, 
not  altogether  deficient  in  genius." — HUME  :  Hint, 
of  Etirj. 

"  Milton's  prose  works  are  exceedingly  stiff  and 
pedantic." — DR.  RICHARD  FARMER:  Goodtnujh'a 
E.  G.  Lib.  Man.,  43i. 

LITERARY  ASPIRATIONS. 

After  I  had,  from  my  first  years,  by  the 
ceaseless  diligence  and  care  of  my  father, 
whom  God  recompense,  been  exercised  to 
the  tongues,  and  some  sciences,  as  my  age 
would  suffer,  by  sundry  masters  and  teachers, 
both  at  home  and  at  the  schools,  it  was  found 
that  whether  aught  was  imposed  me  by  them 
that  hjid  the  overlooking,  or  be  taken  to  of 
my  own  choice  in  English,  or  other  tongue, 
prosing  or  versing,  but  chiefly  the  latter,  the 
style,  by  certain  vital  signs  it  had,  was  likely 
to  live.  But  much  latelier,  in  the  private 
academies  of  Italy,  whither  I  was  favoured 
to  resort,  perceiving  that  some  trifles  which 
I  had  in  memory,  composed  at  under  twenty 


JOHN  MILTON. 


63 


or  thereabout  (for  the  manner  is,  that  every 
one  must  give  some  proof  of  his  wit  and 
reading  there),  met  with  acceptance  above 
what  was  looked  for ;  and  other  things 
which  I  had  shifted,  in  scarcity  of  books 
and  conveniences,  to  patch  up  among  them, 
were  received  with  written  encomiums, 
which  the  Italian  is  not  forward  to  bestow 
on  men  of  this  side  the  Alps,  I  began  thus 
far  to  assent  both  to  them  and  divers  of  my 
friends  here  at  home  ;  and  not  less  to  an 
inward  prompting,  which  now  grew  daily 
upon  me,  that  by  labour  and  intent  study 
(which  I  take  to  be  my  portion  in  this  life), 
joined  to  the  strong  propensity  of  nature, 
I  might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written, 
to  after-times,  as  they  should  not  willingly 
let  it  die.  These  thoughts  at  once  possessed 
me,  and  these  other,  that  if  I  were  certain 
to  write  as  men  buy  leases,  for  three  lives 
and  downward,  there  ought  no  regard  be 
sooner  had  than  to  God's  glory,  by  the 
honour  and  instruction  of  my  country. 
For  which  cause,  and  not  only  for  that  I 
knew  it  would  be  hard  to  arrive  at  the 
second  rank  among  the  Latins,  I  applied 
myself  to  that  resolution  which  Ariosto  fol- 
lowed against  the  persuasions  of  Bembo,  to 
fix  all  the  industry  and  art  I  could  unite  to 
the  adorning  of  my  native  tongue ;  not  to 
make  verbal  curiosities  the  end,  that  were  a 
toilsome  vanity;  but  to  be  an  interpreter, 
and  relater  of  the  best  and  safest  things 
among  my  own  citizens  throughout  this 
island,  in  the  mother  dialect.  That  what 
the  greatest  and  choicest  wits  of  Athens, 
Rome,  or  modern  Italy,  and  those  Hebrews 
of  old  did  for  their  country,  I  in  my  propor- 
tion, with  this  over  and  above,  of  being  a 
Christian,  might  do  for  mine;  not  caring  to 
be  once  named  abroad,  though  perhaps  I 
could  attain  to  that,  but  content  with  these 
British  islands  as  my  world,  whose  fortune 
hath  hitherto  been,  that  if  the  Athenians, 
as  some  say,  made  their  small  deeds  great 
and  renowned  by  their  eloquent  writers, 
England  hath  had  her  noble  achievements 
made  small  by  the  unskilful  handling  of 
monks  and  mechanics.  .  .  .  Neither  do  I 
think  it  shame  to  covenant  with  any  know- 
ing reader,  that  for  some  few  years  yet  I 
may  go  on  trust  with  him  toward  the  pay- 
ment of  what  I  am  now  indebted,  as  being 
a  work  not  to  be  raised  from  the  heat  of 
youth  or  the  vapours  of  wine;  like  that 
which  flows  at  waste  from  the  pen  of  some 
vulgar  amorist  or  the  trencher  fury  of  a 
rhyming  parasite;  not  to  be  obtained  by 
the  invocation  of  dame  memory  and  her 
syren  daughters ;  but  by  devout  prayer  to 
that  eternal  Spirit  who  can  enrich  with  all 
utterance  and  knowledge,  and  sends  out  his 
seraphim  with  the  hallowed  fire  of  his  altar, 


to  touch  and  purify  the  lips  of  whom  ho 
pleases.  To  this  must  be  added  industrious 
and  select  reading,  steady  observation, 
insight  into  all  seemly  arts  and  aflairs ;  till 
which  in  some  measure  be  compassed,  at 
mine  own  peril  and  cost,  I  refuse  not  to 
sustain  this  expectation  from  as  many  as 
are  not  loath  to  hazard  so  much  credulity 
upon  the  best  pledges  that  I  can  give  them. 
The  Reason  of  Church  Government. 

TRUE  AND  FALSE  EDUCATION. 

And  seeing  every  nation  affords  not  ex- 
perience and  tradition  enough  for  all  kind 
of  learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught 
the  languages  of  those  people  who  have  at 
any  time  been  most  industrious  after  wisdom  ; 
so  that  language  is  but  the  instrument  con- 
veying to  us  things  useful  to  be  known. 
And  though  a  linguist  should  pride  himself 
to  have  all  the  tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the 
world  into,  yet,  if  he  have  not  studied  the 
solid  things  in  them  as  well  as  the  words 
and  lexicons,  he  were  nothing  so  much  to 
be  esteemed  a  learned  man,  as  any  yeoman 
or  tradesman  competently  wise  in  his  mother 
dialect  only.  Hence  appear  the  many  mis- 
takes which  have  made  learning  generally 
so  unpleasing  and  so  unsuccessful :  first  we 
do  amiss  to  spend  seven  or  eight  years 
merely  in  scraping  together  so  much  Latin 
and  Greek,  as  might  be  learned  otherwise 
easily  and  delightfully  in  one  year.  .  .  . 

And  for  the  usual  method  of  teaching  arts, 
I  deem  it  to  be  an  old  error  of  the  universi- 
ties, not  yet  well  recovered  from  the  scholastic 
grossness  of  barbarous  ages,  that  instead  of 
beginning  with  arts  most  easy  (and  those  be 
such  as  are  most  obvious  to  the  sense),  they 
present  their  young  unmatriculated  novices 
at  first  coming  with  the  most  intellective 
abstractions  of  logic  and  metaphysics,  so 
that  they  having  but  newly  left  those  gym- 
nastic flats  and  shallows  where  they  stuck 
unreasonably  to  learn  a  few  words  with 
lamentable  construction,  and  now  on  the 
sudden  transported  under  another  climate, 
to  be  tossed  and  turmoiled  with  their  unbal- 
lasted wits  in  fathomless  and  unquiet  deeps 
of  controversy,  do  for  the  most  part  grow  into 
hatred  and  contempt  of  learning,  mocked  and 
deluded  all  this  while  with  ragged  notions 
and  babblements,  while  they  expected  worthy 
and  delightful  knowledge  ;  till  poverty  or 
youthful  years  call  them  importunately  their 
several  ways,  and  hasten  them,  with  the  sway 
of  friends,  either  to  an  ambitions  and  mer- 
cenary, or  ignorantly  zealous  divinity  ;  some 
allured  to  the  trade  of  law,  grounding  their 
purposes  not  on  the  prudent  and  heavenly 
contemplation  of  justice  and  equity,  which 
was  never  taught  them,  but  on  the  promis- 


64 


JOHN  MILTON. 


ing  and  pleasing  thoughts  of  litigious  terms, 
fat  contentions,  and  flowing  fees;  others  be- 
take them  to  state  affairs,  with  souls  so 
unprincipled  in  virtue  and  true  generous 
breeding,  that  flattery  and  courtshifts,  and 
tyrannous  aphorisms,  appear  to  them  the 
highest  points  of  wisdom  ;  instilling  their 
barren  hearts  with  a  conscientious  slavery  ; 
if,  as  I  rather  think,  it  be  not  feigned. 
Others,  lastly,  of  a  more  delicious  and  airy 
spirit  retire  themselves  (knowing  no  better) 
to  the  enjoyments  of  ease  and  luxury,  living 
out  their  days  in  feasts  and  jollity ;  which, 
indeed,  is  the  wisest  and  the  safest  course 
of  all  these,  unless  they  were  with  more 
integrity  undertaken.  And  these  are  the 
errors,  and  these  are  the  fruits  of  misspend- 
ing our  prime  youth  at  schools  and  universi- 
ties as  we  do,  either  in  learning  mere  words, 
or  such  things  chiefly  as  were  better  un- 
learned. 

I  shall  detain  you  now  no  longer  in  the  de- 
monstration of  what  we  should  not  do,  but 
straight  conduct  you  to  a  hill-side,  where  I 
\\ill  point  you  out  the  right  path  of  a  virtuous 
and  noble  education  ;  laborious,  indeed,  at 
the  first  ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so  green, 
so  full  of  goodly  prospect  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Or- 
pheus was  not  more  charming.  I  doubt  not 
but  ye  shall  have  more  ado  to  drive  our 
dullest  and  laziest  youth,  our  stocks  and 
stubs,  from  the  infinite  desire  of  such  a 
happy  nature,  than  we  have  now  to  hale 
and  drag  our  choicest  and  hopefullest  wits 
to  that  asinine  feast  of  sowthistles  and 
brambles  which  is  commonly  set  before 
them,  as  all  the  food  and  entertainment  of 
their  tenderest  and  most  docile  age. 

I  call,  therefore,  a  complete  and  generous 
education,  that  which  fits  a  man  to  perform 
justly,  skilfully,  and  magnanimously,  all 
the  offices,  both  private  and  public,  of  peace 
and  war. 

Letter  to  Master  Hartlib  on  Education. 

THE  CENSORSHIP  OF  THE  PRESS. 
I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  the  greatest  con- 
cernment in  the  church  and  commonwealth 
to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean 
themselves  as  well  as  men ;  and  thereafter 
to  confine,  imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice 
on  them  as  malefactors ;  for  books  are  not 
absolutely  dead  things,  but  do  contain  a 
potency  of  life  in  them,  to  be  as  active  as 
that  soul  whose  progeny  they  are  ;  nay,  they 
do  preserve,  as  in  a  vial,  the  purest  efficacy 
and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that 
bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively,  and 
as  vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabulous 
dragons'  teeth ;  and  being  sown  up  and 
down,  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men. 


And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wariness 
be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a 
good  book  :  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reason- 
able creature,  God's  imajie ;  but  he  who 
destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself, 
kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it  were,  in  the 
eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the 
earth  ;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life- 
blood  of  a  master  spirit,  embalmed  and 
treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond 
life.  'Tis  true  no  age  can  restore  a  life, 
whereof  perhaps  there  is  no  great  loss ;  and 
revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the 
loss  of  a  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of 
which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We 
should  be  wary,  therefore,  what  persecution 
we  raise  against  the  living  labours  of  public 
men,  how  spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man, 
preserved  and  stored  up  in  books;  since  we 
see  a  kind  of  homicide  may  be  thus  com- 
mitted, sometimes  a  kind  of  martyrdom ; 
and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole  impression,  a 
kind  of  massacre,  whereof  the  execution 
ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental  life, 
but  strikes  at  that  ethereal  and  soft  essence, 
the  breath  of  reason  itself,  slays  an  immor- 
tality rather  than  a  life.  .  .  .  When  a  man 
writes  to  the  world,  he  summons  up  all  hia 
reason  and  deliberation  to  assist  him  ;  he 
searches,  meditates,  is  industrious,  and  likely 
consults  and  confers  with  his  judicious 
friends :  after  all  which  is  done,  he  takes 
himself  to  be  informed  in  what  he  writes, 
as  well  as  any  that  writ  before  him  ;  if  in 
this  the  most  consummate  act  of  his  fidelity 
and  ripeness,  no  years,  no  industry,  no 
former  proof  of  his  abilities,  can  bring  him 
to  that  state  of  maturity,  as  not  to  be  still 
mistrusted  and  suspected,  unless  he  carry 
all  his  considerate  diligence,  all  his  mid- 
night watchings,  and  expense  of  Palladian 
oil,  to  the  hasty  view  of  an  unleisured 
licenser,  perhaps  much  his  younger,  perhaps 
far  his  inferior  in  judgment,  perhaps  one 
who  never  knew  the  labour  of  book-writing ; 
and  if  he  be  not  repulsed,  or  slighted,  must 
appear  in  print  like  a  puny  with  his  guar- 
dian, and  his  censor's  hand  on  the  back  of 
his  title,  to  be  his  bail  and  surety  that  he  is 
no  idiot  or  seducer;  it  cannot  be  but  a  dis- 
honour and  derogation  to  the  author,  to  the 
book,  to  the  privilege  and  dignity  of  learn- 
ing. .  .  .  And  how  can  a  man  teach  with 
authority,  which  is  the  life  of  teaching;  how- 
can  he  be  a  doctor  in  his  book,  as  he  ought 
to  be,  or  else  had  better  be  silent,  whereas 
all  he  teaches,  all  he  delivers,  is  but  under 
the  tuition,  under  the  correction,  of  his  pa- 
triarchal licenser,  to  blot  or  alter  what  pre- 
cisely accords  not  with  the  hide-bound 
humour  which  he  calls  his  judgment? 
Areopagitica. 


EDWARD  HYDE. 


65 


EDWARD  HYDE,  EARL  OF 
CLARENDON, 

born  1608,  died  1673,  will  always  be  dis- 
tinguished as  the  author  of  The  History  of 
the  Rebellion  and  Civil  Wars  in  England, 
to  which  is  added,  an  historical  View  of  the 
Affairs  of  Ireland,  Oxf.,  1702-3-4,  3  vols. 
fol. 

"  Clarendon  will  always  be  esteemed  an  enter- 
taining writer,  even  independent  of  our  curiosity 
to  know  the  facts  which  he  relates.  His  style  is 
prolix  and  redundant,  and  suffocates  us  by  the 
length  of  its  periods  ;  but  it  discovers  imagination 
and  sentiment,  and  pleases  us  at  the  same  time 
that  we  disapprove  of  it.  ...  An  air  of  probity  and 
goodness  runs  through  the  whole  work,  as  these 
qualities  did  in  reality  embellish  the  whole  life  of 
the  author.  .  .  .  Clarendon  was  always  a  friend 
to  the  liberty  and  constitution  of  his  country." — 
HUME:  Hint,  nf  Entj. 

"  For  an  Englishman  there  is  no  single  historical 
work  with  which  it  can  be  so  necessary  for  him  to 
be  well  and  thoroughly  acquainted  as  with  Claren- 
don. I  feel  at  this  time  perfectly  assured,  that  if 
that  book  had  been  put  into  my  hands  in  youth, 
it  would  have  preserved  me  from  all  the  political 
errors  which  I  have  outgrown." — SOUTHEV  :  Life 
and  Gorresp. 

But  the  Hon.  Agar  Ellis  (Character  of 
Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of  Clarendon,  Lond., 
1827,  Svo)  stamps  Clarendon  as  an  unprin 
cipled  man  of  talent,  and  Brodie  (Hist,  of  the 
British  Empire,  Lond.,  1822,  4  vols.  Svo) 
considers  him  '•  a  miserable  sycophant  and 
canting  hypocrite." 

CHARACTER  OF  OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

He  was  one  of  those  men,  quos  vituperare 
ne  inimici  quidem  possunt,  nisi  ut  simil  lau- 
dent ;  whom  his  very  enemies  could  not 
condemn  without  commending  him  at  the 
same  time;  for  he  could  never  have  done 
half  that  mischief  without  great  parts  of 
courage,  industry,  and  judgment,  lie  must 
have  had  a  wonderful  understanding  in  the 
natures  and  humours  of  men,  and  as  great 
a  dexterity  in  applying  them  ;  who,  from  a 
private  and  obscure  birth  (though  of  a  good 
family),  without  interest  or  estate,  alliance 
or  friendship,  could  raise  himself  to  such  a 
height,  and  compound  and  knead  such  oppo- 
site and  contradictory  tempers,  humours,  and 
interests  into  a  consistence  that  contributed 
to  his  designs,  and  to  their  own  destruction  ; 
whilst  himself  grew  insensibly  powerful 
enough  to  cut  off  those  by  whom  he  had 
climbed,  in  the  instant  that  they  projected 
to  demolish  their  own  building.  What  was 
said  of  Cinna  may  very  justly  be  said  of 
him,  ausum  eum,  qu.ce  nemo  auderet  bonus; 
perfecisse  quce  a  nullo  nisi  fortissimo,  perfici 
possent.  Without  doubt,  no  man  with  more 
wickedness  ever  attempted  anything,  or 
brought  to  pass  what  he  desired  more  wick- 
5 


edly.  more  in  the  face  and  contempt  of  re- 
ligion and  moral  honesty.  Yet  wickedness 
as  great  as  his  could  never  have  accomplished 
those  designs  without  the  assistance  of  a 
great  spirit,  an  admirable  circumspection 
and  sagacity,  and  a  most  magnanimous 
resolution. 

When  he  appeared  first  in  the  parliament 
he  seemed  to  have  a  person  in  no  degree 
gracious,  no  ornament  of  discourse,  none 
of  those  talents  which  use  to  conciliate  the 
affections  of  the  stander-by.  Yet  as  he 
grew  into  place  and  authority  his  parts 
seemed  to  be  raised,  as  if  he  had  concealed 
faculties  till  he  had  occasion  to  use  them  ; 
and  when  he  was  to  act  the  part  of  a  great 
man  he  did  it  without  any  indecency,  not- 
withstanding the  want  of  custom. 

After  he  was  confirmed  and  invested  Pro- 
tector by  the  humble  petition  and  advice,  he 
consulted  with  very  few  upon  any  action  of 
importance,  nor  communicated  any  enter- 
prise he  resolved  upon  with  more  than  those 
who  were  to  have  principal  parts  in  the  exe- 
cution of  it;  nor  with  them  sooner  than  was 
absolutely  necessary.  What  he  once  resolved, 
in  which  he  was  not  rash,  he  would  not  be 
dissuaded  from,  nor  endure  any  contradic- 
tion of  his  power  and  authority,  but  extorted 
obedience  from  them  who  were  not  willing 
to  yield  it. 

Thus  he  subdued  a  spirit  that  had  been 
often  troublesome  to  the  most  sovereign 
power,  and  made  Westminster  Hall  as  obe- 
dient and  subservient  to  his  commands  as 
any  of  the  rest  of  his  quarters.  In  all  other 
matters,  which  did  not  concern  the  life  of 
his  jurisdiction,  he  seemed  to  have  great 
reverence  for  the  law,  rarely  interposing 
between  party  and  party.  As  he  proceeded 
with  this  kind  of  indignation  and  haughti- 
ness with  those  who  were  refractory,  and 
durst  contend  with  his  greatness,  so  towards 
all  who  complied  with  his  good  pleasure,  and 
courted  his  protection,  he  used  great  civility, 
generosity,  and  bounty. 

To  reduce  three  nations,  which  perfectly 
hated  him,  to  an  entire  obedience  to  all  his 
dictates;  to  awe  and  govern  those  nations 
by  an  army  that  was  indevoted  to  him,  and 
wished  his  ruin,  was  an  instance  of  a  very 
prodigious  address.  But  his  greatness  at 
home  was  but  a  shadow  of  the  glory  he  had 
abroad.  It  was  hard  to  discover  which 
feared  him  most,  France,  Spain,  or  the  Low 
Countries,  where  his  friendship  was  current 
at  the  value  he  put  upon  it.  As  they  did 
all  sacrifice  their  honour  and  their  interest 
to  his  pleasure,  so  there  is  nothing  he  could 
have  demanded  that  either  of  them  would 
have  denied  him.  .  .  . 

To  conclude  his  character:  Cromwell  was 
not  so  far  a  man  of  blood  as  to  follow  Machi- 


66 


EDWARD  HYDE. 


nvel's  method  ;  which  prescribes,  upon  a  total 
alteration  of  government,  as  a  tiling  abso- 
lutely necessary,  to  cut  off  all  the  heads  of 
those,  and  extirpate  their  families,  who  are 
friends  to  the  old  one.  It  was  confidently 
reported  that  in  the  council  of  officers  it  was 
more  than  once  proposed  "that  there  might 
be  a  general  massacre  of  all  the  royal  party, 
as  the  only  expedient  to  secure  the  govern- 
ment," but  that  Cromwell  would  never  con- 
Bent  to  it;  it  may  be,  out  of  too  great  a 
contempt  of  his  enemies.  In  a  word,  as  he 
was  guilty  of  many  crimes  against  which 
damnation  is  denounced,  and  for  which  hell- 
fire  is  prepared,  so  he  had  some  good  quali- 
ties which  have  caused  the  memory  of  some 
men  in  all  ages  to  be  celebrated  ;  and  he  will 
be  looked  upon  by  posterity  us  a  brave 
wicked  man. 

History  of  the  Rebellion. 

CHARACTER  OF  CHARLES  I. 

But  it  will  not  be  unnecessary  to  add  a 
short  character  of  his  person,  that  posterity 
may  know  the  inestimable  loss  which  the 
nation  then  underwent  in  being  deprived  of 
a  prince  whose  example  would  have  had  a 
greater  influence  upon  the  manners  and 
piety  of  the  nation  than  the  most  strict  laws 
can  have.  To  speak  first  of  his  private 
qualifications  as  a  man,  before  the  mention 
of  his  princely  and  royal  virtues:  he  was, 
if  ever  any,  the  most  worthy  of  the  title  of 
an  honest  man  ;  so  great  a  lover  of  justice, 
that  no  temptation  could  dispose  him  to  a 
wrongful  action,  except  it  was  so  disguised 
to  him  that  he  believed  it  to  be  just.  He 
had  a  tenderness  and  compassion  of  nature 
which  restrained  him  from  ever  doing  a 
hard-hearted  tiling ;  and,  therefore,  he  was 
so  apt  to  grant  pardon  to  malefactors  that  the 
judges  of  the  land  represented  to  him  thedam- 
age  and  insecurity  to  the  public  that  flowed 
from  such  his  indulgence.  And  then  he  re- 
frained himself  from  pardoning  either  mur- 
ders or  highway  robberies,  and  quickly  dis- 
cerned the  fruits  of  his  severity  by  a  wonder- 
ful reformation  of  those  enormities.  He  was 
very  punctual  and  regular  in  his  devotions : 
he  was  never  known  to  enter  upon  his  re- 
creations or  sports,  though  never  so  early  in 
the  morning,  before  he  had  been  at  public 
prayers;  so  that  on  hunting  days  his  chap- 
lains were  bound  to  a  very  early  attendance. 
He  was  likewise  very  strict  in  observing  the 
hours  of  his  private  cabinet  devotions,  and 
was  so  severe  an  exacter  of  gravity  and 
reverence  in  all  mention  of  religion,  that  he 
could  never  endure  any  light  or  profane 
word,  with  what  sharpness  of  wit  soever  it 
was  covered  ;  and  though  he  was  well  pleased 
and  delighted  with  reading  verses  made  upon 


any  occasion,  no  man  durst  bring  before 
him  anything  that  was  profane  or  unclean. 
That  kind  of  wit  had  never  any  countenance 
then.  He  was  so  great  an  example  of  con- 
jugal affection,  that  they  who  did  not  imi- 
tate him  in  that  particular  durst  not  brag 
of  their  liberty;  and  he  did  not  only  permit, 
but  direct,  his  bishops  to  prosecute  those 
scandalous  vices,  in  the  ecclesiastical  courts, 
against  persons  of  eminence  and  near  rela- 
tion to  his  service. 

Ilis  kingly  virtues  had  some  mixture  and 
alloy  that  hindered  them  from  shining  in 
full  lustre,  and  from  producing  those  fruits 
they  should  have  been  attended  with,  lie 
was  not  in  his  nature  very  bountiful,  though 
he  gave  very  much.  This  appeared  more 
after  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  death,  after 
which  those  showers  fell  very  rarely ;  and 
he  paused  too  long  in  giving,  Avhich  made 
those  to  whom  he  gave  less  sensible  of  the 
benefit.  He  kept  state  to  the  full,  which 
made  his  court  very  orderly,  no  man  pre- 
suming to  be  seen  in  a  place  where  he  had 
no  pretence  to  be.  He  saw  and  observed 
men  long  before  he  received  them  about  his 
person  ;  and  did  not  love  strangers,  nor  very 
confident  men.  He  was  a  patient  hearer  of 
causes,  which  he  frequently  accustomed  him- 
self to  at  the  council  board,  and  judged  very 
well,  and  was  dexterous  in  the  mediating 
part ;  so  that  he  often  put  an  end  to  causes  by 
persuasion,  which  the  stubbornness  of  men's 
humours  made  dilatory  in  courts  of  justice. 

He  was  very  fearless  in  his  person  :  but, 
in  his  riper  years,  not  very  enterprising. 
He  had  an  excellent  understanding,  but  was 
not  confident  enough  of  it;  which  made  him 
oftentimes  change  his  own  opinion  for  a 
worse,  and  follow  the  advice  of  men  that 
did  not  judge  as  well  as  himself.  This  made 
him  more  irresolute  than  the  conjuncture  of 
his  affairs  would  admit;  if  he  had  been  of 
a  rougher  and  more  imperious  nature  he 
would  have  found  more  respect  and  duty. 
And  his  not  applying  some  severe  cures  to 
approaching  evils  proceeded  from  the  lenity 
of  his  nature,  and  the  tenderness  of  his  con- 
science, which,  in  all  cases  of  blood,  made 
him  choose  the  softer  way,  and  not  hearken 
to  severe  counsels,  how  reasonably  soever 
urged.  .  .  .  As  he  excelled  in  all  other  vir- 
tues, so  in  temperance  he  was  so  strict  that 
he  abhorred  all  debauchery  to  that  degree 
that,  at  a  great  festival  solemnity,  where  he 
once  was,  where  very  many  of  the  nobility 
of  the  English  and  Scots  were  entertained, 
being  told  by  one  who  withdrew  from  thence, 
what  vast  draughts  of  wine  they  drank,  and 
"  that  there  was  one  earl  who  had  drank 
most  of  the  rest  down,  and  was  not  himself 
moved  or  altered,"  the  king  said,  "  that  he 
deserved  to  be  hanged  ;"  and  that  earl  com- 


SIR  MATTHEW  HALE. 


67 


ing  shortly  after  into  the  room  where  his 
majesty  was,  in  some  gaiety,  to  show  how 
unhurt  he  was  from  that  battle,  the  king 
sent  one  to  bid  him  withdraw  from  his  ma- 
jesty's presence;  nor  did  he  in  some  days 
after  appear  before  him. 
History  of  the  Rebellion. 


SIR   MATTHEW   HALE, 

born  1609,  Chief  Baron  of  the  Exchequer, 
1660,  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England,  1671, 
died  1676,  was  alike  distinguished  for  legal 
learning  and  private  virtues. 

"He  was  most  precisely  just;  insomuch  that  I 
believe  he  would  have  lost  all  he  had  in  the  world 
rather  than  do  an  unjust  act:  patient  in  hearing 
the  most  tedious  speech  which  any  man  had  to 
make  for  himself;  the  pillar  of  justice,  the  refuge 
of  the  subject  who  frarei  oppression,  and  one  of 
the  greate.-t  honours  of  his  majesty's  government; 
for,  with  some  other  upright  judges,  he  upheld  the 
honour  of  the  English  nation,  that  it  fell  not  into 
the  reproach  of  arbitrariness,  cruelty,  and  utter 
confusion.  Every  man  that  had  a  just  cause  was 
almost  past  fear  if  he  could  bring  it  to  the  court 
or  assize  where  he  was  judge ;  for  the  other  judges 
geldom  contradicted  him.  ...  I,  who  heard  and 
re;id  his  serious  expressions  of  the  concernments 
of  eternity,  and  saw  his  love  to  all  good  men,  and 
the  blamelessness  of  his  life,  thought  better  of 
his  piety  than  my  own.'' — RICHARD  BAXTER. 

LETTER  TO  HIS  CHILDREN'. 

DEAR  CHILDREN', — I  thank  God  I  came 
well  to  Farrington  this  day,  about  five 
o'clock.  And  as  I  have  some  leisure  time 
at  my  inn,  I  cannot  spend  it  more  to  my 
own  satisfaction,  and  your  benefit,  than,  by 
a  letter,  to  give  you  some  good  counsel. 
The  subject  shall  be  concerning  your  speech  ; 
because  much  of  the  good  or  evil  that  be- 
falls persons  arises  from  the  well  or  ill 
managing  of  their  conversation.  When  I 
have  leisure  and  opportunity,  I  shall  give 
you  my  directions  on  other  subjects. 

Never  speak  anything  for  a  truth  which 
you  know  or  believe  to  be  false.  Lying  is 
a  great  sin  against  God,  who  gave  us  a 
tongue  to  speak  the  truth,  and  not  false- 
hood. It  is  a  great  offence  against  human- 
ity itself;  for,  where  there  is  no  regard  to 
truth,  there  can  be  no  safe  society  between 
man  and  man.  And  it  is  an  injury  to  the 
speaker ;  for,  besides  the  disgrace  which  it 
brings  upon  him,  it  occasions  so  much  base- 
ness of  mind  that  he  can  scarcely  tell  truth, 
or  avoid  lying,  even  when  he  has  no  colour 
of  necessity  for  it;  and,  in  time,  he  comes 
to  such  a  pass  that  as  other  people  cannot 
believe  he  speaks  truth,  so  he  himself 
scarcely  knows  when  he  tells  a  falsehood. 
As  you  must  be  careful  not  to  lie,  so  you 


must  avoid  coming  near  it.  You  must  not 
equivocate,  nor  speak  anything  positively 
for  which  you  have  no  authority  but  report, 
or  conjecture,  or  opinion. 

Let  your  words  be  few,  especially  when 
your  superiors,  or  strangers,  are  present,  lest 
you  betray  your  own  weakness,  and  rob  your- 
selves of  the  opportunity,  which  you  might 
have  otherwise  have  had,  to  gain  knowl- 
edge, wisdom,  and  experience,  by  hearing 
those  whom  you  silence  by  your  impertinent 
talking. 

Be  not  too  earnest,  loud,  or  violent  in 
your  conversation.  Silence  your  opponent 
with  reason,  not  with  noise. 

Be  careful  not  to  interrupt  another  wher. 
he  is  speaking ;  hear  him  out,  and  you  will 
understand  him  the  better,  and  be  able  to 
give  him  the  better  answer. 

Consider  before  you  speak,  especially  when 
the  business  is  of  moment;  weigh  the  sensa 
of  what  you  mean  to  utter,  and  the  expres- 
sions you  intend  to  use,  that  they  may  be 
significant,  pertinent,  and  inoffensive.  In- 
considerate people  do  not  think  till  they 
speak;  or  they  speak,  and  then  think. 

Some  men  excel  in  husbandry,  some  in 
gardening,  some  in  mathematics.  In  con- 
versation, learn,  as  near  as  you  can,  where 
the  skill  or  excellence  of  any  person  lies; 
put  him  upon  talking  on  that  subject,  ob- 
serve what  he  says,  keep  it  in  your  memory, 
or  commit  it  to  writing.  By  this  means  you 
will  glean  the  worth  and  knowledge  of  every- 
body you  converse  with,  and,  at  an  easy 
rate,  acquire  what  may  be  of  use  to  you  on 
many  occasions. 

When  you  are  in  company  with  light,  vain, 
impertinent  persons,  let  the  observing  of 
their  failings  make  you  the  more  cautious 
both  in  your  conversation  with  them  and  in 
your  general  behaviour,  that  you  may  avoid 
their  errors. 

If  any  one,  whom  you  do  not  know  to  be 
a  person  of  truth,  sobriety,  and  weight,  re- 
lates strange  stories,  be  not  too  ready  to  be- 
lieve or  report  thorn  ;  and  yet  (unless  he  is 
one  of  your  familiar  acquaintance)  be  not 
too  forward  to  contradict  him.  If  the  oc- 
casion requires  you  to  declare  an  opinion, 
do  it  modestly  and  gently,  not  bluntly  nor 
coarsely ;  by  this  means  you  will  avoid  giv- 
ing offence,  or  being  abused  for  too  much 
credulity. 

If  a  man  whose  integrity  you  do  not  very 
well  know,  makes  you  great  and  extraordi- 
nary professions,  do  not  give  much  credit  to 
him.  Probably  you  will  find  that  he  aims 
at  something  besides  kindness  to  you,  and 
that  when  he  has  served  his  turn,  or  been 
disappointed,  his  regard  for  you  will  grow 
cool. 

B,eware  also  of  him  who  flatters  you,  and 


GS 


ROBERT  LEIGH  TON. 


commends  you  to  your  face,  or  to  one  who 
lie  thinks  will  tell  you  of  it;  most  probably 
he  has  either  deceived  or  abused  you,  or 
means  to  do  so.  Remember  the  fable  of 
the  fox  commending  the  singing  of  the 
crow,  who  had  something  in  her  mouth 
which  the  fox  wanted. 

Be  careful  that  you  do  not  commend  your- 
selves. It  is  a  sign  that  your  reputation  is 
small  and  sinking,  if  your  own  tongue  must 
praise  you  ;  and  it  is  fulsome  and  unpleasing 
to  others  to  hear  such  commendations. 

Speak  well  of  the  absent  whenever  you 
have  a  suitable  opportunity.  Never  speak 
ill  of  them,  or  of  anybody,  unless  you  are 
sure  they  deserve  it,  and  unless  it  is  neees- 
sary  for  their  amendment,  or  for  the  safety 
and  benefit  of  others. 

Avoid,  in  your  ordinary  communications, 
not  only  oaths,  but  all  imprecations  and 
earnest  protestations. 

Forbear  scoffing  or  jesting  at  the  condi- 
tion or  natural  defects  of  any  person.  Such 
offences  leave  a  deep  impression  and  they 
often  cost  a  man  dear. 

Be  very  careful  that  you  give  no  reproach- 
ful, menacing,  or  spiteful  words  to  any  per- 
son. Good  words  make  friends  :  bad  words 
make  enemies.  It  is  great  prudence  to  gain 
as  many  friends  as  we  honestly  can.  especi- 
ally when  it  may  be  done  at  so  easy  a  rate 
as  a  good  word  ;  and  it  is  great  folly  to  make 
an  enemy  by  ill  words,  which  are  of  no  ad- 
vantage to  the  party  who  uses  them.  When 
faults  are  committed,  they  may,  and  by  a 
superior  they  must,  be  reproved:  but  let  it 
be  done  without  reproach  or  bitterness ; 
otherwise  it  will  lose  its  due  end  and  use, 
and.  instead  of  reforming  the  offence,  it  will 
exasperate  the  offender,  and  lay  the  reprover 
justly  open  to  reproof.  If  a  person  be  pas- 
sionate, and  give  you  ill  language,  rather 
pity  him  than  be  moved  to  anger.  You  will 
find  that  silence,  or  very  gentle  words,  are 
the  most  exquisite  revenge  for  reproaches  : 
they  will  either  cure  the  distemper  in  the 
angry  man.  and  make  him  sorry  for  his  pas- 
sion, or  they  will  be  a  severe  reproof  and 
punishment  to  him.  But,  at  any  rate,  they 
will  preserve  your  innocence,  give  you  the 
deserved  reputation  of  wisdom  arid  modera- 
tion, and  keep  up  the  serenity  and  compo- 
sure of  your  mind.  Passion  and  anger 
make  a  man  unfit  for  everything  that  be- 
comes him  as  a  man  or  as  a  Christian. 

Never  utter  any  profane  speeches,  nor 
make  a  jest  of  any  Scripture  expressions. 
When  you  pronounce  the  name  of  God  or 
of  Christ,  or  repeat  any  words  of  Holy 
Scripture,  do  it  with  reverence  and  serious- 
ness, and  not  lightly,  for  that  is  "  taking  the 
name  of  God  in  vain." 

If  you  hear  of  any  unseemly  expressions 


used  in  religions  exercises,  do  not  publish 
them;  endeavour  to  forget  them  ;  or,  if  you 
mention  them  at  all,  let  it  be  with  pity  and 
sorrow,  not  with  derision  or  reproach. 

Read  these  directions  often  ;  think  of  them 
seriously ;  and  practice  them  diligently. 
You  will  find  them  useful  in  your  conversa- 
tion ;  which  will  be  every  day  the  more 
evident  to  you,  as  your  judgment,  under- 
standing, and  experience  increase. 

I  have  little  further  to  add  at  this  time, 
but  my  wish  and  command  that  you  will 
remember  the  former  counsels  that  I  have 
frequently  given  you.  Begin  and  end  the 
day  with  private  prayer  ;  read  the  Scriptures 
often  and  seriously  ;  be  attentive  to  the  public 
worship  of  God.  Keep  yourselves  in  some 
useful  employment;  for  idleness  is  the 
nursery  of  vain  and  sinful  thoughts,  which 
corrupt  the  mind  and  disorder  the  life.  Be 
kind  and  loving  to  one  another.  Honour 
your  minister.  Be  not  bitter  nor  harsh  to 
my  servants.  Be  respectful  to  all.  Bear 
my  absence  patiently  and  cheerfully.  Be- 
have as  if  I  were  present  among  you  and 
saw  you.  Remember,  yon  have  a  greater 
Father  than  I  am,  who  always,  and  in  all 
places,  beholds  you,  and  knows  your  hearts 
and  thoughts.  Study  to  requite  my  love 
and  care  for  you  with  dutifulness,  observ- 
ance, and  obedience ;  and  account  it  an 
honour  that  you  have  an  opportunity,  by 
your  attention,  faithfulness,  and  industry, 
to  pay  some  part  of  that  debt  which,  by  the 
laws  of  nature  and  of  gratitude,  you  owe  to 
me.  Be  frugal  in  my  family,  but  let  there 
be  no  want;  and  provide  conveniently  for 
the  poor. 

I  pray  God  to  fill  your  hearts  with  his 
grace,  fear,  and  love,  and  to  let  you  see  the 
comfort  and  advantage  of  serving  him  ;  and 
that  his  blessing,  and  presence,  and  direc- 
tion, may  be  with  you,  and  over  you  all.  I 
am  your  ever  loving  father. 


ROBERT  LEIGHTON,  D.D., 

born  1611,  Archbishop  of  Glasgow,  1670, 
died  1684,  was  the  author  of  a  number  of 
religious  works  which  are  still  held  in  high 
estimation  for  their  spirituality. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  no  expository  work  in  the 
English  language  equal  altogether  to  the  exposi- 
tion of  Prter.  It  is  rich  in  evangelical  sentiment 
and  exalted  devotion.  The  meaning  is  seldom 
missed,  and  otten  admirably  illustrated.  There 
is  learning  without  its  parado.  theology  divested 
of  systematic  stiffness,  and  eloquence  in  a  beauti- 
ful flow  of  unaffected  language  and  appropriate 
imagery.  To  say  more  would  be  unbecoming,  and 
le.«s  could  not  be  said  with  justice." — ORIIE  :  Bib- 
liolheca  Biblica. 


SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


69 


OF  HAPPINESS. 

The  Greek  epigram  ascribed  by  some  to 
Prosidipus,  by  others  to  Crates  the  Cynic 
philosopher,  begins  thus,  '•  What  state  of  life 
oughtone  to  choose?''  and  having  enumerated 
them  all,  concludes  in  this  manner  :  "  There 
are,  then,  only  two  things  eligible,  either 
never  to  have  been  born,  or  to  die  as  soon  as 
one  makes  his  appearance  in  the  world/' 

But  now,  leaving  the  various  periods  ;md 
conditions  of  life,  let  us,  with  great  brevity, 
run  over  those  things  which  are  looked  upon 
to  be  the  greatest  blessings  in  it,  and  see 
whether  any  of  them  can  make  it  completely 
happy.  Can  this  be  expected  from  a  beauti- 
ful outside?  No:  this  has  rendered  many 
miserable,  but  never  made  one  happy.  For 
suppose  it  to  be  sometimes  attended  with 
innocence,  it  is  surely  of  a  fading  and  perish- 
ing nature,  ''  the  sport  of  time  or  disease." 
Can  it  be  expected  from  riches?  Surely 
no:  for  how  little  of  them  does  the  owner 
possess,  even  supposing  his  wealth  to  be 
ever  so  great !  what  a  small  part  of  them 
does  he  use  or  enjoy  himself!  And  what 
has  he  of  the  rest  but  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  with  his  eyes  ?  Let  his  table  be  loaded 
with  the  greatest  variety  of  delicious  dishes, 
he  fills  his  belly  out  of  one;  and  if  he  has 
a  hundred  beds,  he  lies  but  in  one  of  them. 
Can  the  kingdoms,  thrones,  and  sceptres  of 
this  world  confer  happiness?  No:  we  learn 
from  the  histories  of  all  ages,  that  not  a  few 
have  been  tumbled  down  from  these  by 
sudden  and  unexpected  revolutions,  and 
these  not  such  as  were  void  of  conduct  or 
courage,  but  men  of  great  and  extraordinary 
abilities.  And  that  those  who  met  with  no 
such  misfortunes  were  still  far  enough  from 
happiness  is  very  plain  from  the  situation 
of  their  affairs,  and,  in  many  cases,  from 
their  own  confession.  The  saying  of  Au- 
gustus is  well  known  :  ''  I  wish  I  had  never 
been  married,  and  had  died  childless."  And 
the  expression  of  Severus  at  his  death,  "  I 
became  all  things,  and  yet  it  does  not  profit 
me."  But  the  most  noted  saying  of  all,  and 
that  which  best  deserves  to  be  known,  is  that 
of  the  wisest  and  most  flourishing  king,  as 
well  as  the  greatest  preacher,  who,  having 
exactly  computed  all  the  advantages  of  his 
exalted  dignity  and  royal  opulence,  found 
this  to  be  the  sum  total  of  all,  and  left  it  on 
record  for  the  inspection  of  posterity  and 
future  ages,  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity. 

All  this  may  possibly  be  true  with  regard 
to  the  external  advantages  of  men,  but  may 
not  happiness  be  found  in  the  internal  goods 
of  the  mind,  such  as  wisdom  and  virtue? 
Suppose  this  granted;  still  that  they  may 
confer  perfect  felicity  they  must,  of  necessity. 
be  perfect  themselves.  Now,  shew  me  the 


man  who,  even  in  his  own  judgment,  has 
attained  to  perfection  in  wisdom  and  virtue: 
even  those  who  were  accounted  the  wisest, 
and  actually  were  so,  acknowledged  they 
knew  nothing ;  nor  was  there  one  among 
the  most  approved  philosophers  whose  vir- 
tues were  not  allayed  with  many  blemishes. 
The  same  must  be  said  of  piety  and  true 
religion,  which,  though  it  is  the  beginning 
of  felicity,  and  tends  directly  to  perfection, 
yet,  as  in  this  earth  it  is  not  full  and  com- 
plete itself,  it  cannot  make  its  possessors 
perfectly  happy.  The  knowledge  of  the 
most  exalted  minds  is  very  obscure,  and 
almost  quite  dark,  and  their  practice  of 
virtue  lame  and  imperfect.  And  indeed, 
who  can  have  the  boldness  to  boast  of  per- 
fection in  this  respect  when  he  hears  the 
great  Apostle  complaining  of  the  Law  of  the 
flesh,  and  pathetically  exclaiming,  Who  shall 
deliver  me  from  this  body  of  death?  Rom.  vii. 
24.  Besides,  though  wisdom,  and  virtue,  or 
piety,  were  perfect,  so  long  as  we  have 
bodies,  we  must  at  the  same  time  have  all 
bodily  advantages,  in  order  to  perfect  felicity. 
Therefore  the  satirist  smartly  ridicules  the 
wise  man  of  the  Stoics.  ''  He  is,"  says  he, 
"  free,  honoured,  beautiful,  a  king  of  kings, 
and  particularly  happy,  except  when  he  is 
troubled  with  phlegm."  Since  these  things 
are  so,  we  must  raise  our  minds  higher,  and 
not  live  with  our  heads  bowed  down  like  the 
common  sort  of  mankind  ;  who,  as  St.  Au- 
gustine expresses  it,  "look  for  a  happy  life 
in  the  region  of  death."  To  set  our  hearts 
upon  the  perishing  goods  of  this  wretched 
life  and  its  muddy  pleasures,  is  not  the  hap- 
piness of  men,  but  of  hogs.  And  if  pleasure 
is  dirt,  other  things  are  but  smoke.  Were 
this  the  only  good  proposed  to  the  desires 
and  hopes  of  men,  it  would  not  have  been 
so  great  a  privilege  to  be  born. 
Theological  Lectures. 


SAMUEL   BUTLER, 

born  1612,  died  1680,  acquired  great  repu- 
tation by  his  poem  of  Iludibras,  and  was 
also  the  author  of  some  prose  Characters  (in 
the  style  of  Earle,  Hall,  and  Overbury). 
which  appeared  in  his  Remains  in  Verse  and 
Prose,  published  from  the  original  MSS., 
with  Notes  by  Robert  Thver,  Lond.,  1759, 
2  vols.  8vo;  later  edition  from  the  original 
MSS.,  Lond.,  1827,  8vo,  and  royal  8vo:  vol. 
i.  only  published. 

A  SMALL  POET 

is  one  that  would  fain  make  himself  that 
which  nature  never  meant  him  ;  like  a  fa- 
natic that  inspires  himself  with  his  own 


70 


JOHN  PEARSON. 


whimsies.  He  sets  up  haberdasher  of  small 
poetry,  with  a  very  small  stock,  and  no 
credit.  He  believes  it  is  invention  enough 
to  find  out  other  men's  wit ;  and  whatsoever 
he  lights  upon,  either  in  books  or  company, 
he  makes  bold  with  us  his  own.  This  he 
puts  together  so  untowardly,  that  you  may 
perceive  his  own  wit  has  the  rickets  by  the 
swelling  disproportion  of  the  joints.  You 
may  know  his  wit  not  to  be  natural,  'tis  so 
unquiet  and  troublesome  in  him :  for  as 
those  that  have  money  but  seldom  are  al- 
ways shaking  their  pockets  when  they  have 
it,  so  does  he  when  he  thinks  he  has  got 
something  that  will  make  him  appear.  He 
is  a  perpetual  talker ;  and  you  may  know 
l>y  the  freedom  of  his  discourse  that  he  came 
lightly  by  it,  as  thieves  spend  freely  what 
they  get.  He  is  like  an  Italian  thief,  that 
never  robs  but  he  murders,  to  prevent  dis- 
covery ;  so  sure  is  he  to  cry  down  the  man 
from  whom  he  purloins,  that  his  petty  lar- 
ceny of  wit  may  pass  unsuspected.  He  ap- 
pears so  over-concerned  in  all  men's  wits,  as 
if  they  were  but  disparagements  of  his  own  ; 
and  cries  down  all  they  do,  as  if  they  were 
encroachments  upon  him.  He  takes  jests 
from  the  owners  and  breaks  them,  as  jus- 
tices do  false  weights  and  pots  that  want 
measure.  When  he  meets  with  anything 
that  is  very  good,  he  changes  it  into  small 
money,  like  three  groats  for  a  shilling,  to 
serve  several  occasions.  lie  disclaims  study, 
pretends  to  take  things  in  motion,  and  to 
shoot  flying,  which  appears  to  be  very  true, 
by  his  often  missing  of  his  mark.  As  for 
epithets,  he  always  avoids  those  that  are 
near  akin  to  the  sense.  Such  matches  are 
unlawful,  and  nut  fit  to  be  made  by  a  Chris- 
tian poet;  and  therefore  all  his  care  is  to 
choose  out  such  as  will  serve,  like  a  wooden 
leg,  to  piece  out  a  maimed  verse  that  wants 
a  foot  or  two,  and  if  they  will  but  rhyme 
now  and  then  into  the  bargain,  or  run  upon 
a  letter,  it  is  a  work  of  supererogation.  For 
similitudes,  he  likes  the  hardest  and  most 
obscure  best :  for  as  ladies  wear  black  patches 
to  make  their  complexions  seem  fairer  than 
they  are,  so  when  an  illustration  is  more 
obscure  than  the  sense  that  went  before  it, 
it  must  of  necessity  make  it  appear  clearer 
than  it  did  ;  for  contraries  are  best  set  off 
with  contraries.  He  has  found  out  a  new 
sec  of  poetical  Georgics — a  trick  of  sowing 
wit  like  clover  grass  on  barren  subjects, 
which  would  yield  nothing  before.  This  is 
very  useful  for  the  times,  wherein,  some 
men  say,  there  is  no  room  left  for  new  in- 
vention. He  will  take  three  grains  of  wit, 
like  the  elixir,  and,  projecting  it  upon  the 
iron  age,  turn  it  immediately  into  gold.  All 
the  business  of  mankind  has  presently  van- 
ished, the  whole  world  has  kept  holiday ; 


there  has  been  no  men  but  heroes  and  poets, 
no  women  but  nymphs  and  shepherdesses ; 
trees  have  borne  fritters,  and  rivers  flowed 
plum-porridge.  When  he  writes,  he  com- 
monly steers  the  sense  of  his  lines  by  the 
rhyme  that  is  at  the  end  of  them,  as  butchers 
do  calves  by  the  tail.  For  when  he  has 
made  one  line,  which  is  easy  enough,  and  has 
found  out  some  sturdy  hard  word  that  will 
but  rhyme,  he  will  hammer  the  sense  upon 
it,  like  a  piece  of  hot  iron  upon  an  anvil, 
into  what  form  he  pleases.  There  is  no  art 
in  the  world  so  rich  in  terms  as  poetry  ;  a 
whole  dictionary  is  scarce  able  to  contain 
them ;  for  there  is  hardly  a  pond,  a  sheep- 
walk,  or  a  gravel-pit  in  all  Greece  but  the 
ancient  name  of  it  is  become  a  term  of  art 
in  poetry.  By  this  means  small  poets  have 
such  a  stock  of  able  hard  words  lying  by 
them,  as  dryades,  hamadrvades,  ab'nidos, 
fauni,  nymphae,  sylvani,  &c.,  that  signify- 
nothing  at  all ;  and  such  a  world  of  pedantic 
terms  of  the  same  kind,  as  may  serve  to 
furnish  all  the  new  inventions  and  "  thorough 
reformations"  that  can  happen  between  this 
and  Plato's  great  year. 
Characters. 


JOHN  PEARSON,  D.D., 

born  at  Snoring,  Norfolk,  1612,  became 
Bishop  of  Chester,  Feb.  9,  1672-73,  and 
died  in  1686.  His  best-known  work  is  An 
Exposition  of  the  Creed,  Lond.,  1659,  4to. 

"A  standard  book  in  English  divinity.  It  ex- 
pands beyond  the  literal  purport  of  the  Creed 
itself  to  most  articles  of  orthodox  belief,  and  is  a 
valuable  summary  of  arguments  and  authorities 
on  that  sMe.  The  closeness  of  Pearson,  and  his 
judicious  selection  of  proofs,  distinguish  him  from 
many,  especially  the  earlier,  theologians.  Some 
might  surmise  that  his  undeviating  adherence  to 
what  he  calls  The  Church  is  hardly  consistent 
with  independence  of  thinking;  but,  considered 
as  an  advocate,  he  is  one  of  much  judgment  and 
skill." — H.U.I.AM:  Lit.  Hint,  of  Europe,  4th  ed., 
1854,  iii.  298. 

THE  ASCENSION  OF  CHRIST. 

The  ascent  of  Christ  into  heaven  was  not 
metaphorical  or  figurative,  as  if  there  were 
no  more  to  be  understood  by  it,  but  only 
that  he  attained  a  more  heavenly  and  glori- 
ous state  or  condition  after  his  resurrection. 
For  whatsoever  alteration  was  made  in  the 
body  of  Christ  when  he  rose,  whatsoever 
glorious  qualities  it  was  invested  with  there- 
by, that  was  not  his  ascension,  as  appeareth 
by  those  words  which  he  spake  to  Mary, 
Touch  me  not,  for  I  am  not  yet  ascended  to  my 
Father.  Although  he  had  said  before  to 
Nicodemus,  No  man  [hath]  ascended  up  to 
heaven,  but  he  that  came  down  from  heavent 


JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


even  the  Son  of  man  which  is  in  heaven; 
which  words  imply  that  he  had  then  as- 
cended ;  yet  even  those  concern  not  this 
ascension.  For  that  was  therefore  only 
true,  because  the  Son  of  Man,  not  yet  con- 
ceived in  the  Virgin's  womb,  was  not  in 
heaven,  and  after  his  conception  by  virtue 
of  the  hypostatical  union  was  in  heaven  : 
from  whence,  speaking  after  the  manner  of 
men.  he  might  well  say,  that  he  had  as- 
cended into  heaven;  because  whatsoever  was 
first  on  earth  and  then  in  heaven,  we  say 
ascended  into  heaven.  Wherefore,  beside 
that  grounded  upon  the  hypostatical  union, 
beside  that  glorious  condition  upon  his  resur- 
rection, there  was  yet  another  and  that  more 
proper  ascension  :  for  after  he  had  both  those 
ways  ascended,  it  was  still  true  that  he  had 
not  yet  ascended  to  his  Father. 

Now  this  kind  of  ascension,  by  which 
Christ  had  not  yet  ascended  when  he  spake 
to  Mary  after  his  resurrection,  was  not  long 
after  to  be  performed  ;  for  at  the  same  time 
he  said  unto  Mary,  Go  to  my  brethren,  and 
say  unto  them,  I  ascend  unto  my  Father  and 
your  Father.  And  when  this  ascension  was 
performed,  it  appeared  manifestly  to  be  a 
true  local  translation  of  the  Son  of  Man,  as 
man,  from  these  parts  of  the  world  below  into 
the  heaven  above;  by  which  that  body  which 
was  before  locally  present  here  on  earth, 
and  was  not  so  then  present  in  heaven, 
became  substantially  present  in  heaven,  and 
no  longer  locally  present  on  earth.  For 
when  he  had  spoken  unto  the  disciples,  and 
blessed  them,  laying  his  hands  upon  them, 
and  so  was  corporally  present  with  them, 
even  while  he  blessed  them,  he  parted  from 
them,  and  while  the;/  beheld,  he  was  taken  up, 
and  a  cloud  received  him  out  of  their  sight ; 
and  so  he  was  carried  up  into  heaven,  while 
they  looked  steadfastly  towards  heaven  as  he 
went  up.  This  was  a  visible  departure,  as 
it  is  described  ;  a  real  removing  of  that  body 
of  Christ,  which  was  before  present  with 
the  apostles  ;  and  that  body  living  after  the 
resurrection,  by  virtue  of  that  soul  which 
was  united  to  it,  and  therefore  the  Son  of 
Gud  according  to  his  humanity,  was  really 
and  truly  translated  from  these  parts  below 
unto  the  heavens  above,  which  is  a  proper 
local  ascension. 

Thus  was  Christ's  ascension  visibly  per- 
formed in  the  presence  and  sight  of  the 
apostles,  for  the  confirmation  of  the  reality 
and  the  certainty  thereof.  They  did  not 
see  him  when  he  rose,  but  they  saw  him 
when  he  ascended  ;  because  an  eye-witness 
was  not  necessary  unto  the  act  of  his  resur- 
rection, but  it  was  necessary  unto  the  act  of 
his  ascension,  it  was  sufficient  that  Christ 
shewed  himself  to  the  apostles  alive  after  his 
passion  ;  for  being  they  knew  him  before  to 


be  dead,  and  now  saw  him  alive,  they  were 
thereby  assured  that  he  rose  again:  for 
whatsoever  was  a  proof  of  his  life  after 
death  was  a  demonstration  of  his  resurrec- 
tion. But  being  the  apostles  were  not  to 
see  our  Saviour  in  heaven  ;  being  the  ses- 
sion was  not  to  be  visible  to  them  on  earth  ; 
therefore  it  was  necessary  they  should  be 
eye-witnesses  of  the  act,  who  were  not  with 
the  same  eyes  to  behold  the  effect. 

Beside  the  eye-witness  of  the  apostles, 
there  was  added  the  testimony  of  the  angels ; 
those  blessed  spirits  which  ministered  before, 
and  saw  the  face  of,  God  in  heaven,  and 
carne  down  from  thence,  did  know  that 
Christ  ascended  up  from  hence  unto  that 
place  from  whence  they  came;  and  because 
the  eyes  of  the  apostles  could  not  follow  him 
so  far,  the  inhabitants  of  that  place  did  come 
to  testify  of  his  reception;  for  behold  two 
men  stood  by  them  in  white  apparel,  which 
also  said,  Ye  men  of  Galilee,  why  stand  ye 
gazing  up  into  heaven?  This  same  Jesus 
which  is  taken  up  from  you  into  heaven, 
shall  so  come  in  like  manner  as  ye  have 
seen  him  go  into  heaven.  We  must  there- 
fore acknowledge  and  confess  against  all 
the  wild  heresies  of  old,  that  the  eternal 
Son  of  God,  who  died  and  rose  again,  did, 
with  the  same  body  and  soul  with  which 
he  died  and  rose,  ascend  up  to  heaven ; 
which  was  the  second  particular  consider- 
able in  this  Article. 

An  Exposition  of  the  Creed,  Article  VI. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR,  D.D., 

born  1613,  at  Cambridge,  Bishop  of  Down 
and  Connor,  1661,  died  1667,  was  the  author 
of  many  theological  works,  distinguished 
for  their  learning,  piety,  and  fervid  imagi- 
nation. 

"  He  was  none  of  God's  ordinary  works,  but  his 
Endowments  were  so  many  and  so  great,  as  really 
made  him  a  Miracle.  .  .  .  He  was  a  rare  Human- 
ist, and  hugely  versed  in  all  the  polite  parts  of 
Learning,  and  thoroughly  concocted  all  the  an- 
cient Moralists,  Greek  and  Roman  Poets  and  Ora- 
tors, and  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  refined 
wits  of  the  later  ages,  whether  French  or  Italian. 
.  .  .  This  great  Prelate  had  the  good  humour  of  a 
Gentleman,  the  eloquence  of  an  Orator,  the  fancy 
of  a  Poet,  the  acute-ness  of  a  Schoolman,  the  pro- 
foundness of  a  Philosopher,  the  wisdom  of  a  Chan- 
cellor, the  sagacity  of  a  Prophet,  the  reason  of  an 
Angel,  and  the  piety  of  a  Saint.  He  had  devotion 
enough  for  a  Cloister,  learning  enough  for  an  Uni- 
versity, and  wit  enough  for  a  College  of  Virtuosi. 
And  had  his  parts  and  endowments  been  parcelled 
out  among  his  poor  Clergy  that  he  left  behind 
him,  it  would  perhaps  have  made  one  of  the  best 
dioceses  in  the  world." — DOCTOR  GEORGE  RUST, 
his  chaplain,  and  subsequently  his  episcopal  suc- 
cessor in  the  see  of  Dromore. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


"The  greatest  ornament  of  the  English  pulpit 
up  to  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century;  and 
we  have  no  reason  to  believe,  or  ralher  much  rea- 
son to  disbelieve,  that  he  had  any  competitor  in 
other  languages." — UALLAM:  Lit.  JJiat.  of  Europe, 
i.  359-60. 

The  best  edition  of  his  Works  is  that  pub- 
lished under  the  supervision  of  the  Rev.  C. 
P.  Eden  [and  Rev.  Alexander  Taylor],  Lond., 
1847-51  (again  1854,  1856,  1861),  10  vols. 
8vo. 

RULES  FOR  EMPLOYING  OUR  TIME. 

1.  In  the  morning,  when  you  awake,  ac- 
custom yourself  to  think  first  upon  God,  or 
something  in  order  to  his  service ;   and  at 
night,  also,  let  him  close  thine  eyes:    and 
let  your  sleep  be  necessary  and   healthful, 
not  idle  and  expensive  of  time,  beyond  the 
needs   and    conveniences   of   nature ;     and 
sometimes  be  curious  to  see  the  preparation 
which   the  sun   makes  when   he  is  coining 
forth  from  his  chambers  of  the  east. 

2.  Let  every  man  that  hath  a  calling  be 
diligent  in   pursuance  of  its   employment, 
so  as  not  lightly  or  without  reasonable  occa- 
sion to  neglect  it  in  any  of  those  times  which 
are  usually,  and  by  the  custom  of  prudent 
persons  and  good  husbands,  employed  in  it. 

3.  Let  all  the  intervals  or  void  spaces  of 
time  be  employed  in  prayers,  reading,  medi- 
tating works  of  nature,  recreations,  charity, 
friendliness,  and  neighbourhood,  and  means 
of  spiritual  and  corporal  health :    ever  re- 
membering so  to  work  in  our  calling  as  not 
to  neglect  the  work  of  our  high  calling;  but 
to  begin  and  end  the  day  with  God,  with 
such  forms  of  devotion  as  shall  be  proper  to 
our  necessities. 

4.  The  resting  days  of  Christians,  and  fes- 
tivals of  the  church,  must,  in  no  sense,  be 
days  of  idleness ;  for  it  is  better  to  plough 
upon  holy  days  than  to  do  nothing,  or  to  do 
viciously :  but  let  them  be  spent  in  the  works 
of  the  day,  that  is,  of  religion  and  charity, 
according  to  the  rule  appointed. 

5.  Avoid  the  company  of  drunkards  and 
busy  bodies,  and  all  such  as  are  apt  to  talk 
much  to  little  purpose ;  for  no  man  can  be 
provident  of  his  time  that  is  not  prudent  in 
the  choice  of  his  company;   and  if  one  of 
the  speakers  be  vain,  tedious,  and  trifling, 
he  that  hears,  and  he  that  answers,  in  the 
discourse,  are  equal  losers  of  their  time. 

6.  Never  walk  with  any  man,  or  under- 
take  any   trifling   emplo3'inent,    merely   to 
pass  the   time   aWay ;    for   every  day   well 
spent  may   become  a  "day  of  salvation," 
and  time  rightly  employed  is  an  "  acceptable 
time."     And  remember,  that  the  time  thou 
triflestaway  was  given  thee  to  repent  in,  to 
pray  for  pardon  of  sins,  to  work  out  thy  sal- 
vation, to  do  the  work  of  grace,  to  lay  up 
against  the  day  of  judgment  a  treasure  of 


good  works,  that  thy  time  may  be  crowned 
with  eternity. 

7.  In  the  midst  of  the  works  of  thy  calling, 
often  retire  to  God  in  short  prayers  and  ejac- 
ulations; and  those  may  make  up  the  want 
of  those  larger  portions  of  time,  which,  it 
may  be,  thou  desirest  for  devotion,  and  in 
which  thou  thinkest  other  persons  have  ad- 
vantage of  thee  ;  for  so  thou  reconcilest  the 
outward  work  and  thy  inward  calling,  the 
church  and  the  commonwealth,  the  employ- 
ment of  the  body  and  the  interest  of  thy 
soul :  for  be  sure,  that  God  is  present  at  thy 
breathings  and  hearty  sighings  of   prayer, 
as  soon  as  at  the  longer  offices  of  less  busied 
persons ;  and  thy  time  is  as  truly  sanctified 
by  a  trade,  and  devout  though  shorter  pray- 
ers, as  Ly  the  longer  offices  of  those  whose 
time  is  not  filled  up  with  labour  and  useful 
business. 

8.  Let  your  employment  be  such  as  may 
become  a  reasonable  person  ;  and  not  be  a 
business  fit  for  children  or  distracted  people, 
but  fit  for  your  age  and  understanding.    For 
a  man  may  be  very  idly  busy,  and  take  great 
pains  to  so  little  purpose,  that  in  his  labours 
and  expense  of  time  he  shall  serve  no  end 
but  of   folly  and  vanity.     There  are  some 
trades  that  wholly  serve  the  ends  of  idle 
persons  and  fools,  and  such  as  are  fit  to  be 
seized   upon    by  the   severity  of  laws  and 
banished  from  under  the  sun  :  and  there  are 
some  people  who  are  busy  ;  but  it  is  as  Do- 
mitian  was,  in  catching  flies. 

Rules  and  Exercises  of  Holy  Living. 

TIIE  INVALIDITY  OF  A  LATE  OR  DEATH-BED 
REPENTANCE. 

But  will  not  trusting  in  the  merits  of  Jesus 
Christ  save  such  a  man  ?  For  that,  we  must 
be  tried  by  the  word  of  God,  in  which  there 
is  no  contract  at  all  made  with  a  dying  per- 
son that  lived  in  name  a  Christian,  in  prac- 
tice a  heathen  :  and  we  shall  dishonour  the 
sufferings  and  redemption  of  our  blessed 
Saviour,  if  we  think  them  to  bo  an  um- 
brella to  shelter  our  impious  and  ungodly 
living.  But  that  no  such  person  may,  after 
a  wicked  life,  repose  himself  on  his  death- 
bed upon  Christ's  merits,  observe  but  these 
two  places  of  Scripture :  "  Our  Saviour 
Jesus  Christ,  who  gave  himself  for  us'1 — • 
what  to  do?  that  we  might  live  as  we  list, 
and  hope  to  be  saved  by  his  merits?  no: — 
but  "  that  he  might  redeem  us  from  all  in- 
iquity, and  purify  to  himself  a  peculiar  peo- 
ple, zealous  of  good  works."  These  things 
"speak  and  exhort,"  saith  St.  Paul.  But 
more  plainly  yet  in  St.  Peter  :  "  Christ  bare 
our  sins  in  his  own  body  on  the  tree" — to 
what  end?  "  That  we,  being  dead  unto  sin, 
should  live  unto  righteousness."  Since, 


HENRY  MORE. 


T3 


therefore,  our  living  a  holy  life  is  the  end 
of  Christ's  dying  that  sad  and  holy  death 
for  us,  he  that  trusts  on  it  to  evil  purposes, 
and  to  excuse  his  vicious  life,  does  as  much 
as  in  him  lies,  make  void  the  very  purpose 
and  design  of  Christ's  passion,  and  dishon- 
ours the  blood  of  the  everlasting  covenant; 
which  covenant  was  confirmed  by  the  blood 
of  Christ ;  but  as  it  brought  peace  from  God, 
so  it  requires  a  holy  life  from  us.  But  why 
may  not  we  be  saved,  as  well  as  the  thief  on 
the  cross?  even  because  our  case  is  nothing 
alike.  When  Christ  dies  once  more  for  us,  we 
may  look  for  such  another  instance  ;  not  till 
then.  But  this  thief  did  but  then  come  to 
Christ,  he  knew  him  not  before  ;  and  his 
case  was,  as  if  a  Turk,  or  heathen,  should 
be  converted  to  Christianity,  and  be  bap- 
tized, and  enter  newly  into  the  covenant 
upon  his  death-bed:  then  God  pardons  all 
his  sins.  And  so  God  does  to  Christians 
when  they  are  baptized,  or  first  give  up  their 
names  to  Christ  by  a  voluntary  confirmation 
of  their  baptismal  vow  :  but  when  they  have 
once  entered  into  the  covenant  they  must 
perform  what  they  promise,  and  do  what 
they  are  obliged.  The  thief  had  made  no 
contract  with  God  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  there- 
fore failed  of  none  ;  only  the  defailances  of 
the  state  of  ignorance  Christ  paid  for  at 
the  thief's  admission:  but  we,  that  have 
made  a  covenant  with  God  in  baptism,  and 
failed  of  it  all  our  days,  and  then  return  at 
"night,  when  we  cannot  work,"  have  noth- 
ing to  plead  for  ourselves ;  because  we  have 
made  all  that  to  be  useless  to  us,  which  God, 
with  so  much  mercy  and  miraculous  wisdom, 
gave  us  to  secure  our  interest  and  hopes  of 
heaven. 

And  therefore,  let  no  Christian  man  who 
hath  covenanted  with  God  to  give  him  the 
service  of  his  life,  think  that  God  will  be 
answered  with  the  sighs  and  prayers  of  a 
dying  man :  for  all  that  great  obligation 
which  lies  upon  us  cannot  be  transacted  in 
an  instant,  when  we  have  loaded  our  souls 
with  sin,  and  made  them  empty  of  virtue  ; 
we  cannot  so  soon  grow  up  to  "a  perfect 
man  in  Christ  Jesus."  .  .  .  Suffer  not  there- 
fore yourselves  to  be  deceived  by  false  prin- 
ciples and  vain  confidences:  for  no  man  can  in 
a  moment  root  out  the  long-contracted  habits 
of  vice,  nor  upon  his  death-bed  make  use  of  all 
that  variety  of  preventing,  accompanying, 
and  persevering  grace  which  God  gave  to 
man  in  mercy,  because  man  would  need  it  all, 
because  without  it  he  could  not  be  saved  ; 
nor  upon  his  death-bed  can  he  exercise  the 
duty  of  mortification,  nor  cure  his  drunken- 
ness then,  nor  his  lust,  by  any  act  of  Chris- 
tian discipline,  nor  "run  with  patience," 
nor  "  resist  unto  blood,"  nor  "  endure  with 
long-sufferance;"  but  he  can  pray,  and 


groan,  and  call  to  God,  and  resolve  to  live 
well  when  he  is  dying. 

Rules  and  Exercises  of  Holy  Dying. 


HENRY    MORE,    D.D., 

born  1614.  died  16cS7,  famous  for  his  learn- 
ing and  piety,  was  the  author  of  philosophi- 
cal poems  and  treatises,  theological  disser- 
tations, and  Aphorisms. 

"  No  one  defended  the  Platonic  doctrine,  com- 
bined with  the  Pythagorean  and  Cabalistic,  with 
greater  learning  and  subtlety  than  Cudworth's 
friend  ami  colleague,  Henry  More.  .  .  .  He  died 
leaving  behind  him  a  name  highly  celebrated 
among  theologians  and  philosophers." — ENFIELD: 
Hist.  <,f  Plnlus.,  1840,  546. 

"  More  was  an  open-hearted  and  sincere  Chris- 
tian philosopher,  who  studied  to  establish  men  in 
the  great  principles  of  religion  against  atheism." 
— BISHOP  BURXKT:  Hist,  of  My  Oton  Times. 

We  give  an  extract  from  An  Antidote 
against  Atheism,  which  was  included  in  his 
Philosophical  Works,  Lond.,  1662,  fol.,  4th 
edit.,  corrected  and  much  enlarged,  Lond., 
1712,  fol. 

NATURE  OF  THE   EVIDENCE  OF  THE   EXIST- 
ENCE OF  GOD. 

When  I  say  that  I  will  demonstrate  that 
there  is  a  God,  I  do  not  promise  that  I  will 
always  produce  such  arguments  that  the 
reader  shall  acknowledge  so  strong,  as  he 
shall  be  forced  to  confess  that  it  is  utterly 
impossible  that  it  should  be  otherwise;  but 
they  shall  be  snch  as  shall  deserve  full  as- 
sent, and  win  full  assent  from  any  unpreju- 
diced mind. 

For  I  conceive  that  we  may  give  full  as- 
sent to  that  which,  notwithstanding,  may 
possibly  be  otherwise;  which  I  shall  illus- 
trate by  several  examples :  suppose  two 
men  got  to  the  top  of  Mount  Athos,  and 
there  viewing  a  stone  in  the  form  of  an  altar 
with  ashes  on  it,  and  the  footsteps  of  men 
on  those  ashes,  or  some  words,  if  you  will, 
as  Optimo  Maximo,  or  To  agnosto  Theo,  or 
the  like,  written  or  scrawled  out  upon  the 
ashes  ;  and  one  of  them  should  cry  out,  As- 
suredly here  have  been  some  men  that  have 
done  this.  But  the  other,  more  nice  than 
wise,  should  reply,  Nay,  it  may  possibly  be 
otherwise ;  for  this  stone  may  have  natu- 
rally grown  into  this  very  shape,  and  the 
seeming  ashes  may  be  no  ashes,  that  is,  no 
remainders  of  any  fuel  burnt  there  ;  but 
some  unexplicable  and  imperceptible  mo- 
tions of  the  air,  or  other  particles  of  this 
fluid  matter  that  is  active  everywhere,  have 
wrought  some  parts  of  the  matter  into  the 
form  and  nature  of  ashes,  and  have  fridged 


RICHARD  BAXTER. 


nnd  played  about  so,  that  they  have  also 
figured  those  intelligible  characters  in  the 
same.  But  would  not  anybody  deem  it  a 
piece  of  weakness,  no  less  than  dotage,  for 
the  other  man  one  whit  to  recede  from  his 
former  apprehension,  but  as  fully  as  ever  to 
agree  with  what  he  pronounced  first,  not- 
withstanding this  bare  possibility  of  being 
otherwise  ? 

So  of  anchors  that  have  been  digged  up, 
either  in  plain  fields  or  mountainous  places, 
as  also  the  Roman  urns  with  ashes  and  in- 
scriptions, as  Severianus  FuL  Linus,  and  the 
like,  or  Roman  coins  with  the  effigies  and 
names  of  the  Caesars  on  them,  or  that  which 
is  more  ordinary,  the  skulls  of  men  in  every 
churchyard,  with  the  right  figure,  and  all 
those  necessary  perforations  for  the  passing 
of  the  vessels,  besides  those  conspicuous 
hollows  for  the  eyes  and  rows  of  teeth,  the 
os  stylocides,  ethocides,  and  what  not.  If  a 
man  will  say  of  them  that  the  motions  of 
the  particles  of  the  matter,  or  some  hidden 
spermatic  power,  has  gendered  these,  both 
anchors,  urns,  coins,  and  skulls,  in  the 
ground,  he  doth  but  pronounce  that  which 
human  reason  must  admit  is  possible.  Nor 
can  any  man  ever  so  demonstrate  that  those 
coins,  anchors,  and  urns  were  once  the  arti- 
fice of  men,  or  that  this  or  that  skull  was 
once  a  part  of  a  living  man,  that  he  shall 
force  an  acknowledgment  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble that  it  should  be  otherwise.  But  yet  I 
do  not  think  that  any  man,  without  doing 
manifest  violence  to  his  faculties,  can  at  all 
suspend  his  assent,  but  freely  and  fully 
agree  that  this  or  that  skull  was  once  a  part 
of  a  living  man,  and  that  these  anchors, 
urns,  and  coins  were  certainly  once  made  by 
human  artifice,  notwithstanding  the  possi- 
bility of  being  otherwise.  And  what  I  have 
said  of  assent  is  also  true  in  dissent ;  for  the 
mind  of  man,  not  crazed  nor  prejudiced,  will 
fully  and  irreconcilably  disagree,  by  its  own 
natural  sagacity,  where,  notwithstanding, 
the  thing  that  it  doth  thus  resolvedly  and 
undoubtedly  reject,  no  wit  of  man  can  prove 
impossible  to  be  true.  As  if  we  should 
make  such  a  fiction  as  this, — that  Archi- 
medes, with  the  same  individual  body  that 
he  had  when  the  soldiers  slew  him,  is  now 
safely  intent  upon  his  geometrical  figures 
under  ground,  at  the  centre  of  the  earth,  far 
from  the  noise  and  din  of  this  world  that 
might  disturb  his  meditations,  or  distract 
him  in  his  curious  delineations  he  makes 
with  his  rod  upon  the  dust ;  which  no  man 
living  can  prove  impossible.  Yet  if  any 
man  does  not  as  irreconcilably  dissent  from 
such  a  fable  as  this,  as  from  any  falsehood 
imaginable,  assuredly  that  man  is  next  door 
to  madness  or  dotage,  or  does  enormous  vio- 
lence to  the  free  use  of  his  faculties. 


RICHARD    BAXTER, 

born  1615.  died  1691,  a  divine  first  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  subsequently  a 
nonconformist,  was  the  author  of  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty-eight  works,  of  which  The 
Saint's  Everlasting  Rest  and  the  Call  to  the 
Unconverted  are  still  in  high  estimation.  A 
collection  of  his  Practical  Works  was  pub- 
lished, London,  1707,  4  vols.  fol.,  and  other 
editions  appeared,  1838,  4  vols.  imp.  8vo,  and 
1847,  4  vols.  imp.  8vo,  Works,  with  a  Life  of 
the  Author  by  Rev.  W.  Orme,  1830,  23  vols. 
8vo.  After  his  death  was  published  Reliquiae 
Baxteriange:  A  Narrative  of  his  Life  and 
Times,  published  by  Matthew  Sylvester, 
1696,  fol. 

Boswell  tells:  "I  asked  [Dr.  Johnson]  what 
works  of  Richard  Baxter's  I  should  read.  He 
said,  'Read  any  of  them:  they  are  all  good.'" 
Another  of  Johnson's  friends  tells  us  that  the  doc- 
tor "  thought  Baxter's  Reasons  of  the  Christian 
Religion  contained  the  best  collection  of  the  evi- 
dences of  the  divinity  of  tho  Christian  system." 

"  Baxter  wrote  as  in  the  view  of  eternity  ;  but 
generally  judicious,  nervous,  spiritual,  and  evan- 
gelical, though  often  charged  with  the  contrary. 
He  discovers  a  manly  eloquence  and  the  most  evi- 
dent proofs  of  an  amazing  genius,  with  respect  to 
which  he  may  not  improperly  be  called  the  EngK«k 
Demosthenes.'' — DODDRIDGE  :  Lects.  on  Preach  imj. 

"  Pray  read  with  great  attention  Baxter's  life 
of  himself;  it  is  an  inestimable  work.  There  is 
HO  substitute  for  it  in  a  course  of  study  for  a  cler- 
gyman or  public  mnn :  I  could  almost  as  soon 
doubt  the  Gospel  verity  as  Baxter's  veracity." — 
COLERIDGE. 

Of  Baxter's  Life,  thus  praised,  we  give  two 
specimens. 

CONTROVERSY. 

And  this  token  of  my  weakness  so  accom- 
panied those  my  younger  studies  that  I  was 
very  apt  to  start  up  controversies  in  the  way 
of  my  practical  writings,  and  also  more  de- 
sirous to  acquaint  the  world  with  all  that  I 
took  to  be  the  truth,  and  to  assault  those 
books  by  name  which  I  thought  did  tend  to 
deceive  them,  and  did  contain  unsound  and 
dangerous  doctrine ;  and  the  reason  of  all 
this  was,  that  I  was  then  in  the  vigour  of 
my  youthful  apprehensions,  and  the  new 
appearance  of  any  sacred  truth,  it  was  more 
apt  to  affect  me,  and  be  more  highly  valued, 
than  afterwards,  when  commonness  had 
dulled  my  delight ;  and  I  did  not  sufficiently 
discern  then  how  much  in  most  of  our  con- 
troversies is  verbal,  and  upon  mutual  mis- 
takes. And  withal,  I  knew  not  how  im- 
patient divines  were  of  being  contradicted, 
nor  how  it  would  stir  up  all  their  powers  to 
defend  what  they  have  once  said,  and  to  rise 
up  against  the  truth  which  is  thus  thrust 
upon  them,  as  the  mortal  enemy  of  their 
honour ;  and  I  knew  not  how  hardly  men's 
minds  are  changed  from  their  former  appre- 


RICHARD  BAXTER. 


hensions,  be  the  evidence  never  so  plain. 
And  I  have  perceived  that  nothing  so  much 
hinders  the  reception  of  the  truth  as  urging 
it  on  men  with  too  harsh  importunity,  and 
falling  too  heavily  on  their  errors;  for  here- 
by you  engage  their  honour  in  the  business, 
and  they  defend  their  errors  as  themselves, 
and  stir  up  all  their  wit  and  ability  to  oppose 
you.  In  controversies,  it  is  fierce  opposition 
•which  is  the  bellows  to  kindle  a  resisting 
zeal ;  when,  if  they  be  neglected,  and  their 
opinions  lie  awhile  despised,  they  usually 
cool,  and  come  again  to  themselves.  Men 
are  so  loath  to  be  drenched  with  the  truth, 
that  I  am  no  more  for  going  that  way  to 
work ;  and,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  am  lately 
much  prone  to  the  contrary  extreme,  to  be 
too  indifferent  what  men  hold,  and  to  keep 
my  judgment  to  myself,  and  never  to  men- 
tion anything  wherein  I  differ  from  another 
on  anything  which  I  think  I  know  more 
than  he ;  or,  at  least,  if  he  receive  it  not 
presently,  to  silence  it,  and  leave  him  to  his 
own  opinion  ;  and  I  find  this  effect  is  mixed 
according  to  its  causes,  which  are  some  good 
and  some  bad.  The  bad  causes  are,  1.  An 
impatience  of  men's  weakness,  and  mistak- 
ing forwardness,  and  self-conceitedness.  2. 
An  abatement  of  my  sensible  esteem  of 
truths,  through  the  long  abode  of  them  on 
my  mind.  Though  my  judgment  value  them, 
yet  it  is  hard  to  be  equally  affected  with  old 
and  common  things  as  with  new  and  rare 
ones.  The  better  causes  are,  1.  That  I  am 
much  more  sensible  than  ever  of  the  neces- 
sity of  living  upon  the  principles  of  religion 
which  we  are  all  agreed  in,  and  uniting  in 
these;  and  how  much  mischief  men  that 
overvalue  their  own  opinions  have  done  by 
their  controversies  in  the  church  ;  how  some 
have  destroyed  charity,  and  some  caused 
schisms  by  them,  and  most  have  hindered 
godliness  in  themselves  and  others,  and  used 
them  to  divert  men  from  the  serious  prose- 
cuting of  a  holy  life ;  and,  as  Sir  Francis 
Bacon  saith  in  his  Essay  of  Peace,  u  that  it 
is  one  great  benefit  of  church  peace  and  con- 
cord, that  writing  controversies  is  turned 
into  books  of  practical  devotion  for  increase 
of  piety  and  virtue."  2.  And  I  find  that  it 
is  much  more  for  most  men's  good  and  edifi- 
cation to  converse  with  them  only  in  that 
way  of  godliness  which  all  are  agreed  in, 
and  not  by  touching  upon  differences  to  stir 
up  their  corruptions,  and  to  tell  them  of 
little  more  of  your  knowledge  than  what 
you  find  them  willing  to  receive  from  you 
as  mere  learners;  and  therefore  to  stay  till 
they  crave  information  of  you.  We  mistake 
men's  diseases  when  we  think  there  needeth 
nothing  to  cure  their  errors,  but  only  to 
bring  them  the  evidence  of  truth.  Alas  i 
there  are  many  distempers  of  mind  to  be  re- 


moved before  men  are  apt  to  receive  that 
evidence.  And,  therefore,  that  church  is 
happy  where  order  is  kept  up,  and  the  abili- 
ties of  the  ministers  command  a  reverend 
submission  from  the  hearers,  and  where  all 
are  in  Christ's  school,  in  the  distinct  ranks 
of  teachers  and  learners ;  for  in  a  learning 
way  men  are  ready  to  receive  the  truth,  but 
in  a  disputing  way,  they  come  armed  against 
it  with  prejudice  and  animosity. 
Reliquiae  Baxteriance. 

THE  CREDIT  DUE  TO  HISTORT. 

I  am  much  more  cautelous  in  my  belief 
of  history  than  heretofore  ;  not  that  I  run 
into  their  extreme  that  will  believe  nothing 
because  they  cannot  believe  all  things.  But 
I  am  abundantly  satisfied  by  the  experience 
of  this  age  that  there  is  no  believing  two 
sorts  of  men, — ungodly  men  and  partial 
men;  though  an  honest  heathen,  of  no  reli- 
gion, may  be  believed,  where  enmity  against 
religion  biasseth  him  not ;  yet  a  debauched 
Christian,  besides  his  enmity  to  the  power 
and  practice  of  his  own  religion,  is  seldom 
without  some  further  bias  of  interest  or  fac- 
tion :  especially  when  these  concur,  and  a 
man  is  both  ungodly  and  ambitious,  espous- 
ing an  interest  contrary  to  a  holy,  heavenly 
life,  and  also  factious,  embodying  himself 
with  a  sect  or  party  suited  to  his  spirit  and 
designs,  there  is  no  believing  his  word  or 
oath.  If  you  read  any  man  partially  bitter 
against  others,  as  differing  from  him  in  opin- 
ion, or  as  cross  to  his  greatness,  interest,  or 
designs,  take  heed  how  you  believe  any 
more  than  the  historical  evidence,  distinct 
from  his  word,  compelleth  you  to  believe. 
The  prodigious  lies  which  have  been  pub- 
lished in  this  age  in  matters  of  fact,  with 
unblushing  confidence,  even  where  thou- 
sands or  multitudes  of  eye  and  ear  witnesses 
knew  all  to  be  false,  doth  call  men  to  take 
heed  what  history  they  believe,  especially 
where  power  and  violence  affordeth  that 
privilege  to  the  reporter  that  no  man  dare 
answer  him,  or  detect  his  fraud  ;  or  if  they 
do,  their  writings  are  all  supprest.  As  long 
as  men  have  liberty  to  examine  and  contra- 
dict one  another  one  may  partly  conjec- 
ture, by  comparing  their  words,  on  which 
side  the  truth  is  like  to  lie.  But  when 
great  men  write  history,  or  flatterers  by 
their  appointment,  which  no  man  dare  con- 
tradict, believe  it  but  as  you  are  constrained. 
Yet,  in  these  cases  I  can  freely  believe  his- 
tory :  1.  If  the  person  show  that  he  is  ac- 
quainted with  what  he  saith.  2.  And  if  he 
show  the  evidences  of  honesty  and  con- 
science, and  the  fear  of  God  (which  may  be 
much  perceived  in  the  spirit  of  a  writing). 
3.  If  he  appear  to  be  impartial  and  chari- 


76 


JOHN  OWEN. 


table,  and  a  lover  of  goodness  and  of  man- 
kind, and  not  possessed  of  malignity,  or  per- 
sonal ill-will  and  malice,  nor  carried  away 
by  faction  or  personal  interest.  Conscionable 
men  dare  not  lie:  but  faction  and  interest 
abate  men's  tenderness  of  conscience.  And 
a  charitable,  impartial  heathen  may  speak 
truth  in  a  love  to  truth,  and  hatred  of  a  lie ; 
but  ambitious  malice  and  false  religion  will 
not  stick  to  serve  themselves  on  anything. 
.  .  .  Sure  I  am,  that  as  the  lies  of  the  Pa- 
pists, of  Luther,  Zwinglius,  Calvin,  and 
Beza,  are  visibly  malicious  and  impudent, 
by  the  common  plenary  contradicting  evi- 
dence, and  yet  the  multitude  of  their  se- 
duced ones  believe  them  all,  in  despite  of 
truth  and  charity ;  so  in  this  age  there  have 
been  such  things  written  against  parties  and 
persons,  whom  the  writers  design  to  make 
odious,  so  notoriously  false,  as  you  would 
think  that  the  sense  of  their  honour,  at  least, 
should  have  made  it  impossible  for  such  men 
to  write.  My  own  eyes  have  read  such 
words  and  actions  asserted  with  most  vehe- 
ment, iterated,  unblushing  confidence ;  which 
abundance  of  ear-witnesses,  even  of  their 
own  parties,  must  needs  know  to  have 
been  altogether  false:  and  therefore  having 
myself  now  written  this  history  of  myself, 
notwithstanding  my  protestations  that  I 
have  not  in  anything  wilfully  gone  against 
the  truth,  I  expect  no  more  credit  from  the 
reader  than  the  self-evidencing  light  of  the 
matter,  with  concurrent  rational  advantages 
from  persons,  and  things,  and  other  wit- 
nesses, shall  constrain  him  to,  if  he  be  a 
person  that  is  unacquainted  with  the  author 
himself,  and  the  other  evidences  of  his  ve- 
racity and  credibility. 
Reliquiae  Baxteriance. 


JOHN    OWEN,    D.D., 

a  famous  Puritan  divine,  born  1616,  died 
1683,  was  the  author  of  many  learned  theo- 
logical works,  of  which  the  Exposition  of 
the  Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Hebrews,  with 
Preliminary  Exercitations,  Lond.,  1668-84, 
4  vols.  fol.,  is  perhaps  the  best  known. 

"  Let  me  again  recommend  your  studious  and 
sustained  attention,"  remarks  Dr.  Chalmers  to  his 
students,  "  to  the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews.  ...  I 
promise  you  a  hundred-fold  more  advnntage  from 
the  perusal  of  this  greatest  work  of  John  Owen 
than  from  the  perusal  of  all  that  has  been  written 
on  the  subject  of  the  heathen  sacrifices.  It  is  a 
•work  of  gigantic  strength  as  well  as  gigantic  size; 
and  he  who  hath  mastered  it  is  very  little  short, 
both  in  respect  to  the  doctrinal  and  practical  of 
Christianity,  of  being  an  erudite  and  accomplished 
theologian." — Prelections  on  Hill's  Lects. :  Chal- 
wers't  Poith.  Works,  ix.  282. 


THE  MrsTERr  OF  THE  INCARNATION. 

Let  all  vain  imaginations  cease:  there  is 
nothing  left  unto  the  sons  of  men  but  either 
to  reject  the  divine  person  of  Christ — as 
many  do  unto  their  own  destruction — or 
humbly  to  adore  the  mystery  of  infinite 
wisdom  and  grace  therein.  And  it  will  re- 
quire a  condescending  charity  to  judge  that 
those  do  really  believe  the  incarnation  of 
the  Son  of  God  who  live  not  in  the  admira- 
tion of  it,  as  the  most  adorable  effect  of  di- 
vine wisdom. 

The  glory  of  the  same  mystery  is  else- 
where testified  unto,  Ileb.  i.  13:  "God  hath 
spoken  unto  us  by  his  Son,  by  whom  also 
he  made  the  worlds;  who,  being  the  bright- 
ness of  his  glory,  and  the  express  image  of 
his  person,  upholding  all  things  by  the  word 
of  his  power,  by  himself  purged  our  sins." 
That  he  purged  our  sins  by  his  death,  and 
the  oblation  of  himself  therein  unto  God,  is 
acknowledged.  That  this  should  be  done 
by  him  by  whom  the  worlds  were  made, 
who  is  the  essential  brightness  of  the  divine 
glory,  and  the  express  image  of  the  person 
of  the  Father  therein,  who  upholds,  rules, 
sustains  all  things  by  the  word  of  his  power, 
whereby  God  purchased  his  church  with 
his  own  blood  (Acts  xx.  28),  is  that  wherein 
he  will  be  admired  unto  eternity.  See  Phil, 
ii.  6-9. 

In  Isaiah  (chap,  vi.)  there  is  a  represen- 
tation made  of  him  as  on  a  throne,  filling 
the  temple  with  the  train  of  his  glory.  The 
Son  of  God  it  was  who  was  so  represented, 
and  that  as  he  was  to  fill  the  temple  of  his 
human  nature  with  divine  glory,  when  the 
fulness  of  the  Godhead  dwelt  in  him  bodily. 
And  herein  the  seraphim,  which  adminis- 
tered unto  him,  had  six  wings,  with  two 
whereof  they  covered  their  faces,  as  not 
being  able  to  behold  or  look  into  the  glo- 
rious mystery  of  his  incarnation :  verse  2, 
3:  John  xii.  39-41,  ii.  19;  Col.  ii.  9.'  But 
when  the  same  ministering  spirits,  under 
the  name  of  cherubim,  attended  the  throne 
of  God,  in  the  administration  of  his  provi- 
dence as  unto  the  disposal  and  government 
of  the  world,  they  had  four  wings  only,  and 
covered  not  their  faces,  but  steadily  beheld 
the  glory  of  it :  Ezek.  i.  6.  x.  2,  3. 

This  is  the  glory  of  the  Christian  religion, 
— the  basis  and  foundation  that  bears  the 
whole  superstructure, — the  root  whereon  it 
grows.  This  is  its  life  and  soul,  that  wherein 
it  differs  from,  and  inconceivably  excels, 
whatever  was  in  true  religion  before,  or 
whatever  any  false  religion  pretended  unto. 
Religion,  in  its  first  constitution,  in  the 
state  of  pure,  uncorrupted  nature,  was  or- 
derly, beautiful,  and  glorious.  Man  being 
made  in  the  image  of  God,  was  fit  and  able 


RALPH  CUD  WORTH. 


77 


to  glorify  him  as  God.  But  whereas,  what- 
ever perfection  God  had  communicated  unto 
our  nature,  he  had  not  united  it  unto  him- 
self in  a  personal  union,  the  fabric  of  it 
quickly  fell  unto  the  ground.  Want  of  this 
foundation  made  it  obnoxious  unto  ruin. 

God  manifested  herein,  that  no  gracious 
relation  between  him  and  our  nature  could 
be  stable  and  permanent,  unless  our  nature 
was  assumed  into  personal  union  and  sub- 
sistence with  himself.  This  is  the  only 
rock  and  assured  foundation  of  the  relation 
of  the  church  unto  God,  which  now  can 
never  utterly  fail.  Our  nature  is  eternally 
secured  in  that  union,  and  we  ourselves  (as 
we  shall  see)  thereby.  "  In  him  all  tilings 
consist"  (Col.  i.  17,  18);  wherefore,  what- 
ever beauty  and  glory  there  was  in  the  re- 
lation that  was  between  God  and  man,  and 
the  relation  of  all  things  unto  God  by  man, — 
in  the  preservation  whereof  natural  religion 
did  consist, — it  had  no  beauty  nor  glory  in 
comparison  of  this  which  doth  excel,  or  the 
manifestation  of  God  iti  the  flesh, — the  ap- 
pearance and  subsistence  of  the  divine  and 
human  natures  in  the  same  single  individual 
person. 

The  Person  and  Glory  of  Christ. 


RALPH    CUDWORTH, 

born  1617,  died  1688,  published  in  1678,  The 
True  Intellectual  System  of  the  Universe, 
fol. ;  new  editions,  Lond.,  1743,  2  vols.  4to, 
1820,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"  It  contains  the  greatest  mass  of  learning  and 
argument  that  ever  was  brought  to  hear  on  athe- 
ism. A  thousand  folio  pages,  full  of  learned  quo- 
tations, and  references  to  all  heathen  and  sacred 
antiquity,  demonstrate  the  fertility  and  laborious 
diligence  of  the  author.  And  whoever  wishes  to 
know  all  that  can  be  said  respecting  liberty  and 
necessity,  fate  and  free-will,  eternal  reason  and 
justice,  and  arbitrary  omnipotence,  has  only  to 
digest  the  Intellectual  System." — ORME:  Biblio- 
theca  Hiblica. 

GOD,    THOUGH    INCOMPREHENSIBLE    NOT   IN- 
CONCEIVABLE. 

It  doth  not  at  all  follow  because  God  is 
incomprehensible  to  our  finite  and  narrow 
understandings,  that  he  is  utterly  inconceiv- 
able by  them,  so  that  they  cannot  frame  any 
idea  of  him  at  all,  and  he  may  therefore  be 
concluded  to  be  a  non-entity.  For  it  is  certain 
that  we  cannot  comprehend  ourselves,  and 
that  we  have  not  such  an  adequate  and  com- 
prehensive knowledge  of  the  essence  of  any 
substantial  thing  as  that  we  can  perfectly 
master  and  conquer  it.  It  was  a  truth, 
though  abused  by  the  sceptics,  akatalepton 
ti,  something  incomprehensible  in  the  essence 
of  the  lowest  substances.  For  even  body 
itself,  which  the  atheists  think  themselves 


so  well  acquainted  with,  because  they  can 
feel  it  with  their  fingers,  and  which  is  the 
only  substance  that  they  acknowledge  either 
in  themselves  or  in  the  universe,  hath  such 
puzzling  difficulties  and  entanglements  in 
the  speculation  of  it,  that  they  can  never 
be  able  to  extricate  themselves  from.  \Ye 
might  instance,  also,  in  some  accidental 
things,  as  time  and  motion.  Truth  is  bigger 
than  our  minds,  and  we  are  not  the  same 
with  it,  but  have  a  lower  participation  only 
of  the  intellectual  nature,  and  are  rather 
apprehenders  than  comprehenders  thereof. 
This  is  indeed  one  badge  of  our  creaturely 
state,  that  we  have  not  a  perfectly  compre- 
hensible knowledge,  or  such  as  is  adequate 
and  commensurate  to  the  essences  of  things  ; 
from  whence  we  ought  to  be  led  to  this 
acknowledgment,  that  there  is  another  Per- 
fect Mind  or  Understanding  Being  above  us 
in  the  universe,  from  which  our  imperfect 
minds  were  derived,  and  upon  which  they 
do  depend.  Wherefore,  if  we  can  have  no 
idea  or  conception  of  anything  whereof  we 
have  not  a  full  and  perfect  comprehension, 
then  can  we  not  have  an  idea  or  conception 
of  the  nature  of  any  substance.  But  though 
we  do  not  comprehend  all  truth,  as  if  one 
mind  were  above  it,  or  master  of  it,  and 
cannot  penetrate  into,  and  look  quite  through 
the  nature  of  everything,  yet  may  rational 
souls  frame  certain  ideas  and  conceptions  of 
whatsoever  is  in  the  orb  of  being  proportion- 
ate to  their  own  nature,  and  sufficient  for 
their  purpose.  And  though  we  cannot  fully 
comprehend  the  Deity,  nor  exhaust  the  in- 
h'niteness  of  its  perfection,  yet  may  we  have 
an  idea  of  a  Being  absolutely  perfect;  such 
a  one  as  is  nostro  modulo  conformis,  agree- 
able and  proportionate  to  our  measure  and 
scantling;  as  we  may  approach  near  to  a 
mountain,  and  touch  it  with  our  hands, 
though  we  cannot  encompass  it  all  round, 
and  enclasp  it  within  our  arms.  Whatso- 
ever is  in  its  own  nature  absolutely  uncon- 
ceivable, is  nothing;  but  not  whatsoever  is 
not  fully  comprehensible  by  our  imperfect 
understandings. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  Deity  is  more 
incomprehensible  to  us  than  anything  else 
whatsoever,  which  proceeds  from  the  fulness 
of  its  being  and  perfection,  and  from  the 
transcendency  of  its  brightness  ;  but  for  the 
very  same  reason  may  it  be  said  also  in  some 
sense,  that  it  is  more  knowable  and  conceiv- 
able than  anything.  As  the  sun,  though  by 
reason  of  its  excessive  splendour  it  dazzle 
our  weak  sight,  yet  is  it,  notwithstanding, 
far  more  visible  also  than  any  of  the  nebur 
loses  stella, — the  small  misty  stars.  Where 
there  is  more  of  light  there  is  more  visibility  • 
so,  where  there  is  more  of  entity,  reality, 
and  perfection,  there  is  more  of  conccpti- 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


bility  and  cognoscibility ;  such  a  thing  fill- 
ing up  the  mind  more,  and  acting  more 
strongly  upon  it.  Nevertheless,  because  our 
weak  and  imperfect  minds  are  lost  in  the 
vust  immensity  and  redundancy  of  the  Deity, 
and  overcome  with  its  transcendent  light  and 
dazzling  brightness,  therefore  hath  it  to  us 
an  appearance  of  darkness  and  incompre- 
hensibility :  as  the  unbounded  expansion  of 
light,  in  the  clear  transparent  ether,  hath  to 
us  the  apparition  of  an  azure  obscurity  ; 
which  yet  is  not  an  absolute  thing  in  itself, 
1m t  only  relative  to  our  sense,  and  a  mere 
fancy  in  us. 

The  incomprehensibility  of  the  Deity  is  so 
far  from  being  an  argument  against  the  reality 
of  its  existence,  as  that  it  is  most  certain,  on 
the  contrary,  that  were  there  nothing  incom- 
prehensible to  us.  who  are  but  contemptible 
pieces,  and  small  atoms  of  the  universe; 
were  there  no  other  being  in  the  world  but 
what  our  finite  understandings  could  span 
or  fathom,  and  encompass  round  about,  look 
through  and  through,  have  a  commanding 
view  of,  and  perfectly  conquer  and  subdue 
under  them,  then  could  there  be  nothing 
absolutely  and  infinitely  perfect,  that  is,  no 
God.  .  .  . 

And  nature  itself  plainly  intimates  to  us 
that  there  is  some  such  absolutely  perfect 
Being,  which,  though  not  inconceivable,  yet 
is  incomprehensible  to  our  finite  understand- 
ings, by  certain  passions,  which  it  hath  im- 
planted in  us,  that  otherwise  would  want  an 
object  to  display  themselves  upon  ;  namely, 
those  of  devout  veneration,  adoration,  and 
admiration,  together  with  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
and  pleasing  horror;  which,  in  the  silent 
language  of  nature,  seem  to  speak  thus 
much  to  us,  that  there  is  some  object  in  the 
world  so  much  bigger  and  vaster  than  our 
mind  and  thoughts,  that  it  is  the  very  same 
to  them  that  the  ocean  is  to  narrow  vessels ; 
so  that,  when  they  have  taken  into  them- 
selves as  much  as  they  can  thereof  by  con- 
templation, and  filled  up  all  their  capacity, 
there  is  still  an  immensity  of  it  left  without, 
which  cannot  enter  in  for  want  of  room  to 
receive  it,  and  therefore  must  be  apprehended 
after  some  other  strange  and  more  mysteri- 
ous manner,  namely,  by  their  being  plunged 
into  it,  and  swallowed  up  or  lost  in  it.  To 
conclude,  the  Deity  is  indeed  incomprehen- 
sible to  our  finite  and  imperfect  understand- 
ings, but  not  inconceivable ;  and  therefore 
there  is  no  ground  at  all  for  this  atheistic 
pretence  to  make  it  a  non-entity. 

True  Intellectual  System  of  the  Universe. 

ABRAHAM   COWLEY,    M.D., 
born  1618,  died  1667,  once  famous  as  a  poet, 
was  esteemed  one  of  the  best  prose  writers 


of  his  time.  His  essays  are  dissertations  on 
Liberty.  Solitude,  Obscurity,  Agriculture, 
The  Garden,  Greatness,  Avarice,  The  Dan- 
gers of  an  Honest  Man  in  Much  Company, 
The  Shortness  of  Life  and  Uncertainty  of 
Riches,  The  Danger  of  Procrastination,  Of 
Myself.  First  edition  of  his  Works,  Lond., 
1656,  fol.  Prose  Works,  including  his  Es- 
says in  Prose  and  Verse,  Lond.,  1826,  cr. 
Svo,  large  paper  8vo. 

"The  Essays  must  not  be  forgotten.  What  is 
said  by  Sprat  of  his  conversation,  that  no  man 
could  draw  from  it  any  suspicion  of  his  excellence 
in  poetry,  may  be  applied  to  these  compositions. 
No  author  ever  kept  his  verse  and  his  prose  at  a 
greater  distance  from  each  other.  His  thoughts 
are  natural,  and  his  style  has  a  smooth  and  placid 
equability,  which  has  never  yet  obtained  its  due 
commendation.  Nothing  is  far-sought,  or  hard- 
laboured ;  but  all  is  easy  without  feebleness,  and 
familiar  without  grossness." — DR.  JOHNSON  :  Lives 
of  the  Eny/igh  Poets. 

OF  OBSCURITY. 

What  a  brave  privilege  it  is  to  be  free 
from  all  contentions,  from  all  envying  or 
being  envied,  from  receiving  and  from  pay- 
ing all  kinds  of  ceremonies !  It  is,  in  my 
mind,  a  very  delightful  pastime  for  two  good 
and  agreeable  friends  to  travel  up  and  down 
together,  in  places  where  they  are  by  nobody 
known,  nor  know  anybody.  It  was  the  case 
of  ^Eneasand  his  Achates,  when  they  walked 
invisibly  about  the  fields  and  streets  of  Car- 
thage. Venus  herself 

A  veil  of  thickened  air  around  them  cast, 
That   none   might  know,  or   see   them,  as   they 
pass'd. 

The  common  story  of  Demosthenes'  con- 
fession, that  he  had  taken  great  pleasure  in 
hearing  of  a  tanker-woman  say,  as  he  passed, 
"  This  is  that  Demosthenes,"  is  wonderfully 
ridiculous  from  so  solid  an  orator.  I  my- 
self have  often  met  with  that  temptation  to 
vanity  (if  it  were  any) ;  but  am  so  far  from 
finding  it  any  pleasure  that  it  only  makes 
me  run  faster  from  the  place,  till  I  get,  as  it 
were,  out  of  sight-shot.  Deniocritus  relates, 
and  in  such  a  manner  as  if  he  gloried  in 
the  good  fortune  and  commodity  of  it,  that, 
when  he  came  to  Athens,  nobody  there  did 
so  much  as  take  notice  of  him  ;  and  Epi- 
curus lived  there  very  well,  that  is,  lay  hid 
many  years  in  his  gardens,  so  famous  since 
that  time,  with  his  friend,  Metrodorus  ;  after 
whose  death,  making,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
a  kind  commemoration  of  the  happiness 
which  they  two  had  enjoyed  together,  he 
adds  at  lost,  that  he  thought  it  no  dispar- 
agement to  those  great  felicities  of  their 
life,  that  in  the  midst  of  the  most  talked-of 
and  talking  country  in  the  world,  they  had 
lived  so  long,  not  only  without  fame,  but  al- 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


most  without  being  heard  of;  and  yet,  within 
a  very  few  years  afterward,  there  were  no 
two  names  of  men  more  known  or  more 
generally  celebrated.  If  we  engage  into  a 
large  acquaintance  and  various  familiarities, 
we  set  open  our  gates  to  the  invaders  of  most 
of  our  time;  we  expose  our  life  to  a  quo- 
tidian ague  of  frigid  impertinences,  which 
would  make  a  wise  man  tremble  to  think  of. 
Now,  as  for  being  known  much  by  sight, 
and  pointed  at,  I  cannot  comprehend  the 
honour  that  lies  in  that ;  whatsoever  it  be, 
every  mountebank  has  it  more  than  the  best 
doctor,  and  the  hangman  more  than  the  lord- 
chief-justice  of  a  city.  Every  creature  has 
it,  both  of  nature  and  art,  if  it  be  anyways 
extraordinary.  It  was  as  often  said,  "  This 
is  that  Bucephalus,"  or  "  This  is  that  Inci- 
tatus,"  when  they  were  led  prancing  through 
the  streets,  as  "  This  is  that  Alexander,''  or 
'*  This  is  that  Domitian  ;"  and  truly,  for  the 
latter,  I  take  Incitatus  to  have  been  a  much 
more  honourable  beast  than  his  master,  and 
more  deserving  the  consulship  than  he  the 
empire. 

I  love  and  commend  a  true  good  fame,  be- 
cause it  is  the  shadow  of  virtue:  not  that  it 
doth  any  good  to  the  body  which  it  accom- 
panies, but  it  is  an  efficacious  shadow,  and 
like  that  of  St.  Peter,  cures  the  diseases  of 
others.  The  best  kind  of  glory,  no  doubt, 
is  that  which  is  reflected  from  honesty,  such 
as  was  the  glory  of  Cato  and  Avistides;  but 
it  was  harmful  to  them  both,  and  is  seldom 
beneficial  to  any  man  whilst  he  lives;  what 
it  is  after  his  death  I  cannot  say,  because 
I  love  not  philosophy  merely  notional  and 
conjectural,  and  no  man  who  has  made  the 
experiment  has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  back 
to  inform  us.  Upon  the  whole  matter,  I 
account  a  person  who  has  a  moderate  mind 
and  fortune,  and  lives  in  the  conversation  of 
two  or  three  .agreeable  friends,  with  little 
commerce  in  the  world  besides,  who  is  es- 
teemed well  enough  by  his  few  neighbours 
that  know  him,  and  is  truly  irreproachable 
by  anybody ;  and  so,  after  a  healthful  quiet 
life,  before  the  great  inconveniences  of  old 
age,  goes  more  silently  out  of  it  than  he 
came  in  (for  I  would  not  have  him  so  much 
as  cry  in  the  exit)  :  this  innocent  deceiver 
of  the  world,  as  Horace  calls  him,  this  mitta 
persona,  I  take  him  to  have  been  more 
happy  in  his  part  than  the  greatest  actors 
that  fill  the  stage  with  show  and  noise  ;  nay, 
even  than  Augustus  himself,  who  asked,  with 
his  last  breath,  whether  he  had  not  played 
his  part  very  well. 

Essays. 

OF  PROCRASTINATION. 

I  am  glad  that  you  approve  and  applaud 
my  design  of  withdrawing  myself  from  all 


tumult  and  business  of  the  world,  and  con- 
secrating the  little  rest  of  my  time  to  those 
studies  to  which  nature  had  so  motherly  in- 
clined me,  and  from  which  fortune,  like  a 
stepmother,  has  so  long  detained  me.  But 
nevertheless  (you  say,  which  is  but  cerngo 
mera,  a  rust  which  spoils  the  good  metal  it 
grows  upon.  But  you  say)  you  would  ad- 
vise me  not  to  precipitate  that  resolution, 
but  to  stay  a  while  longer  with  patience  and 
complaisance,  till  I  had  gotten  such  an  estate 
as  might  afford  me  (according  to  the  saying 
of  that  person  whom  you  and  I  love  very 
much,  and  would  believe  as  soon  as  another 
man)  cum  dignitate  otium.  This  were  excel- 
lent advice  to  Joshua,  who  could  bid  the  sun 
stay  too.  But  there  is  no  fooling  with  life 
when  it  is  once  turned  beyond  forty:  the 
seeking  for  a  fortune  then  is  but  a  desperate 
after-game  ;  it  is  a  hundred  to  one  if  a  man 
fling  two  sixes,  and  recover  all ;  especially 
if  his  hand  be  no  luckier  than  mine. 

There  is  some  help  for  all  the  defects  of 
fortune ;  for  if  a  man  cannot  attain  to  the 
length  of  his  wishes,  he  may  have  his  remedy 
by  cutting  of  them  shorter.  Epicurus  writes 
a  letter  to  Idomeneus  (who  was  then  a  very 
powerful,  wealthy,  and,  it  seems,  bountiful 
person),  to  recommend  to  him,  who  had 
made  so  many  men  rich,  one  Pythocles,  a 
friend  of  his,  whom  he  desired  might  be 
made  a  rich  man  too :  "  but  I  intreat  you  that 
you  would  not  do  it  just  the  same  way  as 
you  have  done  to  many  less  deserving  per- 
sons ;  but  in  the  most  gentlemanly  manner 
of  obliging  him,  which  is,  not  to  add  any- 
thing to  his  estate,  but  to  take  something 
from  his  desires." 

The  sum  of  this  is,  that  for  the  uncertain 
hopes  of  some  conveniences,  we  ought  not 
to  defer  the  execution  of  a  work  that  is 
necessary  ;  especially  when  the  use  of  those 
things  which  we  would  stay  for  may  other- 
wise be  supplied,  but  the  loss  of  time  never 
recovered  ;  nay,  farther  yet,  though  we  were 
sure  to  obtain  all  that  we  had  a  mind  to, 
though  we  were  sure  of  getting  never  BO 
much  by  continuing  the  game,  yet,  when 
the  light  of  life  is  so  near  going  out,  and 
ought  to  be  so  precious,  "  le  jeu  ne  vaut  pas 
la  chandelle  ;"  after  having  been  long  tossed 
in  a  tempest,  if  our  masts  be  standing,  and 
we  have  still  sail  and  tackling  enough  to 
carry  us  to  our  port,  it  is  no  matter  for  the 
want  of  steamers  and  top-gallants  : 

" utere  veils, 

Totos  pande  sinus." 

A  gentleman,  in  our  late  civil  wars,  when 
his  quarters  were  beaten  up  by  the  enemy, 
was  taken  prisoner,  and  lost  his  life  after- 
wards only  by  staying  to  put  on  a  band  and 
adjust  his  periwig:  he  would  escape  like  a 


80 


WALTER    CHARLETON. 


person  of  quality,  or  not  at  all,  and  died  the 
noble  martyr  of  ceremony  and  gentility. 
Essays. 


WALTER   CHARLETON,    M.D., 

born  1619,  and  died  1707,  was  the  author  of 
Chorea  Gigantum  :  or,  the  most  famous 
antiquity  of  Great  Britain,  vulgarly  called 
Stone  lleng,  standing  on  Salisbury  Plain, 
restored  to  the  Danes,  Lond.,  1633,  4to ; 
Two  Philosophical  Discourses :  the  first 
concerning  the  Different  Wits  of  Men,  the 
second  concerning  the  Mysteries  of  Vint- 
ners, 1608,  8vo  (again  1675,  1692),  and 
other  works. 

THE  READY  AND  NIMBLE  WIT. 

Such  as  are  endowed  therewith  have  a 
certain  extemporary  acuteness  of  conceit, 
accompanied  with  a  quick  delivery  of  their 
thoughts,  so  as  they  can  at  pleasure  enter- 
tain their  auditors  with  facetious  passages 
and  fluent  discourses  even  upon  slight  occa- 
sions ;  but  being  generally  impatient  of  sec- 
ond thoughts  and  deliberations,  they  seem 
fitter  for  pleasant  colloquies  and  drollery 
than  for  counsel  and  design  ;  like  fly-boats, 
good  only  in  fair  weather  and  shallow  waters, 
and  then,  too,  more  I'or  pleasure  than  traf- 
fic. If  they  be,  as  for  the  most  part  they 
are,  narrow  in  the  hold  and  destitute  of  bal- 
last sufficient  to  counterpoise  their  large  sails, 
they  reel  with  every  blast  of  argument,  and 
are  often  driven  upon  the  sands  of  ci  "non- 
plus;" hut  where  favoured  with  the  breath 
of  common  applause,  they  sail  smoothly  and 
proudly,  and,  like  the  city  pageants,  dis- 
charge whole  volleys  of  squibs  and  crackers, 
and  skirmish  most  furiously.  But  take  them 
from  their  familiar  and  private  conversation 
into  grave  and  severe  assemblies,  whence 
all  extemporary  flashes  of  wit,  all  fantastic 
allusions,  all  personal  reflections,  are  ex- 
cluded, and  there  engage  them  in  an  en- 
counter with  solid  wisdom,  not  in  light 
skirmishes,  but  a  pitched  field  of  long  and 
serious  debate  concerning  any  important 
question,  and  then  you  shall  soon  discover 
their  weakness,  and  contemn  that  barrenness 
of  understanding  which  is  incapable  of 
struggling  with  the  difficulties  of  apodictical 
knowledge,  and  the  deduction  of  truth  from 
a  long  series  of  reasons.  Again,  if  those 
very  concise  sayings  and  lucky  repartees, 
wherein  they  are  so  happy,  and  which  at 
first  hearing  were  entertained  with  so  much 
of  pleasure  and  admiration,  be  written  down, 
and  brought  to  a  strict  examination  of  their 
pertinency,  coherence,  and  verity,  how  shal- 
low, how  frothy,  how  forced  will  they  be 
found !  how  much  will  they  lose  of  that  ap- 


plause which  their  tickling  of  the  ear  and 
present  flight  through  the  imagination  had 
gained  !  In  the  greatest  part,  therefore,  of 
such  men,  you  ought  to  expect  no  deep  or 
continued  river  of  wit,  but  only  a  few 
flashes,  and  those,  too,  not  altogether  free 
from  mud  and  putrefaction. 

THE  SLOW  BUT  SURE  WIT. 

Some  heads  there  are  of  a  certain  close 
and  reserved  constitution,  which  makes  them 
at  first  sight  to  promise  as  little  of  the  vir- 
tue wherewith  they  are  endowed,  as  the  for- 
mer appear  to  be  above  the  imperfections  to 
which  they  are  subject.  Somewhat  slow 
they  are,  indeed,  of  both  conception  and  ex- 
pression ;  yet  no  whit  the  less  provided 
with  solid  prudence.  When  they  are  en- 
gaged to  speak  their  tongue  doth  not  readily 
interpret  the  dictates  of  their  mind,  so  that 
their  language  comes,  as  it  were,  dropping 
from  their  lips,  even  where  they  are  encour- 
aged by  familiar  entreaties,  or  provoked  by 
the  smartness  of  jests,  which  sudden  and 
nimble  wits  have  newly  darted  at  them. 
Costive  they  are  also  in  invention  ;  so  that 
when  they  would  deliver  somewhat  solid 
and  remarkable,  they  are  long  in  seeking 
what  is  fit,  and  as  long  in  determining  in 
what  manner  and  words  to  utter  it.  But 
after  a  little  consideration,  they  penetrate 
deeply  into  the  substance  of  things  and 
marrow  of  business,  and  conceive  proper 
and  emphatic  words,  by  which  to  express 
their  sentiments.  Barren  they  are  not.  but 
a  little  heavy  and  retentive.  Their  gifts  lie 
deep  and  concealed ;  but  being  furnished 
with  notions,  not  airy  and  umbratil  ones, 
borrowed  from  the  pedantism  of  the  schools, 
but  true  and  useful, — and  if  they  have  been 
manured  with  good  learning,  and  the  habit 
of  exercising  their  pen,  oftentimes  they  pro- 
duce many  excellent  conceptions,  worthy  to 
be  transmitted  to  posterity.  Having,  how- 
ever, an  aspect  very  like  to  narrow  and  dull 
capacities,  at  first  sight  most  men  take  them 
to  be  really  such,  and  strangers  look  upon 
them  with  the  eyes  of  neglect  and  contempt. 
Hence  it  comes,  that  excellent  parts  remain- 
ing unknown,  often  want  the  favour  and 
patronage  of  great  persons,  whereby  they 
might  be  redeemed  from  obscurity,  and 
raised  to  employments  answerable  to  their 
faculties,  and  crowned  with  honours  pro- 
portionate to  their  merits.  The  best  course, 
therefore,  for  these  to  overcome  that  eclipse 
which  prejudice  usually  brings  upon  them, 
is  to  contend  against  their  own  modesty, 
and  either  by  frequent  converse  with  noble 
and  discerning  spirits  to  enlarge  the  win- 
dows of  their  minds,  and  dispel  those  clouds 
of  reservedness  that  darken  the  lustre  of 


JOHN  EVELYN. 


81 


their  faculties  ;  or,  by  writing  on  some  new 
and  useful  subject,  to  lay  open  their  talent, 
so  that  the  world  may  be  convinced  of  their 
intrinsic;  value. 

Two  Philosophical  Discourses. 


JOHN  EVELYN, 

born  1620,  died  1706,  one  of  the  best  and 
most  accomplished  men  in  the  vicious  court 
of  Charles  II.,  kept  a  chronicle  of  public 
events  occurring  around  him,  which  will  be 
found  in  Memoirs  illustrative  of  the  Life  and 
Writings  of  John  Evelyn.  Esq.,  comprising 
his  Diary  from  1041  to  1705-6,  and  a  selec- 
tion of  his  familiar  Letters,  Lond.,  1818,  2 
vols.  4to,  and  later  editions. 

By  Evelyn's  direction  the  following  in- 
scription was  placed  upon  his  tombstone: 

''That  living  in  an  age  of  extraordinary 
events  and  revolutions,  he  had  learned  from 
thence  this  truth,  which  he  desired  might  be 
thus  communicated  to  posterity:  That  all  is 
vanity  which  is  not  honest,  and  that  there 
is  no  solid  wisdom  but  real  piety." 

"His  life,"  remarks  Horace  Walpole,  "which 
was  extended  to  eighty-six  years,  was  a  course  of 
enquiry,  study,  curiosity,  instruction,  and  benevo- 
lence. The  works  of  the  Creator,  and  the  mimic 
labours  of  the  creature,  were  all  objects  of  his  pur- 
suit. He  unfolded  the  perfection  of  the  one,  and 
assisted  the  imperfection  of  the  other.  He  adored 
from  examination ;  was  a  courtier  that  flattered 
only  by  informing  his  prince,  and  by  pointing  out 
what  was  worthy  for  him  to  countenance;  and  was 
really  the  neighbour  of  the  gospel,  for  there  was 
no  man  that  might  not  have  been  the  better  for 
him." — Cataloyue  of  Engravers. 

THE  GREAT  FIRE  IN  LOXDOV. 

1666.  2d  Sept.  This  fatal  night  about  ten 
began  that  deplorable  fire  near  Fish  Streete 
in  London. 

3d.  The  fire  continuing,  after  dinner  I 
took  coach  with  my  wife  and  sonn  and  went 
to  the  Bank  side  in  Southwark,  where  we 
beheld  that  dismal  spectacle,  the  whole  citty 
in  dreadful  flames  near  ye  water  side;  all 
the  houses  from  the  Bridge,  all  Thames,  and 
upwards  towards  Cheapeside,  downe  to  the 
Three  Cranes,  were  now  consum'd. 

The  fire  having  continued  all  this  night 
(if  I  may  call  that  night  which  was  light  as 
day  for  10  miles  round  about,  after  a  dread- 
ful manner),  when  conspiring  with  a  fierce 
eastern  wind  in  a  very  drie  season,  I  went 
on  foote  to  the  same  place,  and  saw  the  whole 
south  part  of  ye  burning  from  Cheapside  to 
ye  Thames,  and  all  along  Cornehill  (for  it 
kindl'd  back  against  ye  wind  as  well  as  for- 
ward), Tower  Streete,  Fenchurch  Streete, 
Gracious  Streete,  and  so  along  to  Bainard's. 
Castle,  and  was  now  taking  hold  of  St. 
G 


Panic's  church,  to  which  the  scaffolds  con- 
tributed exceedingly.  The  conflagration  was 
so  universal,  and  the  people  so  astonish'd, 
that  from  the  beginning,  I  know  not  by  what 
despondency  or  fate,  they  hardly  stirr'd  to 
quench  it,  so  that  there  was  nothing  heard 
or  scene  but  crying  out  and  lamentation,  run- 
ning about  like  distracted  creatures,  without 
at  all  attempting  to  save  even  their  goods, 
such  a  strange  consternation  there  was  upon 
them,  so  as  it  burned  both  in  breadth  and 
length,  the  churches,  publiq  halls,  exchange, 
hospitals,  monuments,  and  ornaments,  leap- 
ing after  a  prodigious  manner  from  house 
to  house  and  streete  to  streete,  at  greate  dis- 
tances one  from  y°  other ;  for  ye  heate  with 
a  long  set  of  faire  and  warme  weather  had 
even  ignited  the  air,  and  prepar'd  the  mate- 
rials to  conceive  the  fire,  which  devour'd, 
after  an  incredible  manner,  houses,  furni- 
ture, and  everything.  Here  we  saw  the 
Thames  cover'd  with  goods  floating,  all  the 
barges  and  boates  laden  with  what  some  had 
time  and  courage  to  save,  as,  on  ye  other, 
ye  carts,  &c.,  carrying  out  to  the  fields, 
which  for  many  miles  were  strew'd  with 
moveable  of  all  sorts,  and  tents  erecting  to 
shelter  both  people  and  what  goods  they 
could  get  away.  Oh  the  miserable  and  ca- 
lamitous spectacle  !  such  as  haply  the  world 
had  not  scene  the  like  since  the  foundation 
of  it,  nor  be  outdone  till  the  universal  con- 
flagnition.  All  the  skie  was  of  a  fiery 
aspect,  like  the  top  of  a  burning  oven,  the 
light  scene  above  40  miles  round  about  for 
many  nights.  God  grant  my  eyes  may  never 
behold  the  like,  now  seeing  above  10,000 
houses  all  in  one  flame:  the  noise,  and 
cracking,  and  thunder  of  the  impetuous 
flames,  ye  shrieking  of  women  and  children, 
the  hurry  of  people,  the  fall  of  towers, 
houses,  and  churches,  was  like  an  hideous 
storme,  and  the  aire  all  about  so  hot  and 
inflam'd,  that  at  last  one  was  not  able  to 
approach  it,  so  that  they  were  forc'd  to  stand 
still  and  let  ye  flames  burn  on,  wch  they 
did  for  neere  two  miles  in  length  and  one  in 
bredth.  The  clouds  of  smoke  were  dismall, 
and  reach'd  upon  computation  neer  50  miles 
in  length.  Thus  I  left  it  this  afternoone 
burning,  a  resemblance  of  Sodom  or  the  last 
day.  London  was,  but  is  no  more! 

4th.  The  burning  still  rages,  and  it  was 
now  gotten  as  far  as  the  Inner  Temple,  all 
Fleete  Streete,  the  Old  Bailey,  Ludgate  Hill, 
Warwick  Lane,  Newgate,  Paul's  Chain, 
Watling  Streete,  now  flaming,  and  most  of  it 
reduc'd  to  ashes ;  the  stones  of  Paules  flew 
like  granados,  ye  mealting  lead  running 
downe  the  streetes  in  a  streame,  and  the  very 
pavements  glowing  with  fiery  rednesse,  so  as 
no  horse  nor  man  was  able  to  tread  on  them, 
and  the  demolition  had  stopp'd  all  the  pas- 


82 


JOHN  EVELYN. 


sages,  so  that  no  help  could  be  applied.  The 
eastern  wind  still  more  impetuously  drove 
the  flames  forward.  Nothing  but  ye  Al- 
mighty power  of  God  was  able  to  stop  them, 
for  vame  was  ye  help  of  man. 

Sept.  5th.  It  crossed  towards  Whitehall : 
Oh  the  confusion  there  was  then  at  that 
court !  It  pleased  his  Ma1*  to  command  me 
among  ye  rest  to  looke  after  the  quenching 
of  Fetter  Lane  end,  to  preserve  if  possible, 
that  part  of  Holborn,  whilst  the  rest  of  ye 
gentlemen  tooke  their  several  posts  (for  now 
they  began  to  bestir  themselves,  and  not  till 
now,  who  hitherto  had  stood  as  men  intoxi- 
cated, with  their  hands  acrosse),  and  began 
to  consider  that  nothing  was  likely  to  put  a 
stop  but  the  blowing  up  of  so  many  houses 
as  might  make  a  wider  gap  than  any  had 
yet  ben  made  by  the  ordinary  method  of 
pulling  them  down  with  engines;  this  some 
stout  seamen  proposed  early  enough  to  have 
sav'd  near  ye  whole  citty,  but  this  some  tena- 
cious and  avaritious  men.  aldermen,  &o., 
would  not  permit,  because  their  houses  must 
have  ben  of  the  first.  It  was  therefore  now 
commanded  to  be  practised,  and  my  concern 
being  particularly  for  the  hospital  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  neere  Smithfield,  where  I  had 
many  wounded  and  sick  men,  made  me  the 
more  diligent  to  promote  it,  nor  was  my 
care  for  the  Savoy  lesse.  It  now  pleas'd 
God,  by  abating  the  wind,  and  by  the  Indus- 
trie of  ye  people,  infusing  a  new  spirit  into 
tliem,  that  the  fury  of  it  began  sensibly  to 
abate  about  noone,  so  as  it  came  no  farther 
than  ye  Temple  westward,  nor  than  ye  en- 
trance of  Smithfield  north.  But  continu'd 
all  this  day  and  night  so  impetuous  towards 
Cripplegate  and  the  Tower  as  made  us  all 
clespaire;  it  also  broke  out  againe  in  the 
Temple,  but  the  courage  of  the  multitude 
persisting,  and  many  houses  being  blown  up, 
such  gaps  and  desolations  were  soone  made, 
as  with  the  former  three  days'  consump- 
tion, the  back  fire  did  not  so  vehemently 
urge  upon  the  rest  as  formerly.  There  was 
yet  no  standing  neere  the  burning  and  glow- 
ing ruines  by  neere  a  furlong's  space. 

The  coale  and  wood  wharfes  and  maga- 
zines of  oyle,  rosin,  &c.,  did  infinite  mis- 
cheife,  so  as  the  invective  which  a  little  before 
I  had  dedicated  to  his  Ma'?,  and  ptiblish'd, 
giving  warning  what  might  probably  be  the 
issue  of  suffering  those  shops  to  be  in  the 
citty,  was  look'd  on  as  a  prophecy. 

The  poore  inhabitants  were  dispers'd 
about  St.  George's  Fields,  and  Moorefields, 
as  far  as  Ilighgate,  and  severall  miles  in 
circle,  some  under  tents,  some  under  miser- 
able hutts  and  hovells,  many  without  a  rag 
or  any  necessary  utensills,  bed  or  board, 
who,  from  delicatenesse,  riches,  and  easy  ac- 
commodations in  stately  and  well  furnish'd 


houses,   were    now  reduc'd   to   extreamest 
misery  and  poverty. 

In  this  calamitous  condition  I  return'd 
with  a  sad  heart  to  my  house,  blessing  and 
adoring  the  mercy  of  God  to  me  and  mine, 
who  in  the  midst  of  all  this  ruine  was  like 
Lot,  in  my  little  Zoar,  safe  and  sound. 

7th.  I  went  this  morning  on  foote  fm 
Whitehall  as  far  as  London  Bridge,  thro' 
the  late  Fleete  Street,  Ludgate  Hill,  by  St. 
Paules,  Cheapeside,  Exchange,  Bishopgate, 
Aldersgate.  and  out  to  Moorefields,  thence 
thro'  Cornehill,  &c.,  with  extraordinary  diffi- 
culty, clambering  over  heaps  of  yet  smoking 
rubbish,  and  frequently  mistaking  where  I 
was.  The  ground  under  my  feete  was  so 
hot  that  it  even  burnt  the  soles  of  my  shoes. 
In  the  meantime  his  Ma'r  got  to  the  Tower 
by  water,  to  demolish  ye  houses  about  the 
graff,  which  being  built  intirely  about  it, 
had  they  taken  fire  and  attack'd  the  White 
Tower  where  the  magazine  of  powder  lay, 
would  undoubtedly  not  only  have  beaten 
downe  and  destroy'd  all  ye  bridge,  but 
sunke  and  torne  the  vessells  in  y"  river,  and 
render'd  ye  demolition  beyond  all  expres 
sion  for  several  miles  about  the  countrey. 

At  my  return  I  was  infinitely  concern'd 
to  find  that  goodly  church  St.  Paules  now  a 
sad  ruine,  and  that  beautiful  portico  (for 
structure  comparable  to  any  in  Europe,  as 
not  long  before  repair'd  by  the  king)  now 
rent  in  pieces,  flakes  of  vast  stone  split 
asunder,  and  nothing  remaining  intire  but 
the  inscription  in  the  architrave,  showing 
by  whom  it  was  built,  which  had  not  one 
letter  of  it  defac'd.  It  was  astonishing  to 
see  what  immense  stones  the  heat  had  in  a 
manner  calcin'd,  so  that  all  y°  ornaments, 
columns,  freezes,  and  projectures  of  massic 
Portland  stone  flew  off,  even  to  y"  very 
roofe,  where  a  sheet  of  lead  covering  a  great 
space  was  totally  mealted ;  the  ruines  of 
the  vaulted  roofe  falling  broke  into  St. 
Faith's,  which  being  fillel  with  the  maga- 
zines of  bookes  belonging  to  ye  stationers, 
and  carried  thither  for  safety,  they  were  all 
consum'd,  burning  for  a  week  following. 
It  is  also  observable,  that  the  lead  over  ye 
altar  at  ye  east  end  was  untouch'd,  and 
among  the  divers  monuments,  the  body  of 
one  bishop  remain'd  intire.  Thus  lay  in 
ashes  that  most  venerable  church,  one  of 
the  most  antient  pieces  of  early  piety  in  ye 
Christian  world,  besides  neere  100  more. 
The  lead,  yron  worke,  bells,  plate,  &c., 
mealted ;  the  exquisitely  wrought  Mercers 
Chapell,  the  sumptuous  Exchange,  ye  august 
fabnq  of  Christ  Church,  all  ye  rest  of  the 
Companies  Halls,  sumptuous  buildings, 
arches,  all  in  dust ;  the  fountaines  dried 
up  and  ruin'd,  whilst  the  very  waters  re- 
main'd boiling;  the  vorago's  of  subterranean 


ALGERNON  SIDNEY. 


83 


collars,  wells,  and  dungeons,  formerly  ware- 
houses, still  burning  in  stench  and  dark 
clouds  of  smoke,  so  that  in  5  or  6  miles,  in 
traversing  about,  I  did  not  see  one  load  of 
timber  unconsum'd,  nor  many  stones  but 
what  were  calcin'd  white  as  snow.  The 
people  who  now  walk'd  about  ye  mines  ap- 
pear'd  like  men  in  a  dismal  desarfc,  or  rather 
in  some  greate  citty  laid  waste  by  a  cruel 
enemy. 

Evelyn's  Diary. 


ALGERNON   SIDNEY, 

son  of  Robert,  Earl  of  Leicester,  born  about 
1621,  illegally  convicted  and  executed  for 
alleged  complicity  in  the  Rye  House  Plot, 
1683,  was  the  author  of  Discourses  concern- 
ing Government:  Published  from  the  au- 
thor's original  MS.,  Lond.,  1698,  fol. 

"Sidney's  Discourses  on  Government,  not  pub- 
lished till  1R98,  are  a  diffuse  reply  to  Filnier. 
They  contain  indeed  many  chapters  full  of  his- 
torical learning  and  judicious  reflection ;  yet  the 
constant  anxiety  to  refute  that  which  needs  no 
refutation  renders  them  a  little  tedious.  Sidney 
does  not  condemn  a  limited  monarchy  like  the 
English,  but  his  partiality  is  for  a  form  of  republic 
which  would  be  deemed  too  aristocratical  for  our 
popular  theories." — HALLAJI  :  Lit.  Hint,  of  Europe, 
4th  ed.,  1854,  iii.  440. 

"  Not  a  syllable  can  we  find  that  shows  the  illus- 
trious author  to  have  regarded  the  manner  in  which 
the  people  were  represented  as  of  any  importance." 
— LORD  BROUGHAM:  Polit.  P/iilos.,  Part  3,  2d  ed., 
1849,  88. 

LIBERTY  AND  GOVERNMENT. 

Such  as  enter  into  society  must,  in  some 
degree,  diminish  their  liberty.  Reason  leads 
them  to  this.  No  one  man  or  family  is  able 
to  provide  that  which  is  requisite  for  their 
convenience  or  security,  whilst  every  one 
has  an  equal  right  to  everything,  and  none 
acknowledges  a  superior  to  determine  the 
controversies  that  upon  such  occasions  must 
continually  arise,  and  will  probably  be  so 
many  and  so  great,  that  mankind  cannot 
bear  them.  Therefore,  though  I  do  not 
believe  that  ISellarmine  said  a  common- 
wealth could  not  exercise  its  power;  for  he 
could  not  be  ignorant  that  Rome  and  Athens 
did  exercise  theirs,  and  that  all  the  regular 
kingdoms  of  the  world  are  commonwealths ; 
yet  there  is  nothing  of  absurdity  in  saying, 
that  man  cannot  continue  in  the  perpetual 
and  entire  fruition  of  the  liberty  that  God 
hath  given  him.  The  liberty  of  one  is 
thwarted  by  that  of  another;  and  whilst 
they  are  all  equal,  none  will  yield  to  any, 
otherwise  than  by  a  general  consent.  This 
is  the  ground  of  all  just  governments;  for 
violence  or  fraud  can  create  no  right ;  and 


the  same  consent  gives  the  form  to  them  all, 
how  much  soever  they  differ  from  each  other. 
Some  small  numbers  of  men,  living  within 
the  precincts  of  one  city,  have,  as  it  were, 
cast  into  a  common  stock  the  right  which 
they  had  of  governing  themselves  and  chil- 
dren, and,  by  common  consent  joining  in 
one  body,  exercised  such  power  over  every 
single  person  as  seemed  beneficial  to  the 
whole;  and  this  men  call  perfect  democracy. 
Others  choose  rather  to  be  governed  by  a. 
select  number  of  such  as  most  excelled  in 
wisdom  and  virtue;  and  this,  according  to 
the  signification  of  the  word,  was  called 
aristocracy ;  or  when  one  man  excelled  all 
others,  the  government  was  put  into  hia 
hands,  under  the  name  of  monarchy.  But 
the  wisest,  best,  and  far  the  greatest  part  of 
mankind,  rejecting  these  simple  species,  did 
form  governments  mixed  or  composed  of  the 
three,  as  shall  be  proved  hereafter,  which 
commonly  received  their  respective  denomi- 
nation from  the  part  that  prevailed,  and  did 
deserve  praise  or  blame  as  they  were  well 
or  ill  proportioned. 

It  were  a  folly  hereupon  to  say,  that  the 
liberty  for  which  we  contend  is  of  no  use  to 
us,  since  we  cannot  endure  the  solitude,  bar- 
barity, weakness,  want,  misery,  and  dangers 
that  accompany  it  whilst  we  live  alone,  nor 
can  enter  into  a  society  without  resigning 
it;  for  the  choice  of  that  society,  and  the 
liberty  of  framing  it  according  to  our  own 
wills,  for  our  own  good,  is  all  we  seek.  This 
remains  to  us  whilst  we  form  governments 
that  we  ourselves  are  judges  how  far  it  is 
good  for  us  to  recede  from  our  natural  liberty ; 
which  is  of  so  great  importance,  that  from 
thence  only  we  can  know  whether  we  are 
freemen  or  slaves;  and  the  difference  be- 
tween the  best  government  and  the  worst 
doth  wholly  depend  on  a  right  or  wrong  ex- 
ercise of  that  power.  If  men  are  naturally 
free,  such  as  have  wisdom  and  understand- 
ing will  always  frame  good  governments : 
but  if  they  are  born  under  the  necessity  of 
a  perpetual  slavery,  no  wisdom  can  be  of 
use  to  them ;  but  all  must  forever  depend 
upon  the  will  of  their  lords,  how  cruel,  mad, 
proud,  or  wicked  soever  they  be.  .  .  . 

The  Grecians,  amongst  others  who  fol- 
lowed the  light  of  reason,  knew  no  other 
original  title  to  the  government  of  a  nation 
than  that  wisdom,  valour,  and  justice  which 
was  beneficial  to  the  people.  These  qualities 
gave  beginning  to  those  governments  which 
we  call  Heroum  Regna ;  and  the  veneration 
paid  to  such  as  enjoyed  them  proceeded  from 
a  grateful  source  of  the  good  received  from 
them:  they  were  thought  to  be  descended 
from  the  gods,  who  in  fortune  and  benefi- 
cence surpassed  other  men :  the  same  at- 
tended their  descendants,  till  they  came  to 


84 


BLAISE  PASCAL. 


abuse  their  power,  and  by  their  vices  showed 
themselves  like  to,  or  worse  than  others,  who 
could  best  perform  their  duty. 

Upon  the  same  grounds  we  may  conclude 
that  no  privilege  is  peculiarly  annexed  to 
any  form  of  government ;  but  that  all  magis- 
trates are  equally  the  ministers  of  God,  who 
perform  the  work  for  which  they  are  insti- 
tuted ;  and  that  the  people  which  institutes 
them  may  proportion,  regulate,  and  termi- 
nate their  power  as  to  time,  measure,  and 
number  of  persons,  as  seems  most  conveni- 
ent to  themselves,  which  can  be  no  other 
than  their  own  good.  For  it  cannot  be 
imagined  that  a  multitude  of  people  should 
send  for  Nnnm,  or  any  other  person  to  whom 
they  owed  nothing,  to  reign  over  them,  that 
he  might  live  in  glory  and  pleasure;  or  for 
any  other  reason  than  that  it  might  be  good 
for  them  and  their  posterity.  This  shows 
the  work  of  all  magistrates  to  be  always  and 
everywhere  the  same,  even  the  doing  of 
justice,  and  procuring  the  welfare  of  those 
that  create  them.  This  we  learn  from  com- 
mon sense:  Plato,  Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  the 
best  human  authors,  lay  it  as  an  immovable 
foundation,  upon  which  they  build  their 
arguments  relating  to  matters  of  that  nature. 

Discourses  on  Government. 


BLAISE    PASCAL, 

famous  as  a  mathematician  and  natural 
philosopher,  and  also  eminent  for  his  piety, 
was  born  at  Clermont-Ferrand,  Auvergne, 
France,  1623,  and  died  1662.  He  is  best 
known  by  his  Provincial  Letters,  and  his 
Thoughts  upon  Religion,  and  upon  some 
other  subjects. 

"  His  powers  of  mind  were  such  as  have  rarely 
been  bestowed  on  any  of  the  children  of  men  ;  and 
the  vehemence  of  the  zeal  which  animated  him 
was  but  too  well  proved  by  the  cruel  penance*  and 
vigils  under  which  his  macerated  frame  sunk  into 
an  early  grave.  His  spirit  was  the  spirit  of  Saint 
Bernard:  but  the  delicacy  of  his  wit,  the  purity, 
the  energy,  the  simplicity  of  his  rhetoric  [in  the 
Provincial  Letters],  had  never  been  equalled,  ex- 
cept by  the  grent  masters  of  Attic  eloquence.  All 
Europe  read  and  admired,  laughed  and  wept. 
The  Jesuits  attempted  to  reply,  but  their  fetb!e 
answers  were  received  by  the  public  with  shouts 
of  mockery." — Lono  MACAULAY:  Hint,  of  Eny.,  i., 
ch.  vi. 

'•  The  Thoughts  of  Pnscal  nre  to  be  ranked,  ns 
a  monument  of  his  genius,  above  the  '  Provincial 
Letters,'  though  some  have  averted  the  contrary. 
They  burn  with  an  intense  light ;  condensed  in 
expression,  sublime,  energetic,  rapid,  they  hurry 
away  the  reader,  till  he  is  scarcely  nhle  or  willing 
to  distinguish  the  sophisms  from  the  truth  they 
contain.' — HALLAM:  Litrod.  to  Lit.  of  Europe. 

The  following  thoughts  are  very  impres- 
sive : 


A  SERIOUS  EXPOSTULATION  WITH  UNBE« 
LIEVERS. 

The  immortality  of  the  soul  is  a  thing 
which  so  deeply  concerns,  so  infinitely  im- 
ports us,  that  we  must  have  utterly  lost  our 
feeling  to  be  altogether  cold  and  remiss  in 
our  inquiries  about  it.  And  all  our  actions 
or  designs  ought  to  bend  so  very  different  a 
way,  according  as  we  are  encouraged  or 
forbidden  to  embrace  the  hope  of  eternal 
rewards,  that  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  pro- 
ceed with  judgment  and  discretion,  other- 
wise than  as  we  keep  this  point  always  in 
view,  which  ought  to  be  our  ruling  object 
arid  final  aim. 

Thus  it  is  our  highest  interest,  no  less 
than  our  principal  duty,  to  get  light  into  a 
subject  on  which  our  whole  conductdepends. 
And  therefore,  in  the  number  of  wavering 
and  unsatisfied  men,  I  make  the  greatest 
difference  imaginable  between  those  who 
labour  with  all  their  force  to  obtain  instruc- 
tion, and  those  who  live  without  giving 
themselves  any  trouble,  or  as  much  as  any 
thought  in  this  affair. 

I  cannot  but  be  touched  with  a  hearty 
compassion  for  those  who  sincerely  groan 
under  this  dissatisfaction  ;  who  look  upon 
it  as  the  greatest  of  misfortunes,  and  who 
spare  no  pains  to  deliver  themselves  from 
it,  by  making  these  researches  their  chief 
employment  and  most  serious  study.  But 
as  for  those  who  pass  their  life  without  re- 
flecting on  its  issue,  and  who,  for  this  reason 
alone,  because  they  find  not  in  themselves 
a  convincing  testimony,  refuse  to  seek  it 
elsewhere,  and  to  examine  to  the  bottom, 
whether  the  opinion  proposed  be  such  as  we 
are  wont  to  entertain  by  popular  simplicity 
and  credulity,  or  as  such,  though  obscure  in 
itself,  yet  is  built  on  solid  and  immovable 
foundations,  I  consider  them  after  quite  an- 
other manner.  The  carelessness  which  they 
betray  in  an  affair  where  their  person,  their 
interest,  their  whole  eternity  is  embarked, 
rather  provokes  my  resentment  than  engages 
my  pity.  Nay,  it  strikes  me  with  amaze- 
ment and  astonishment:  it  is  a  monster  to 
my  apprehension.  I  speak  not  this  as  trans- 
ported with  the  pious  zeal  of  a  spiritual  and 
rapturous  devotion :  on  the  contrary,  I 
affirm  that  the  love  of  ourselves,  the  interest 
of  mankind,  and  the  most  simple  and  art- 
less reason,  do  naturally  inspire  us  with 
these  sentiments;  and  that  to  see  thus  far 
is  not  to  exceed  the  sphere  of  unrefined,  un- 
educated men. 

It  requires  no  great  elevation  of  soul  to 
observe  that  nothing  in  this  world  is  pro- 
ductive of  true  contentment ;  that  our  pleas- 
ures are  vain  and  fugitive,  our  troubles 
innumerable  and  perpetual :  and  that,  after 
all.  death,  which  threatens  us  every  moment, 


BLAISE  PASCAL. 


85 


must,  in  the  compass  of  a  few  years  (per- 
haps of  a  few  days),  put  us  into  the  eternal 
condition  of  happiness,  or  misery,  or  nothing. 
Between  us  and  these  three  great  periods, 
or  states,  no  barrier  is  interposed  but  life, 
the  most  brittle  thing  in  all  nature  ;  and  the 
happiness  of  heaven  being  certainly  not  de- 
signed for  those  who  doubt  whether  they 
have  an  immortal  part  to  enjoy  it,  such  per- 
sons have  nothing  left  but  the  miserable 
chance  of  annihilation,  or  of  hell. 

There  is  not  any  reflection  which  can 
have  more  reality  than  this,  as  there  is 
none  which  has  greater  terror.  Let  us  set 
the  bravest  face  on  our  condition,  and  play 
the  heroes  as  artfully  as  we  can  ;  yet  see 
here  the  issue  which  attends  the  goodliest 
life  upon  earth. 

It  is  in  vain  for  men  to  turn  aside  their 
thoughts  from  this  eternity  which  awaits 
them,  as  if  they  were  able  to  destroy  it  by 
denying  it  a  place  in  their  imagination  :  it 
subsists  in  spite  of  them  ;  it  advanceth  un- 
observed ;  and  death,  which  is  to  draw  the 
curtain  from  it,  will  in  a  short  time  infalli- 
bly reduce  them  to  the  dreadful  necessity 
of  being  forever  nothing,  or  forever  miser- 
able. 

We  have  here  a  doubt  of  the  most  affright- 
ing consequence,  and  which,  therefore,  to 
entertain,  may  be  well  esteemed  the  most 
grievous  of  misfortunes:  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  our  indispensable  duty  not  to  lie 
under  it  without  struggling  for  deliverance. 
He  then  who  doubts,  and  yet  seeks  not  to 
be  resolved,  is  equally  unhappy  and  unjust: 
but  if  withal  he  appears  easy  and  composed, 
if  he  freely  declares  his  indifference,  nay, 
if  he  takes  a  vanity  of  professing  it,  and 
seems  to  make  this  most  deplorable  condi- 
tion the  subject  of  his  pleasure  and  joy,  I 
have  not  words  to  fix  a  name  on  so  extrava- 
gant a  creature.  Where  is  the  very  possi- 
bility of  entering  into  these  thoughts  and 
resolutions?  What  delight  is  there  in  ex- 
pecting misery  without  end?  What  vanity 
in  finding  one's  self  encompassed  with  im- 
penetrable darkness  ?  Or  what  consolation 
in  despairing  forever  of  a  comforter? 

To  sit  down  with  some  sort  of  acquies- 
cence under  so  fatal  an  ignorance  is  a  thing 
unaccountable  beyond  all  expression  ;  and 
they  who  live  with  such  a  disposition  ought 
to  be  made  sensible  of  its  absurdity  and 
stupidity,  by  having  their  inward  reflections 
laid  open  to  them,  that  they  may  grow  wise 
by  the  prospect  of  their  own  folly.  For 
behold  how  men  are  wont  to  reason  while 
they  obstinately  remain  thus  ignorant  of 
what  they  are,  and  refuse  all  methods  of  in- 
struction and  illumination : 

"  Who  has  sent  me  into  the  world  I  know 
not ;  what  the  world  is  I  know  not,  nor  what 


I  am  myself.  I  am  under  an  astonishing 
and  terrifying  ignorance  of  all  things.  I 
know  not  what  my  body  is,  what  my  senses, 
or  my  soul :  this  very  part  of  me  which 
thinks  what  I  speak,  which  reflects  upon 
everything  else,  and  even  upon  itself,  yet  is 
as  mere  a  stranger  to  its  own  nature  as  the 
dullest  thing  I  carry  about  me.  I  behold 
these  frightful  spaces  of  the  universe  with 
which  I  am  encompassed,  and  I  find  myself 
chained  to  one  little  corner  of  the  vast 
extent,  without  understanding  why  I  am 
placed  in  this  seat  rather  than  in  any 
other;  or  why  this  moment  of  time  given 
me  to  live  was  assigned  rather  at  such  a 
point  than  at  any  other  of  the  whole  eter- 
nity which  was  before  me,  or  of  all  that 
which  is  to  come  after  me.  I  see  nothing 
but  infinities  on  all  sides,  which  devour  and 
swallow  me  up  like  an  atom,  or  like  a 
shadow,  which  endures  but  a  single  instant, 
and  is  never  to  return.  The  sum  of  my 
knowledge  is  that  I  must  shortly  die  ;  but 
that  which  I  am  most  ignorant  of  is  this 
very  death,  which  I  feel  unable  to  decline. 

"As  I  know  not  whence  I  came,  so  J  know 
not  whither  I  go ;  only  this  I  know,  that  at 
my  departure  out  of  the  world  I  must  either 
fall  forever  into  nothing,  or  into  the  hands 
of  an  incensed  God,  without  being  capable 
of  deciding  which  of  these  two  conditions 
shall  eternally  be  my  portion.  Such  is  my 
state,  full  of  weakness,  obscurity,  and  wretch- 
edness. And  from  all  this  I  conclude  that 
I  ought,  therefore,  to  pass  all  the  days  of 
my  life  without  considering  what  is  here- 
after to  befall  me  ;  and  that  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  follow  my  inclinations  without 
reflection  or  disquiet,  in  doing  all  that 
which,  if  what  men  say  of  a  miserable  eter- 
nity prove  true,  will  infallibly  plunge  me 
into  it.  It  is  possible  I  might  find  some 
light  to  clear  up  my  doubts  ;  but  I  shall  not 
take  a  minute's  pains,  nor  stir  one  foot  in 
the  search  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  re- 
solved to  treat  those  with  scorn  and  derision 
who  Labour  in  this  inquiry  and  care  •  and  so 
to  run  without  fear  or  foresight  upon  the 
trial  of  the  grand  event ;  permitting  myself 
to  be  led  softly  on  to  death,  utterly  uncer- 
tain as  to  the  eternal  issue  of  my  future 
condition." 

In  earnest,  it  is  a  glory  to  religion  to 
have  so  unreasonable  men  for  its  professed 
enemies  ;  and  their  opposition  is  of  so  little 
danger,  that  it  serves  to  illustrate  the  prin- 
cipal truths  which  our  religion  teaches.  For 
the  main  scope  of  Christian  faith  is  to  estab- 
lish those  two  principles,  the  corruption  of 
nature  and  the  redemption  by  Jesus  Christ. 
And  these  opposers,  if  they  are  of  no  use 
towards  demonstrating  the  truth  of  the  re- 
demption by  the  sanctity  of  their  lives,  yet 


86 


STEPHEN  CHARNOCK. 


are  at  least  admirably  useful  in  shewing  the 
corruption  of  nature,  by  so  unnatural  sen- 
timents and  suggestions. 


STEPHEN    CHARNOCK, 

a  Nonconformist  divine,  born  1628,  died 
]  680.  was  the  author  of  some  of  the  greatest 
of  uninspired  productions, — Discourses  upon 
the  Existence  and  Attributes  of  God,  Lond., 
1684,  fol.,  and  later  editions. 

"  Perspicuity  and  depth ;  metaphysical  sublimity 
and  evangelical  simplicity;  immense  learning,  but 
irrefragable  reasoning,  conspire  to  render  this  per- 
formance one  of  the  most  inestimable  productions 
that  ever  did  honour  to  the  sanctified  judgment 
and  genius  of  a  human  being." — TOPLADY. 

"  Mr.  Charnock  with  his  masculine  style  and 
inexhaustible  vein  of  thought." — HEHVEY. 

OF  GOD'S  KNOWLEDGE. 

God  hath  an  infinite  knowledge  and  un- 
derstanding. All  knowledge.  Omnipres- 
ence, which  before  we  spake  of,  respects  his 
essence;  omniscience  respects  his  under- 
standing, according  to  our  manner  of  con- 
ception. This  is  clear  in  Scripture ;  hence 
God  is  called  a  God  of  knowledge  (1  Sam. 
ii.  3),  "the  Lord  is  a  God  of  knowledge," 
Heb.  knowledges,  in  the  plural  number,  of 
all  kind  of  knowledge;  it  is  spoken  there  to 
quell  man's  pride  in  his  own  reason  and 
parts  ;  what  is  the  knowledge  of  man  but  a 
spark  to  the  whole  element  of  fire,  a  grain 
of  dust,  and  worse  than  nothing,  in  compari- 
son of  the  knowledge  of  God,  as  his  essence 
is  in  comparison  of  the  essence  of  God? 
All  kind  of  knowledge. 

He  knows  what  angels  know,  what  man 
knows,  and  infinitely  more;  he  knows  him- 
self, his  own  operations,  all  his  creatures, 
the  notions  and  thoughts  of  them ;  he  is 
understanding  above  understanding,  mind 
above  mind,  the  mind  of  minds,  the  light 
of  lights  ;  this  the  Greek  word,  Qsbf,  signifies 
in  the  etymology  of  it,  of  Qeiadai,  to  see,  to 
contemplate  ;  and  faiftuv  of  fctu,  scio.  The 
names  of  God  signify  a  nature,  viewing  and 
piercing  all  things;  and  the  attribution  of 
our  senses  to  God  in  Scripture,  as  hearing 
and  seeing,  which  are  the  senses  whereby 
knowledge  enters  into  us,  signifies  God's 
knowledge. 

1.  The  notion  of  God's  knowledge  of  all 
things  lies  above  the  ruins  of  nature ;  it 
was  not  obliterated  by  the  fall  of  man.  It 
was  necessary  offending  man  was  to  know 
that  he  had  a  Creator  whom  he  had  injured, 
that  he  had  a  Judge  to  try  and  punish  him  ; 
since  God  thought  fit  to  keep  up  the  world, 
it  had  been  kept  up  to  no  purpose  had  not 
this  notion  been  continued  alive  in  the  minds 


of  men  ;  there  would  not  have  been  any  prac- 
tice of  his  laws,  no  bar  to  the  worst  of  crimes. 
If  men  had  thought  they  had  to  deal  with 
an  ignorant  Deity,  there  could  be  no  practice 
of  religion.  Who  would  lift  up  his  eyes,  or 
spread  his  hands  towards  heaven,  if  he  im- 
agined his  devotion  were  directed  to  a  God 
as  blind  as  the  heathens  imagined  fortune  ? 
To  what  boot  would  it  be  for  them  to  make 
heaven  and  earth  resound  with  their  cries, 
if  they  had  not  thought  God  had  an  eye  to 
see  them,  and  an  ear  to  hear  them?  And 
indeed  the  very  notion  of  a  God  at  the  first 
blush,  speaks  him  a  Being  endued  with  un- 
derstanding;  no  man  can  imagine  a  Creator 
void  of  one  of  the  noblest  perfections  belong- 
ing to  those  creatures  that  are  the  flower  and 
cream  of  his  works. 

2.  Therefore  all  nations  acknowledge  this, 
as  well  as  the  existence  and  being  of  God. 
No  nation  but  had  their  temples,  particular 
ceremonies  of  worship,  and  presented  their 
sacrifices,  which  they  could  not  have  been 
so  vain  as  to  do  without  an  acknowledgment 
of  this  attribute.  This  notion  of  God's 
knowledge  owed  not  its  rise  to  tradition, 
but  to  natural  implantation  ;  it  was  born 
and  grew  up  with  every  rational  creature. 
Though  the  several  nations  and  men  of  the 
world  agreed  not  in  one  kind  of  deity,  or  in 
their  sentiments  of  his  nature  or  other  per- 
fections, some  judging  him  clothed  with  a 
fine  and  pure  body,  others  judging  him  an 
uncompounded  spirit,  some  fixing  him  to  a 
seat  in  the  heavens,  others  owning  his  uni- 
versal presence  in  all  parts  of  the  world; 
yet  they  all  agreed  in  the  universality  of  his 
knowledge,  and  their  own  consciences  re- 
flecting their  crimes,  unknown  to  any  but 
themselves,  would  keep  this  notion  in  some 
vigour,  whether  they  would  or  no.  Now 
this  being  implanted  in  the  minds  of  all 
men  by  nature,  cannot  be  false,  for  nature 
imprints  not  in  the  minds  of  all  men  an 
assent  to  a  falsity.  Nature  would  not  per- 
vert the  reason  and  minds  of  men.  Uni- 
versal notions  of  God  are  from  original  not 
lapsed  nature,  and  preserved  in  mankind  in 
order  to  a  restoration  from  a  lapsed  state. 
The  heathens  did  acknowledge  this :  in  all 
the  solemn  covenants,  solemnized  with  oatha 
and  the  invocation  of  the  name  of  God,  thia 
attribute  was  supposed.  They  confessed 
knowledge  to  be  peculiar  to  the  Deity ; 
scientia  deorum  vita,  saith  Cicero.  Some 
called  Nofcf,  mens,  mind,  pure  understanding, 
without  any  note  E7r67m?f,  the  inspector  of 
all.  As  they  called  him  life,  because  he  was 
the  author  of  life,  so  they  called  him  intel- 
lectus,  because  he  was  the  author  of  all 
knowledge  and  understanding  in  his  crea- 
tures; and  one  being  asked,  whether  any 
man  could  be  hid  from  God?  No,  saith  he, 


STEPHEN  CHARNOCK. 


87 


not  so  much  as  thinking.  Some  call  him 
the  eye  of  the  world ;  and  the  Egyptians 

represented  God  by  an  eye  on  the  top  of  a 
sceptre,  because  God  is  all  eye,  and  can  be 
ignorant  of  nothing. 

And  the  same  nation  made  eyes  and  ears 
of  the  most  excellent  metals,  consecrating 
them  to  God,  and  hanging  them  up  in  the 
midst  of  their  temples,  in  signification  of 
God's  seeing  and  hearing  all  things;  hence 
they  called  God  Light,  as  well  as  the  Scrip- 
ture, because  all  things  are  visible  to  him. 

Discourse  upon  the  Existence  and  Attri- 
butes of  God. 

ON  THE  WISDOM  OF  GOD. 

The  wisdom  of  God  is  seen  in  this  way  of 
redemption,  in  vindicating  the  honour  and 
righteousness  of  the  law,  both  in  precept 
and  penalty.  The  first  and  irreversible  de- 
sign of  the  law  was  obedience.  The  penalty 
of  the  law  had  only  entrance  upon  trans- 
gression. Obedience  Avas  the  design,  and 
the  penalty  was  added  to  enforce  the  observ- 
ance of  the  precept  (Gen.  ii.  17):  "Thou 
shalt  not  eat;"  there  is  the  precept:  "In 
the  day  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt  die  ;" 
there  is  the  penalty.  Obedience  was  our 
debt  to  the  law,  as  creatures;  punishment 
was  due  from  the  law  to  us,  as  sinners :  we 
were  bound  to  endure  the  penalty  for  our 
first  transgression,  but  the  penalty  did  not 
cancel  the  bond  of  future  obedience:  the 
penalty  had  not  been  incurred  without  trans- 
gressing the  precept;  yet  the  precept  AVUS 
not  abrogated  by  enduring  the  penalty. 
Since  man  so  sorm  revolted,  and  by  his  re- 
volt fell  under  the  threatening,  the  justice 
of  the  law  had  been  honoured  by  man's  suf- 
ferings, but  the  holiness  and  equity  of  the 
law  hud  been  honoured  by  man's  obedience. 
The  wisdom  of  God  finds  out  a  medium  to 
satisfy  both:  the  justice  of  the  law  is  pre- 
served in  the  execution  of  the  penalty;  and 
the  holiness  of  the  law  is  honoured  in  the 
observance  of  the  precept.  The  life  of  our 
Saviour  is  a  conformity  to  the  precept,  and 
his  death  is  a  conformity  to  the  penalty; 
the  precepts  are  exactly  performed,  and  the 
curse  punctually  executed,  by  a  voluntary 
observing  the  one,  and  a  voluntary  under- 
going the  other.  It  is  obeyed  as  if  it  had 
not  been  transgressed,  and  executed  as  if  it 
had  not  been  obeyed.  It  became  the  wis- 
dom, justice,  and  holiness  of  God,  as  the 
Rector  of  the  world,  to  exact  it  (Ileb.  ii. 
10).  and  it  became  the  holiness  of  the  Me- 
diator to  "  fulfil  all  the  righteousness  of  the 
law''  (Rom.  viii.  3  ;  Matt.  iii.  15).  And  thus 
the  honour  of  the  law  was  vindicated  in  all 
the  parts  of  it.  The  transgression  of  the 


law  was  condemned  in  the  flesh  of  the  Re- 
deemer, and  the  righteousness  of  the  law  was 
fulfilled  in  his  person:  and  both  these  acta 
of  obedience,  being  counted  as  one  right- 
eousness, and  imputed  to  the  believing  sin- 
ner, render  him  a  subject  to  the  law,  both 
in  its  preceptive  and  minatory  part.  By 
Adam's  sinful  acting  we  were  made  sinners, 
and  by  Christ's  righteous  acting  we  are 
made  righteous  (Rom.  v.  19)  :  "As  by  one 
man's  disobedience  many  were  made  sin- 
ners, so  by  the  obedience  of  one  shall  many 
be  made  righteous."  The  law  was  obeyed 
by  him  that  the  righteousness  of  it  might 
be  fulfilled  in  us  (Rom.  viii.  4).  It  is  not 
fulfilled  in  us,  or  in  our  actions,  by  inher- 
ency, but  fulfilled  in  us  by  imputation  of  that 
righteousness  which  was  exactly  fulfilled  bj 
another.  As  he  died  for  us,  and  rose  again 
for  us,  so  he  lived  for  us.  The  commands 
of  the  law  were  as  well  observed  for  ua  as 
the  threateningsof  the  law  were  endured  for 
us.  This  justification  of  a  sinner,  with  the 
preservation  of  the  holiness  of  the  law  in 
truth,  in  the  inward  parts,  in  sincerity  of 
intention,  as  well  as  conformity  in  action, 
is  the  wisdom  of  God,  the  gospel  wisdom 
which  David  desires  to  know  (Ps.  Ii.  G)  : 
"  Thou  desirest  truth  in  the  inward  parts, 
and  in  the  hidden  part  thou  shalt  make  me  to 
know  wisdom  ;"  or,  as  some  render  it,  "  the 
hidden  things  of  wisdom."  Not  an  inherent 
wisdom  in  the  acknowledgments  of  his  sin, 
which  he  had  confessed  before,  but  the  wis- 
dom of  God  in  providing  a  medicine,  so  aa 
to  keep  up  the  holiness  of  the  law  in  the 
observance  of  it  in  truth,  and  the  averting 
the  judgment  due  to  the  sinner.  In  and 
by  this  way  methodized  by  the  wisdom  of 
God,  all  doubts  and  troubles  are  discharged. 
Naturally,  if  we  take  a  view  of  the  law  to 
behold  its  holiness  and  justice,  and  then  of 
our  hearts,  to  see  the  contrariety  in  them  to 
the  command,  and  the  pollution  repugnant 
to  its  holiness  ;  and  after  this,  cast  our  eyes 
upward,  and  behold  a  flaming  sword,  edged 
with  curses  and  wrath  ;  is  there  any  matter 
but  that  of  terror  afforded  by  any  of  these? 
But  when  we  behold  in  the  life  of  Christ 
a  sustaining  the  minatory  part  of  the  law, 
this  wisdom  of  God  gives  a  well-grounded 
and  rational  dismiss  to  all  the  horrors  that 
can  seize  upon  us. 
Ibid. 

Ox  THE  POWER  OP  GOD. 

Though  God  hath  a  power  to  furnish  every 
creature  with  greater  and  nobler  perfections 
than  he  hath  bestowed  upon  it,  yet  he  hath 
framed  all  things  in  the  perfectest  manner, 
and  most  convenient  to  that  end  for  which 
he  intended  them.  Every  thing  is  endowed 


88 


ROBERT  BOYLE. 


•with  the  best  nature  and  quality  suitable 
to  God's  end  in  creation,  though  not  in  the 
best  manner  for  itself.  In  regard  of  the 
universal  end,  there  cannot  be  a  better ;  for 
God  himself  is  the  end  of  all  things,  who  is 
the  Supreme  Goodness.  Nothing  can  be 
better  than  God,  who  could  not  be  God  if 
he  were  not  superlatively  beet,  or  optimus ; 
and  he  hath  ordered  all  things  for  the  decla- 
ration of  his  goodness  or  justice,  according 
to  the  behaviour  of  his  creatures.  Man  doth 
not  consider  what  strength  or  power  he  can 
put  forth  in  the  means  he  useth  to  attain 
such  an  end,  but  the  suitableness  of  them 
to  his  main  design,  and  so  tits  and  marshals 
them  to  his  grand  purpose.  Had  God  only 
created  things  that  are  most  excellent,  cre- 
ated only  angels  and  men ;  how,  then,  would 
his  wisdom  have  been  conspicuous  in  other 
works  in  the  subordination  and  subserviency 
of  them  to  one  another?  God  therefore  de- 
termined his  power  by  his  wisdom  :  and 
though  his  absolute  power  could  have  made 
every  creature  better,  yet  his  ordinate  power, 
which  in  every  step  was  regulated  by  his 
wisdom,  made  every  thing  best  for  his  de- 
signed intention.  A  musician  hath  a  power 
to  wind  up  a  string  on  a  lute  to  a  higher 
and  more  perfect  note  in  itself,  but  in  wis- 
dom he  will  not  do  it,  because  the  intended 
melody  would  be  disturbed  thereby  if  it 
were  not  suited  to  the  other  strings  on  the 
instrument;  a  discord  would  mar  and  taint 
the  harmony  which  the  lutinist  designed. 
God,  in  creation,  observed  the  proportions 
of  nature:  he  can  make  a  spider  as  strong 
as  a  lion ;  but  according  to  the  order  of 
nature  which  he  hath  settled,  it  is  not  con- 
venient that  a  creature  of  so  small  a  com- 
pass should  be  as  strong  as  one  of  a  greater 
bulk.  The  absolute  power  of  God  could 
have  prepared  a  body  for  Christ  as  glorious 
as  that  he  had  after  his  resurrection  ;  but 
that  had  not  been  agreeable  to  the  end  de- 
signed in  his  humiliation :  and  therefore 
God  acted  most  perfectly  by  his  ordinate 
power,  in  giving  him  a  body  that  wore  the 
livery  of  our  infirmities.  God's  power  is 
always  regulated  b}'  his  wisdom  and  will ; 
and  though  it  produceth  not  what  is  most 
perfect  in  itself,  yet  what  is  most  perfect 
and  decent  in  relation  to  the  end  he  fixed. 
And  so  in  his  providence,  though  he  could 
rack  the  whole  frame  of  nature  to  bring 
about  his  end  in  a  more  miraculous  way 
and  astonishment  to  mortals,  yet  his  power 
is  usually  and  ordinarily  confined  by  his 
will  to  act  in  concurrence  with  the  nature 
of  the  creatures,  and  direct  them  according 
to  the  laws  of  their  being,  to  such  ends 
which  he  aims  at  in  their  conduct,  without 
violencing  their  nature. 
Ibid. 


HON.    ROBERT   BOYLE, 

seventh  son  of  the  "Great  Earl  of  Cork," 
was  born  in  Munster,  Ireland,  1627,  and 
died  in  London,  1691.  He  was  the  author 
of  many  treatises  narrating  the  results  of 
his  investigations  and  experiments  in  pneu- 
matics, chemistry,  medicine,  and  kindred 
subjects;  published  some  theological  works, 
and  founded  the  Boyle  Lecture,  "designed 
to  prove  the  truth  of  the  Christian  Religion 
among  Infidels." 

"  To  Boyle  the  world  is  indebted,  besides  some 
very  acute  remarks  and  many  fine  illustrations 
of  his  own  upon  metaphysical  questions  of  the 
highest  moment,  for  the  philosophical  arguments 
in  defence  of  religion,  which  hiive  added  so  much 
lustre  to  the  names  of  Derham  and  Bentley ;  and, 
far  above  both,  to  that  of  Clarke.  ...  I  do  not 
recollect  to  have  seen  it  anywhere  noticed,  that 
some  of  the  most  striking  and  beautiful  instances 
of  design  in  the  order  of  the  material  world, 
which  occur  in  the  sermons  preached  at  Boyle's 
Lecture,  are  borrowed  from  the  works  of  the 
founder."  —  DUGALD  STEWART:  Uiasert.,  Firtt 
Eneyc.  Brit. 

THE   STUDY  OP  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY  FA- 
VOURABLE  TO  RELIGION. 

The  first  advantage  that  our  experimental 
philosopher,  as  such,  hath  towards  being  a 
Christian,  is,  that  his  course  of  studies  con- 
duceth  much  to  settle  in  his  mind  a  firm 
belief  of  the  existence,  and  divers  of  the 
chief  attributes  of  God  ;  which  belief  is,  in 
the  order  of  things,  the  first  principle  of 
that  natural  religion  which  itself  is  pre- 
required  to  revealed  religion  in  general,  and 
consequently  to  that  in  particular  which  is 
embraced  by  Christians. 

That  the  consideration  of  the  vastness, 
beauty,  and  regular  motions  of  the  heavenly 
bodies,  the  excellent  structure  of  animals 
and  plants,  besides  a  multitude  of  other 
phenomena  of  nature,  and  the  subserviency 
of  most  of  these  to  man,  may  justly  induce 
him,  as  a  rational  creature,  to  conclude  that 
this  vast,  beautiful,  orderly,  and  (in  a  word) 
many  waj7s  admirable  system  of  things, 
that  we  call  the  world,  was  framed  by  an 
author  supremely  powerful,  wise,  and  good, 
can  scarce  be  denied  by  an  intelligent  and 
unprejudiced  considerer.  And  this  is 
strongly  confirmed  by  experience,  which 
witnesseth  that  in  almost  all  ages  and 
countries  the  generality  of  philosophers  and 
contemplative  men  were  persunded  of  the 
existence  of  a  Deity  by  the  consideration  of 
the  phenomena  of  the  universe,  whose  fabric 
and  conduct,  they  rationally  concluded, 
could  not  be  deservedly  ascribed  either  to 
blind  chance,  or  to  any  other  cause  than  a 
divine  Being. 

But  though  it  be  true  that  God  hath  not 


ROBERT  BOYLE. 


89 


left  himself  without  witness,  even  to  per- 
functory considerers,  by  stamping  upon 
divers  of  the  more  obvious  parts  of  his 
workmanship  such  conspicuous  impressions 
of  his  attributes,  that  a  moderate  degree  of 
understanding  and  attention  may  suffice  to 
make  men  acknowledge  his  being,  yet  I 
scruple  not  to  think  that  assent  very  much 
inferior  to  the  belief  that  the  same  objects 
are  fitted  to  produce  in  a  heedful  and  intel- 
ligent contemplator  of  them.  For  the  works 
of  God  are  so  worthy  of  their  author,  that 
besides  the  impresses  of  his  wisdom  and 
goodness  that  were  left,  as  it  were,  upon 
their  surfaces,  there  are  a  great  many  more 
curious  and  excellent  tokens  and  effects  of 
divine  artifice  in  the  hidden  and  innermost 
recesses  of  them  ;  and  these  are  not  to  be 
discovered  by  the  perfunctory  looks  of  osci- 
tant  and  unskilful  beholders  ;  but  require, 
as  well  as  deserve,  the  most  attentive  and 
prying  inspection  of  inquisitive  and  well- 
instructed  considerers.  And  sometimes  in 
one  creature  there  may  be  I  know  not  how 
many  admirable  things  that  escape  a  vulgar 
eye,  and  yet  may  be  clearly  discerned  by 
that  of  a  true  naturalist,  who  brings  with 
him,  besides  a  more  than  common  curiosity 
and  attention,  a  competent  knowledge  of 
anatuny,  optics,  cosmography,  mechanics, 
and  chemistry.  But  treating  elsewhere  pur- 
posely of  this  subject,  it  may  here  suffice  to 
say,  that  God  has  couched  so  many  things 
in  his  visible  works,  that  the  clearer  light  a 
man  has  the  more  he  may  discover  of  their 
unobvious  exquisiteness,  and  the  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  he  may  discern  those 
qualities  that  lie  more  obvious.  And  the 
more  wonderful  things  he  discovers  in  the 
works  of  nature,  the  more  auxiliary  proofs 
he  meets  with  to  establish  and  enforce  the 
argument,  drawn  from  the  universe  and  its 
parts,  to  evince  that  there  is  a  God  ;  which 
is  a,  proposition  of  that  vast  weight  and  im- 
portance, that  it  ought  to  endear  everything 
to  us  that  is  able  to  confirm  it,  and  afford  us 
new  motives  to  acknowledge  and  adore  the 
divine  Author  of  things. 

SOME  CONSIDERATIONS  TOUCHING  THE  STYLE 
OF  THE  HOLY  SCRIPTURES. 

These  things,  dear  Theophilus,  being  thus 
despatched,  1  suppose  we  may  now  season- 
ably proceed  to  consider  the  style  of  the 
Scripture  ;  a  subject  that  will  as  well  re- 
quire as  deserve  some  time  and  much  atten- 
tion, in  regard  that  divers  witty  men.  who 
freely  acknowledge  the  authority  of  the 
Scripture,  take  exceptions  at  its  style,  and 
by  those,  and  their  own  reputation  divert 
many  from  studying,  or  so  much  as  perus- 
ing, those  sacred  writings,  thereby  at  once 


giving  men  injurious  and  irreverent  thoughts 
of  it,  and  diverting  them  from  allowing  the 
Scripture  the  best  way  of  justifying  itself, 
and  disabusing  them.  Than  which  scarce 
anything  can  be  more  prejudicial  to  a  book 
that  needs  but  to  be  sufficiently  understood 
to  be  highly  venerated ;  the  writings  these 
men  criminate,  and  would  keep  others  from 
reading,  being  like  that  honey  which  Saul's 
rash  adjuration  withheld  the  Israelites  from 
eating,  which,  being  tasted,  not  only  grati- 
fied the  taste,  but  enlightened  the  eyes.  .  .  . 
Of  the  considerations,  then,  that  I  am  to  lay 
before  you,  there  are  three  or  four  which  are 
of  a  more  general  nature ;  and  therefore 
being  such  as  may  each  of  them  be  perti- 
nently employed  against  several  of  the  ex- 
ceptions taken  at  the  Scripture's  style,  it  will 
not  be  inconvenient  to  mention  them  before 
the  rest. 

And,  in  the  first  place,  it  should  be  con- 
sidered that  those  cavillers  at  the  style  of  the 
Scripture,  that  you  and  I  have  hitherto  met 
with,  do  (for  want  of  skill  in  the  original,  espe- 
cially in  the  Hebrew)  judge  of  it  by  the  trans- 
lations, wherein  alone  they  read  it.  Now, 
scarce  any  but  a  linguist  will  imagine  how 
much  a  book  may  lose  of  its  elegancy  by 
being  read  in  another  tongue  than  that  it  was 
written  in,  especially  if  the  languages  from 
which  and  into  which  the  version  is  made 
be  so  very  differing  as  are  those  of  the 
eastern  and  these  western  parts  of  the 
world.  But  of  this  I  foresee  an  occasion  of 
saying  something  hereafter ;  yet  at  present 
I  must  observe  to  you  that  the  style  of  the 
Scripture  is  much  more  disadvantaged  than 
that  of  other  books,  by  being  judged  of  by 
translations;  for  the  religious  and  just 
veneration  that  the  interpreters  of  the  Bible 
have  had  for  that  sacred  book  has  iiicide 
them,  in  most  places,  render  the  Hebrew 
and  Greek  passages  so  scrupulously  word 
for  word,  that,  for  fear  of  not  keeping  close 
enough  to  the  sense,  they  usually  care  not 
how  much  they  lose  of  the  eloquence  of  the 
passages  they  translate.  So  that,  whereas 
in  those  versions  of  other  books  that  are 
made  by  good  linguists  the  interpreters  are 
wont  to  take  the  liberty  to  recede  from  the 
author's  words,  and  also  substitute  other 
phrases  instead  of  his  that  they  may  express 
his  meaning  without  injuring  his  reputation, 
in  translating  the  Old  Testament  interpre- 
ters have  not  put  Hebrew  phrases  into  Latin 
or  English  phrases,  but  only  into  Latin  or 
English  words,  and  have  too  often,  besides, 
by  not  sufficiently  understanding,  or  at  least 
considering,  the  various  significations  of 
words,  particles,  and  senses  in  the  holy 
tongue,  made  many  things  appear  less  co- 
herent, or  less  rational,  or  less  considerable, 
which,  by  a  more  free  and  skilful  rendering 


90 


JOHN  BUNYAN. 


of  the  original,  would  not  be  blemished  by 
any  appearance  of  such  imperfection.  And 
though  this  fault  of  interpreters  be  pardon- 
able enough  in  them,  as  carrying  much  of 
its  excuse  in  its  cause,  yet  it  cannot  but 
much  derogate  from  the  Scripture  to  appear 
•with  peculiar  disadvantages,  besides  those 
many  that  are  common  to  almost  all  books, 
by  being  translated. 


JOHN    BUNYAN, 

born  1628,  died  1688,  will  always  be  remem- 
bered as  the  author  of  The  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress (first  edition,  First  Part,  Lond.,  1678,  fp. 
8vo),  of  which  Lord  Macaulay  remarks : 

"  There  is  no  book  in  our  literature  on  which 
we  could  so  readily  stake  the  fame  of  the  old,  un- 
polluted English  language;  no  book  which  shows 
so  well  how  rich  that  language  is  in  its  own  proper 
wealth,  and  how  little  it  has  been  improved  by  all 
that  it  has  borrowed.  .  .  .  We  are  not  afraid  to 
say  that,  though  there  were  many  clever  men  in 
England  during  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  there  were  only  two  great  creative  minds. 
One  of  those  minds  produced  the  Paradise  Lost, 
the  other,  The  Pilgrim's  Progress." — LOUD  MA- 
CAULAY :  Review  of  Sottthey's  Edition  of  the  Pil- 
grim's Pror/res* ;  Edin.  Kev.,  Dec.  1830,  and  in 
Macaulay'e  Essays. 

THE  APPROACH  TO  THE  GOLDEN  CITY. 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  by  this  time 
the  Pilgrims  were  got  over  the  Enchanted 
ground ;  and  entering  into  the  country  of 
Beulah,  whose  air  was  very  sweet  and  pleas- 
ant, the  way  lying  directly  through  it,  they 
solaced  themselves  there  for  a  season.  Yea, 
here  they  heard  continually  the  singing  of 
birds,  and  saw  every  day  the  flowers  appear 
in  the  earth,  and  heard  the  voice  of  the  tur- 
tle in  the  land.  In  this  country  the  sun 
shineth  night  and  day  :  wherefore  this  was 
beyond  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, 
and  also  out  of  the  reach  of  Giant  Despair  ; 
neither  could  they  from  this  place  so  much 
as  see  Doubting  Castle.  Here  they  were 
within  sight  of  the  City  they  were  going  to: 
also  here  met  them  some  of  the  inhabitants 
thereof;  for  in  this  land  the  shining  ones 
commonly  walked,  because  it  was  upon  the 
borders  of  heaven.  In  this  land  also  the 
contract  between  the  Bride  and  the  Bride- 
groom was  renewed :  yea,  here,  "  as  the 
bridegroom  rejoiceth  over  the  bride,  so  doth 
their  God  rejoice  over  them."  Here  they 
had  no  want  of  corn  and  wine ;  for  in  this 
place  they  met  with  abundance  of  what  they 
had  sought  for  in  all  their  pilgrimage.  Here 
they  heard  voices  from  out  of  the  city,  loud 
voices,  saying,  "  Say  ye  to  the  daughter  of 
Zion,  Behold,  thy  salvation  cometh  I  Be- 
hold, his  reward  is  with  him!"  Here  all 


the  inhabitants  of  the  country  called  them 
"  the  holy  people,  the  redeemed  of  the  Lord, 
sought  out,"  &c. 

Now.  as  they  walked  in  this  land,  they 
had  more  rejoicing  than  in  parts  more  re- 
mote from  the  kingdom  to  which  they  were 
bound ;  and,  drawing  near  to  the  City,  they 
had  yet  a  more  perfect  view  thereof.  It  was 
builded  of  pearls  and  precious  stones ;  also 
the  streets  thereof  were  paved  with  gold ; 
so  that,  by  reason  of  the  natural  glory  of 
the  City,  and  the  reflection  of  the  sunbeams 
upon  it,  Christian  with  desire  fell  sick. 
Hopeful  also  had  a  fit  or  two  of  the  same 
disease.  Wherefore  here  they  lay  by  it  for 
a  while,  crying  out  because  of  their  pangs, 
"  If  you  see  my  beloved,  tell  him  that  I  am 
sick  of  love." 

But  being  a  little  strengthened,  and  better 
able  to  bear  their  sickness,  they  walked  on 
their  way,  and  came  yet  nearer  and  nearer, 
where  were  orchards,  vineyards,  and  gardens, 
and  their  gates  opened  into  the  highway. 
Now,  as  they  came  up  to  these  places,  be- 
hold the  gardener  stood  in  the  way ;  to 
whom  the  pilgrims  said,  ''Whose  goodly 
vineyards  and  gardens  are  these?"  lie  an- 
swered, "  They  are  the  King's,  and  are 
planted  here  for  his  own  delight,  and  also 
for  the  solace  of  pilgrims."  So  the  gar- 
dener had  them  into  the  vineyards,  and  bid 
them  refresh  themselves  with  the  dainties; 
he  also  showed  them  there  the  King's  walks 
and  arbours,  where  he  delighted  to  be  :  and 
here  they  tarried  and  slept. 

Now  I  beheld  in  my  dream,  that  they 
talked  more  in  their  sleep  at  this  time  than 
ever  they  did  in  all  their  journey:  and 
beinjf  in  a  muse  thereabout,  the  gardener 
said  even  to  me,  Wherefore  musest  thou  at 
the  matter?  it  is  the  nature  of  the  fruit  of 
the  grapes  of  these  vineyards,  "  to  go  down 
so  sweetly  as  to  cause  the  lips  of  them  that 
are  asleep  to  speak." 

So  I  saw  that  when  they  awoke,  they  ad- 
dressed themselves  to  go  up  to  the  City.  But, 
as  I  said,  the  reflection  of  the  sun  upon  the 
City  (for  the  City  was  pure  gold)  was  so 
extremely  glorious,  that  they  could  not  as 
yet  with  open  face  behold  it,  but  through 
an  instrument  made  for  that  purpose.  So 
I  saw  that,  as  they  went  on,  there  met  them 
two  men  in  raiment  that  shone  like  gold, 
also  their  faces  shone  as  the  light.  Now, 
you  must  note,  that  the  City  stood  upon  a 
mighty  hill:  but  the  pilgrims  went  up  that 
hill  with  ease,  because  they  had  these  two 
men  to  lead  them  up  by  the  arms:  they  had 
likewise  left  their  mortal  garments  behind 
them  in  the  river;  for  though  they  went  in 
with  them,  they  came  out  without  them.  They 
therefore  went  up  here  with  much  agility 
and  speed,  though  the  foundation  upon  which 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


91 


the  City  was  framed  was  higher  than  the 
clouds:  they  therefore  went  up  through  the 
region  of  the  air,  sweetly  talking  as  they 
went,  being  comforted,  because  they  safely 
got  over  the  river,  and  had  such  glorious 
companions  to  attend  them. 

The  talk  that  they  had  with  the  shining 
ones  was  about  the  glory  of  the  place : 
who  told  them  that  the  beauty  and  glory  of 
it  was  inexpressible.  There,  said  they,  is 
''Mount  Zion,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  the 
innumerable  company  of  angels,  and  the 
spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect."  You  are 
going  now,  said  they,  to  the  paradise  of 
God,  wherein  you  shall  see  the  tree  of  life, 
and  eat  of  the  never-fading  fruits  thereof: 
and  when  you  come  there,  you  shall  have 
white  robes  given  you,  and  your  walk  and 
talk  shall  be  every  day  with  the  King,  even 
all  the  days  of  eternity.  There  you  shall 
not  see  again  such  things  as  you  saw  when 
you  were  in  the  lower  region  upon  the 
earth  ;  to  wit,  sorrow,  sickness,  affliction,  and 
death  ;  "  for  the  former  things  are  passed 
away."  t  You  are  going  now  to  Abraham, 
to  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  and  to  the  prophets, 
men  that  God  hath  taken  away  from  the 
evil  to  come,  and  that  are  now  "  resting 
upon  their  beds,  eacli  one  walking  in  his 
righteousness."  The  men  then  asked,  What 
must  we  do  in  the  holy  place  ?  To  whom  it 
was  answered,  You  must  there  receive  the 
comfort  of  all  your  toil,  and  have  joy  for  all 
your  sorrow  ;  you  must  reap  what  you  have 
sown,  even  the  fruit  of  all  your  prayers  and 
tears,  and  sufferings  for  the  King  by  the 
way.  In  that  place  you  must  wear  crowns 
of  gold,  and  enjoy  the  perpetual  sight  and 
vision  of  the  Holy  One;  for  "there  you 
shall  see  him  as  he  is."  There  also  you 
shall  serve  him  continually  with  praise, 
with  shouting,  and  thanksgiving,  whom  you 
desired  to  serve  in  the  world,  though  with 
much  difficulty,  because  of  the  infirmity 
of  your  flesh.  There  your  eyes  shall  be  de- 
lighted with  seeing,  and  your  ears  with  hear- 
ing the  pleasant  voice  of  the  Mighty  One. 

Pilgrim's  Progress. 


SIR  WILLIAM  TEMPLE, 

an  eminent  English  statesman  and  diplomat- 
ist, born  1628,  died  1(399,  was  the  author  of 
a  number  of  political,  historical,  biographi- 
cal, poetical,  and  other  works,  of  which  a 
collective  edition  was  published,  Lond.,  1720, 
2  vols.  fol. ;  last  edition,  1814,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"  Of  all  the  considerable  writers  of  this  age,  Sir 
William  Temple  is  almost  the  only  one  that  kept 
himself  altogether  unpolluted  by  that  inundation 
of  vice  and  licentiousness  which  overwhelmed  the 
nation.  The  style  of  this  author,  although  ex- 


tremely negligent,  and  even  infected  with  foreign 
idioms,  is  agreeable  and  interesting.  That  mix- 
ture of  vanity  which  appears  in  his  works  if  rather 
a  recommendation  to  them.  By  means  of  it  we 
enter  into  acquaintance  with  the  character  of  the 
author,  full  of  honour  and  humanity,  and  fancy 
that  we  are  engaged,  not  in  the  perusal  of  a  book, 
but  in  conversation  with  a  companion." — HUME: 
Hist,  af  En;/.,  ch.  Ixxi. 

"Sir  William  Temple  was  the  first  writer  who 
gave  cadence  to  English  prose.  Before  his  time 
they  were  careless  of  arrangement,  and  did  not 
mind  whether  a  sentence  ended  with  an  important 
word  or  an  insignificant  word,  or  with  what  part  of 
speech  it  was  concluded." — Dn.  JOHNSON,  t'n  Bos- 
well,  ch.  Ixiii. 

Dr.  Johnson  should  have  said  "one  of  the 

first." 

EXTRACT  OP  A  LETTER   ADDRESSED   TO  THE 
COUNTESS  OF  ESSEX,  IN  1674,  AFTER  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  ONLY  DAUGHTER. 
I  know  no  duty  in  religion  more  generally 
agreed  on,  nor  more  justly  required  by  God 
Almighty,  than  a  perfect  submission  to  his 
will  in  all  things ;  ijor  do  I  think  any  dis- 
position of  mind  can  either  please  him  more, 
or  becomes  us  better,  than  that  of  being 
satisfied  with   all  he  gives,  and  contented 
with  all  he  takes  away. 

None,  I  am  sure,  can  be  of  more  honour  to 
God,  nor  of  more  ease  to  ourselves.  For  if  we 
consider  him  as  our  Maker,  we  cannot  con- 
tend with  him  ;'  if  as  our  Father,  we  ought 
not  to  distrust  him  ;  so  that  we  may  be  con- 
fident whatever  he  does  is  intended  for  good  ; 
and  whatever  happens  that  we  interpret 
otherwise,  yet  we  can  get  nothing  by  repin- 
ing, noi*  save  anything  by  resisting. 

But  if  it  were  fit  for  us  to  reason  with 
God  Almighty,  and  your  ladyship's  loss 
were  acknowledged  as  great  as  it  could  have 
been  to  any  one,  yet,  I  doubt,  you  would  have 
but  ill  grace  to  complain  at  the  rate  you 
have  done,  or  rather  as  you  do  ;  for  the  first 
emotions  or  passions  may  be  pardoned ;  it  is 
only  the  continuance  of  them  which  makes 
them  inexcusable. 

In  this  world,  madam,  there  is  nothing 
perfectly  good ;  and  whatever  is  called  so,  is 
but  either  comparatively  with  other  things 
of  its  kind,  or  else  with  the  evil  that  is 
mingled  in  its  composition  ;  so  he  is  a  good 
man  who  is  better  than  men  commonly  are, 
or  in  whom  the  good  qualities  are  more  than 
the  bad ;  so,  in  the  course  of  life,  his  con- 
dition is  esteemed  good,  which  is  better  than 
that  of  most  other  men,  or  in  which  the 
good  circumstances  are  more  than  the  evil. 
By  this  measure,  I  doubt,  madam,  your  com- 
plaints ought  to  be  turned  into  acknowl- 
edgments, and  your  friends  would  have 
cause  to  rejoice  rather  than  to  condole  with 
you.  When  your  ladyship  has  fairly  con- 
sidered how  God  Almighty  has  dealt  with 


92 


SIR   WILLIAM  TEMPLE. 


you  in  what  he  has  given,  you  may  be  left 
to  judge  yourself  how  you  have  dealt  with 
him  in  your  complaints  for  what  he  has 
taken  away.  If  you  look  about  you,  and 
consider  other  lives  as  well  as  your  own,  and 
what  your  lot  is,  in  comparison  with  those 
that  have  been  drawn  in  the  circle,  of  your 
knowledge, — if  you  think  how  few  are  born 
•with  honour,  hiw  many  die  without  name 
or  children,  how  little  beauty  we  see,  how 
few  friends  we  hear  of,  how  much  poverty, 
and  how  many  diseases  there  are  in  the  world, 
you  will  fall  down  upon  your  knees,  and  in- 
stead of  repining  at  one  affliction,  will  ad- 
mire so  many  blessings  as  you  have  received 
at  the  hands  of  God.  .  .  .  But,  madam, 
though  religion  were  no  party  in  your  case, 
and  for  so  violent  and  injurious  a  grief  you 
had  nothing  to  answer  to  God,  but  only  to 
the  world  and  yourself,  yet  I  very  much 
doubt  how  you  would  be  acquitted.  We 
bring  into  the  world  with  us  a  poor,  needy, 
uncertain  life;  short  at  the  longest,  and  un- 
quiet at  the  best.  All  the  imaginations  of 
the  witty  and  the  wise  have  been  perpetually 
busied  to  find  out  the  ways  to  revive  it  with 
pleasures,  or  to  relieve  it  with  diversions  ;  to 
compose  it  with  ease,  and  settle  it  with 
safety.  To  these  ends  have  been  employed 
the  institutions  of  lawyers,  the  reasonings 
of  philosophers,  the  inventions  of  poets,  the 
pains  of  labouring,  and  the  extravagances 
of  voluptuous  men.  All  the  world  is  per- 
petually at  work  that  our  poor  mortal  lives 
may  pass  the  easier  and  happier  for  that 
little  time  we  possess  them,  or  else  end  the 
better  when  we  lose  them.  On  this  account 
riches  and  honour  are  coveted,  friendship 
and  love  pursued,  and  the  virtues  themselves 
admired  in  the  world.  Now,  madam,  is  it 
not  to  bid  defiance  to  all  mankind,  to  con- 
demn their  universal  opinions  and  designs, 
if,  instead  of  passing  your  life  as  well  and 
easily,  you  resolve  to  pass  it  as  ill  and  as 
miserably  as  you  can?  You  grow  insensible 
to  the  conveniences  of  riches,  the  delights 
of  honour  and  praise,  the  charms  of  kindness 
or  friendship ;  nay,  to  the  observance  or 
applause  of  virtues  themselves  ;  for  who  can 
you  expect,  in  these  excesses  of  passions, 
•will  allow  that  you  show  either  temperance 
or  fortitude,  either  prudence  or  justice? 

And  as  for  your  friends,  I  suppose  you 
reckon  upon  losing  their  kindness,  when  you 
have  sufficiently  convinced  them  they  can 
never  hope  for  any  of  yours,  sinoe  you  have 
left  none  for  yourself,  or  anything  else. 

Ox  THE  RIGHT  OF  PRIVATE  JUDGMENT  IN 
RELIGION. 

Whosoever  designs  the  change  of  religion 
in  a  country  or  government,  by  any  other 


means  than  that  of  a  general  conversion  of 
the  people,  or  the  greatest  part  of  them, 
designs  all  the  mischiefs  to  a  nation  that 
use  to  usher  in,  or  attend  the  two  greatest 
distempers  of  a  state,  civil  war  or  tyranny  ; 
which  are  violence,  oppression,  cruelty,  ra- 
pine, intemperance,  injustice;  and,  in  short, 
the  miserable  effusion  of  human  blood,  and 
the  confusion  of  all  laws,  orders,  and  virtues 
among  men. 

Such  consequences  as  these,  I  doubt,  are 
something  more  than  the  disputed  opinions 
of  any  man,  or  any  particular  assembly  of 
men,  can  be  worth ;  since  the  great  and 
general  end  of  all  religion,  next  to  men's 
happiness  hereafter,  is  their  happiness  here  ; 
as  appears  by  the  commandments  of  God 
being  the  best  and  greatest  moral  and  civil, 
as  well  as  divine  precepts,  that  have  been 
given  to  a  nation  ;  and  by  the  rewards  pro- 
posed to  the  piety  of  the  Jews,  throughout 
the  Old  Testament,  which  were  the  blessings 
of  this  life,  as  health,  length  of  age,  number 
of  children,  plenty,  peace,  or  victory. 

Now,  the  way  to  our  future  happiness  has 
been  perpetually  disputed  throughout  the 
world,  and  must  be  left  at  last  to  the  impres- 
sions made  upon  every  man's  belief  and  con- 
science, either  by  natural  or  supernatural 
arguments  and  means  ;  which  impressions 
men  may  disguise  or  dissemble,  but  no  man 
can  resist.  For  belief  is  no  more  in  a  man's 
power  than  his  stature  or  his  feature  ;  and 
he  that  tells  me  I  must  change  my  opinion 
for  his,  because  'tis  the  truer  and  the  bet- 
ter, without  other  arguments  that  have  to 
me  the  force  of  conviction,  may  as  well  tell 
me  I  must  change  my  gray  eyes  for  others 
like  his  that  are  black,  because  these  are 
lovelier  or  more  in  esteem.  He  that  tells 
me  I  must  inform  myself,  has  reason  if  I  do 
it  not;  but  if  I  endeavour  it  all  that  I  can, 
and  perhaps  more  than  ever  he  did,  and  yet 
still  differ  from  him  ;  and  he  that,  it  may 
be,  is  idle,  will  have  me  study  on,  and  in- 
form myself  better,  and  so  to  the  end  of  my 
life,  then  I  easily  understand  what  he  means 
by  informing,  which  is,  in  short,  that  I  must 
do  it  till  I  come  to  be  of  his  opinion. 

If  he  that,  perhaps,  pursues  his  pleasures 
or  interests  as  much  or  more  than  I  do,  and 
allows  me  to  have  as  good  sense  as  he  has 
in  all  other  matters,  tells  me  I  should  be 
of  his  opinion  but  that  passion  or  interest 
blinds  me;  unless  he  can  convince  me  how 
or  where  this  lies,  he  is  but  where  he  was ; 
only  pretends  to  know  me  better  than  I  do 
myself,  who  cannot  imagine  why  I  should 
not  have  as  much  care  of  my  soul  as  he  has 
of  his. 

A  man  that  tells  me  my  opinions  are  ab- 
surd or  ridiculous,  impertinent  or  unreason- 
able, because  they  differ  from  his,  seems  to 


ISAAC  BARROW. 


93 


intend  a  quarrel  instead  of  a  dispute,  and 
calls  me  fool  or  madman,  with  a  little  more 
circumstance ;  though,  perhaps,  I  pass  for 
one  as  well  in  my  senses  as  he,  as  pertinent 
in  talk,  and  as  prudent  in  life  :  yet  these 
are  the  common  civilities  in  religious  argu- 
ment, of  sufficient  and  conceited  men,  who 
talk  much  of  right  reason,  and  mean  always 
their  own,  and  make  their  private  imagina- 
tion the  measure  of  general  truth.  But 
such  language  determines  all  between  us, 
and  the  dispute  comes  to  end  in  three  words 
at  last,  which  it  might  have  as  well  have 
ended  in  at  first,  that  he  is  in  the  right,  and 
I  am  in  the  wrong. 

The  other  great  end  of  religion,  which 
is  our  happiness  here,  .has  been  generally 
agreed  on  by  all  mankind,  as  appears  in  the 
records  of  all  their  laws,  as  well  as  their 
religions,  which  come  to  be  established  by 
the  concurrence  of  men's  customs  and  opin- 
ions ;  though  in  the  latter  that  concurrence 
may  have  been  produced  by  divine  im- 
pressions or  inspirations.  For  all  agree  in 
teaching  and  commanding,  in  planting  and 
improving,  not  only  those  moral  virtues 
which  conduce  to  the  felicity  and  tranquil- 
lity of  every  private  man's  life,  but  also 
those  manners  and  dispositions  that  tend 
to  the  peace,  order,  and  safety  of  all  civil 
societies  and  governments  among  men.  Nor 
could  1  ever  understand  how  those  who  call 
themselves,  and  the  world  usually  calls, 
religious  men,  come  to  put  so  great  weight 
upon  those  points  of  belief  which  men  never 
have  agreed  in,  and  so  little  upon  those  of 
virtue  and  morality,  in  which  they  have 
hardly  ever  disagreed.  Nor  why  a  state 
should  venture  the  subversion  of  their  peace, 
and  their  order,  which  are  certain  goods, 
and  so  universally  esteemed,  for  the  prop- 
agation of  uncertain  or  contested  opinions. 


ISAAC   BARROW,    D.D., 

nn  eminent  mathematician  and  divine,  the 
tutor  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  born  in  London 
1630,  died  1677,  was  the  author  of  some  of 
the  best  sermons  in  the  English  language. 
The  great  Earl  of  Chatham  read  Barrow's 
sermons  till  he  could  recite  many  of  them 
memoriter ;  and  he  recommended  his  son, 
William  Pitt,  to  study  them  deeply.  Daniel 
Webster,  also,  strove  to  profit  by  their 
perusal.  New  editions  of  his  Theological 
Works  were  published,  Oxford,  1818,  6 
vols.  8vo,  also  1830,  8  vols.  8vo;  edited  by 
Rev.  T.  S.  Hughes,  7  vols.  8vo,  and  by  Rev. 
James  Hamilton,  Edin.,  1842,  3  vols'.  8vo ; 
New  York,  1845,  3  vols.  8vo. 

"  The  sermons  of  Barrow  display  a  strength  of 
mind,  a  comprehensiveness  and  fertility,  which 


have  rarely  been  equalled.  No  better  proof  can 
be  given  than  his  eight  sermons  on  the  govern- 
ment of  the  tongue;  copious  and  exhaustive, 
without  tautology  or  superfluous  declamation,  they 
are  in  moral  preaching  what  the  best  parts  of 
Aristotle  are  in  ethical  philosophy,  with  more  of 
development  and  more  extensive  observation.  .  .  . 
His  quotations  from  ancient  philosophers,  though 
not  so  numerous  as  in  Taylor,  are  equally  uncon- 
genial to  our  ears.  In  his  style,  notwithstanding 
its  richness  and  occasional  vivacity,  we  may  cen- 
sure a  redundancy  and  excess  of  apposition  :  his 
language  is  more  formal  and  antiquated  than  of 
his  age;  and  he  abounds  too  much  in  uncommon 
words  of  Latin  derivation,  frequently  such  as  ap- 
pear to  have  no  authority  but  his  own." — HAL- 
LAM  :  Lit.  Hint,  of  Europe, 

THE   EXCELLENCY  OP  THE   CHRISTIAN   RE- 
LIGION. 

Another  peculiar  excellency  of  our  re- 
ligion is,. that  it  prescribes  an  accurate  rule 
of  life,  most  agreeable  to  reason  and  to  our 
nature,  most  conducive  to  our  welfare  and 
content,  tending  to  procure  each  man's  pri- 
vate good,  and  to  promote  the  public  benefit 
of  all,  by  the  strict  observance  whereof  we 
bring  our  human  nature  to  a  resemblance 
of  the  divine  ;  and  we  shall  also  thereby 
obtain  God's  favour,  oblige  and  benefit  men, 
and  procure  to  ourselves  the  conveniences 
of  a  sober  life,  and  the  pleasure  of  a  good 
conscience.  For  if  we  examine  the  pre- 
cepts which  respect  our  duty  to  God,  what 
can  be  more  just,  pleasant,  or  beneficial  to 
us  than  are  those  duties  of  piety  which  our 
religion  enjoins?  What  is  more  fit  and 
reasonable  than  that  we  should  most  highly 
esteem  and  honour  him  who  is  most  excel- 
lent? that  we  should  bear  the  sincerest 
affection  for  him  who  is  perfect  goodness 
himself,  and  most  beneficial  to  us?  that 
we  should  have  the  most  awful  dread  of  him 
that  is  infinitely  powerful,  holy,  and  just? 
that  we  should  be  very  grateful  to  him 
from  whom  we  received  our  being,  with  all 
the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  it?  that 
we  should  entirely  trust  and  hope  in  him 
who  can  and  will  do  whatever  we  may  in 
reason  expect  from  his  goodness,  nor  can  he 
ever  fail  to  perform  his  promises?  that  we 
should  render  all  uue  obedience  to  him 
whose  children,  servants,  and  subjects  we 
are?  Can  there  be  a  higher  privilege  than 
to  have  liberty  of  access  to  him  who  will 
favourably  hear,  and  is  fully  able  to  supply 
our  wants?  Can  we  desire  to  receive  bene- 
fits on  easier  terms  than  the  asking  for 
them  ?  Can  a  more  gentle  satisfaction  for 
our  offences  be  required  than  confessing  of 
them,  repentance,  and  strong  resolutions  to 
amend  them  ?  The  practice  of  such  a  piety, 
of  a  service  so  reasonable,  cannot  but  be  of 
vast  advantage  to  us,  as  it  procures  peace 
of  conscience,  a  comfortable  hope,  a  freedom 


94 


ISAAC  BARROW. 


from  all  terrors  and  scruples  of  mind,  from 
all  tormenting  cares  and  anxieties. 

And  if  we  consider  the  precepts  by  which 
our  religion  regulates  our  carriage  and  beha- 
viour towards  our  neighbours  and  brethren, 
what  can  be  imagined  so  good  and  useful 
as  those  which  the  gospel  affords  ?  It  en- 
joins us  sincerely  and  tenderly  to  love  one 
another;  earnestly  to  desire  and  delight  in 
each  other's  good ;  heartily  to  sympathize 
with  all  the  evils  and  sorrows  of  our  breth- 
ren, readily  affording  them  all  the  help  and 
comfort  we  are  able;  willingly  to  part  with 
our  substance,  ease,  and  pleasure  for  their 
benefit  and  relief;  not  confining  this  our 
charity  to  particular  friends  and  relations, 
but,  in  conformity  to  the  boundless  good- 
ness of  Almighty  God,  extending  it  to  all. 
It  requires  us  mutually  to  bear  with  one 
another's  infirmities,  mildly  to  resent  and 
freely  remit  all  injuries  ;  retaining  no 
grudge,  nor  executing  no  revenge,  but  re- 
quiting our  enemies  with  good  wishes  and 
good  deeds.  It  commands  us  to  be  quiet  in 
our  stations,  diligent  in  our  callings,  true 
in  our  words,  upright  in  our  dealings,  ob- 
servant of  our  relations,  obedient  and  re- 
spectful to  our  superiors,  meek  and  gentle 
to  our  inferiors,  modest  and  lowly,  ingenu- 
ous and  condescending  in  our  conversation, 
candid  in  our  censures,  and  innocent,  inof- 
fensive, and  obliging  in  our  behaviour  to- 
wards all  persons.  It  enjoins  us  to  root  out 
of  our  hearts  all  envy  and  malice,  all  pride 
and  haughtiness  ;  to  restrain  our  tongues 
from  all  slander,  detraction,  reviling,  bitter 
and  harsh  language;  not  to  injure,  hurt, 
or  needlessly  trouble  our  neighbour.  It  en- 
gages us  to  prefer  the  public  good  before 
our  own  opinion,  humour,  advantage,  or 
convenience.  And  would  men  observe  and 
practise  what  this  excellent  doctrine  teaches, 
how  sociable,  secure,  and  pleasant  a  life  we 
might  lead !  what  a  paradise  would  this 
world  then  become,  in  comparison  to  what 
it  now  is  I 

DEFINITION  OF  WIT. 

First  it  may  be  demanded  what  the  thing 
is  we  speak  of,  or  what  this  facetiousness 
doth  import?  To  which  question  I  might 
reply  as  Democritus  did  to  him  that  asked 
him  the  definition  of  a  man:  " 'Tis  that 
which  we  all  see  and  know."  Any  one 
better  apprehends  what  it  is  by  acquaint- 
ance than  I  can  inform  him  by  description. 
It  is  indeed  a  thing  so  versatile  and  multi- 
form, appearing  in  so  many  shapes,  so  many 
postures,  so  many  garbs,  so  variously  appre- 
hended by  several  eyes  and  judgments,  that 
it  seemeth  no  less  hard  to  settle  a  clear  and 
certain  notion  thereof,  than  to  make  a  por- 


trait of  Proteus,  or  to  define  the  figure  of 
the  fleeting  air.  Sometimes  it  lieth  in  pat 
allusion  to  a  known  story,  or  in  seasonable 
application  of  a  trivial  saying,  or  in  forging 
an  apposite  tale:  sometimes  it  playeth  in 
words  and  phrases,  taking  advantage  from 
the  ambiguity  of  their  sense,  or  the  affinity 
of  their  sound.  Sometimes  it  is  wrapped  in 
a  dress  of  humorous  expression  :  sometimes 
it  lurketh  under  an  odd  similitude:  some- 
times it  is  lodged  in  a  sly  question,  in  a 
smart  answer,  in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a 
shrewd  intimation,  in  cunningly  diverting 
or  cleverly  retorting  an  objection :  some- 
times it  is  couched  in  a  bold  scheme  of 
speech,  in  a  tart  irony,  in  a  lusty  hyper- 
bole, in  a  startling  metaphor,  in  a  plausible 
reconciling  of  contradictions,  or  in  acute 
nonsense:  sometimes  an  affected  simplicity, 
sometimes  a  presumptuous  bluntness,  giveth 
it  being:  sometimes  it  riseth  only  from  a 
lucky  hitting  upon  what  is  strange:  some- 
times from  a  crafty  wresting  obvious  matter 
to  the  purpose :  often  it  consists  in  one  knows 
not  what,  and  springeth  up  one  can  hardly 
tell  how.  Its  ways  are  unaccountable  and 
inexplicable,  being  answerable  to  the  num- 
berless rovings  of  fancy  and  windings  of 
language. 

It  is,  in  short,  a  manner  of  speaking  out 
of  the  simple  and  plain  way  (such  as  reason 
teacheth  and  proveth  things  by),  which  by 
a  pretty  surprising  uncouthness  in  conceit 
or  expression  doth  affect  and  amuse  the 
fancy,  stirring  in  it  some  wonder,  and 
breeding  some  delight  thereto.  It  raiseth 
admiration,  as  signifying  a  nimble  sagacity 
of  apprehension,  a  special  felicity  of  inven- 
tion, a  vivacity  of  spirit  and  reach  of  wit 
more  than  vulgar.  It  seemeth  to  argue  a 
rare  quickness  of  parts,  that  one  can  fetch 
in  remote  conceits  applicable ;  a  notable 
skill,  that  he  can  dexterously  accommodate 
them  to  the  purpose  before  him  ;  together 
with  a  lively  briskness  of  humour,  not  apt 
to  damp  those  sportful  flashes  of  imagina- 
tion. Whence  in  Aristotle  such  persons  are 
termed  epidexioi,  dexterous  men  :  and  eutro- 
poi,  men  of  facile  or  versatile  manners,  who 
can  easily  turn  themselves  to  all  things,  or 
turn  all  things  to  themselves.  It  also  pro- 
cureth  delight  by  gratifying  curiosity  with 
its  rareness  or  semblance  of  difficulty;  as 
monsters,  not  for  their  beauty,  but  their 
rarity ;  as  juggling  tricks,  not  for  their  use, 
but  their  abstruseness,  are  beheld  with  pleas- 
ure, by  diverting  the  mind  from  its  road  of 
serious  thoughts;  by  instilling  gaiety  and 
airiness  of  spirit ;  by  provoking  to  such  dis- 
positions of  spirit  in  way  of  emulation  or 
complaisance ;  and  by  seasoning  matters, 
otherwise  distasteful  or  insipid,  with  an 
unusual  and  thence  grateful  tang. 


JOHN  TILLOTSON. 


95 


ON  HONOUR  TO  GOD. 

God  is  honoured  by  a  willing  and  careful 
practice  of  all  piety  and  virtue  for  con- 
science' sake,  or  an  avowed  obedience  to  his 
holy  will.  This  is  the  most  natural  expres- 
sion of  our  reverence  towards  him,  and  the 
most  effectual  way  of  promoting  the  same 
in  others.  A  subject  cannot  better  demon- 
strate the  reverence  he  bears  towards  his 
prince  than  by  (with  a  cheerful  diligence) 
observing  his  laws  ;  for  by  so  doing  he  de- 
clares that  he  acknowledged  the  authority 
and  revereth  the  majesty  which  enacted 
them ;  that  he  approves  the  wisdom  which 
devised  them,  and  the  goodness  which  de- 
signed them  for  public  benefit ;  that  he 
dreads  his  prince's  power,  which  can  main- 
tain them,  and  his  justice,  which  will  vindi- 
cate them  ;  that  he  relies  upon  his  fidelity 
in  making  good  what  of  protection  or  of 
recompense  he  propounds  to  the  observers 
of  them.  No  less  pregnant  a  signification 
of  our  reverence  towards  God  do  we  yield 
in  our  gladly  and  strictly  obeying  his  laws, 
thereby  evidencing  our  submission  to  God's 
sovereign  authority,  our  esteem  of  his  wis- 
dom and  goodness,  our  awful  regard  to  his 
power  and  justice,  our  confidence  in  him,  and 
dependence  upon  his  word.  The  goodline.ss 
to  the  sight,  the  pleasantness  to  the  taste, 
which  is  ever  perceptible  in  those  fruits  which 
genuine  piety  beareth,  the  beauty  men  see 
in  a  calm  mind  and  a  sober  conversation,  the 
sweetness  they  taste  from  works  of  justice 
and  charity,  will  certainly  produce  veneration 
to  the  doctrine  that  teacheth  such  things, 
and  to  the  authority  which  enjoins  them. 
We  shall  especially  honour  God  by  discharg- 
ing faithfully  those  offices  which  God  hath 
entrusted  us  with  ;  by  improving  diligently 
those  talents  which  God  hath  committed  to 
us;  by  using  carefully  those  means  and  op- 
portunities which  God  hath  vouchsafed  us  of 
doing  him  service  and  promoting  his  glory. 
Thus,  he  to  whom  God  hath  given  wealth. 
if  he  expend  it,  not  to  the  nourishment  of 
pride  and  luxury,  not  only  to  the  gratifying 
his  own  pleasure  or  humour,  but  to  the 
furtherance  of  God's  honour,  or  to  the  suc- 
cour of  his  indigent  neighbour,  in  any  pious 
or  charitable  way,  he  doth  thereby  in  a 
special  manner  honour  God.  He  also  on 
whom  God  hath  bestowed  wit  and  parts,  if 
he  employ  them  not  so  much  in  contriving 
to  advance  his  own  petty  interests,  or  in 
procuring  vain  applause  to  himself,  as  in 
advantageously  setting  forth  God's  praise, 
handsomely  recommending  goodness,  dex- 
terously engaging  men  in  ways  of  virtue, 
he  doth  thereby  remarkably  honour  God. 
He  likewise  that  hath  honour  conferred 
upon  him  if  he  subordinate  it  to  God's 


honour,  if  he  use  his  own  credit  as  an  in- 
strument of  bringing  credit  to  goodness, 
thereby  adorning  and  illustrating  piety,  he 
by  so  doing  doth  eminently  practise  this 
duty. 


JOHN  TILLOTSON,   D.D., 

born  1630,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  1691, 
died  1694,  was  very  famous  as  a  preacher, 
and  his  sermons  retained  their  popularity 
long  after  his  death. 

"  He  was  not  only  the  best  preacher  of  the  age, 
but  seemed  to  have  brought  preaching  to  perfec- 
tion :  his  sermons  were  so  well  heard  nnd  liked, 
and  so  much  read,  that  all  the  nation  proposed 
him  as  a  pattern,  and  studied  to  copy  after  him." 
— BISHOP  BUK.VET  :  Hint,  of  Own  Times,  ed.  1833, 
242. 

"  The  sermons  of  Tillotson  were  for  half  a  cen- 
tury more  read  than  any  in  our  language.  They 
are  now  bought  almost  as  waste  paper,  and  hardly 
read  at  all.  Such  is  the  fickleness  of  religious 
taste,  as  abundantly  numerous  instances  would 
prove.  Tillotson  is  reckoned  verbose  and  languid. 
He  has  not  the  former  defect  in  nearly  so  great  a 
degree  as  some  of  his  eminent  predecessors;  but 
there  is  certainly  little  vigour  or  vivacity  in  his 
style.  .  .  .  Tillotson  is  always  of  a  tolerant  and 
catholic  spirit,  enforcing  right  actions  rather  than 
orthodox  opinions,  and  obnoxious,  for  that  and 
other  reasons,  to  all  the  bigots  of  his  own  a<*e.'' — • 
HALLAM  :  Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe,  4th  ed.,  1854,  iii. 
297. 

ADVANTAGES  OF  TRUTH  AND  SINCERITY. 

Truth  and  reality  have  all  the  advantages 
of  appearance  and  many  more.  If  the  show 
of  anything  be  good  for  anything,  I  am  sure 
sincerity  is  better :  for  why  does  any  man 
dissemble,  or  seem  to  be  that  which  he  is 
not,  but  because  he  thinks  it  good  to  have 
such  a  quality  as  he  pretends  to?  for  to 
counterfeit  and  dissemble  is  to  put  on  the 
appearance  of  some  real  excellency.  Now, 
the  best  way  in  the  world  for  a  man  to  seem 
to  be  anything,  is  really  to  be  what  he  would 
seem  to  be.  Besides  that,  it  is  many  times 
as  troublesome  to  make  good  the  pretence  of 
a  good  quality  as  to  have  it;  and  if  a  man 
have  it  not,  it  is  ten  to  one  but  he  is  discov- 
ered to  want,  and  then  all  his  pains  and  la- 
bour to  seem  to  have  it  are  lost.  There  is 
something  unnatural  in  painting,  which  a 
skilful  eye  will  easily  discern  from  native 
beauty  and  complexion. 

It  is  hard  to  personate  and  act  a  part  long; 
for  where  truth  is  not  at  the  bottom,  nature 
will  Jilways  be  endeavouring  to  return,  and 
will  peep  out  and  betray  herself  one  time  or 
other.  Therefore,  if  any  man  think  it  con- 
venient to  seem  good,  let  him  be  so  indeed, 
and  then  his  goodness  will  appear  to  every- 
body's satisfaction:  so  that,  upon  all  accounts, 


96 


JOHN  TIL  LOTS  ON. 


sincerity  is  true  wisdom.  Particularly  ns  to 
the  affairs  of  this  world,  integrity  hath  many 
advantages  over  all  the  fine  and  artificial 
•ways  of  dissimulation  and  deceit;  it  is  much 
the  plainer  and  easier,  much  the  safer  and 
more  secure  way  of  dealing  in  the  world  ;  it 
has  less  of  trouble  and  difficulty,  of  entan- 
glement and  perplexity,  of  danger  and  haz- 
ard in  it ;  it  is  the  shortest  and  nearest  way 
to  our  end,  carrying  us  thither  in  a  straight 
line,  and  will  hold  out  and  last  longest. 
The  arts  of  deceit  and  cunning  do  contin- 
ually grow  weaker,  and  less  effectual  and 
serviceable  to  them  that  use  them  ;  whereas 
integrity  gains  strength  by  use;  and  the 
more  and  longer  any  man  practiseth  it  the 
greater  service  it  does  him,  by  confirming 
his  reputation,  and  encouraging  those  with 
whom  he  hath  to  do  to  repose  the  greatest 
trust  and  confidence  in  him,  which  is  an  un- 
speakable advantage  in  the  business  and 
affairs  of  life. 

Truth  is  always  consistent  with  itself, 
and  needs  nothing  to  help  it  out;  it  is  al- 
ways near  at  hand,  and  sits  upon  our  lips, 
and  is  ready  to  drop  out  before  we  are 
aware ;  whereas  a  lie  is  troublesome,  and 
sets  a  man's  invention  upon  the  rack,  and 
one  trick  needs  a  great  many  more  to  make 
it  good.  It  is  like  building  upon  a  false 
foundation,  which  continually  stands  in  need 
of  props  to  shore  it  up,  and  proves  at  last 
move  chargeable  than  to  have  raised  a  sub- 
stantial building  at  first  upon  a  true  and 
solid  foundation :  for  sincerity  is  firm  and 
substantial,  and  there  is  nothing  hollow  or 
unsound  in  it,  and  because  it  is  plain  and 
open,  fears  no  discovery  ;  of  which  the  crafty 
man  is  always  in  danger;  and  when  he 
thinks  he  walks  in  the  dark,  all  his  pre- 
tences are  so  transparent  that  he  that  runs 
may  read  them.  lie  is  the  last  man  that 
finds  himself  to  be  found  out;  and  whilst 
he  takes  it  for  granted  that  he  makes  fools 
of  others,  he  renders  himself  ridiculous. 

Add  to  all  this,  that  sincerity  is  the  most 
compendious  wisdom,  and  an  excellent  in- 
strument for  the  speedy  despatch  of  busi- 
ness: it  creates  confidence  in  those  we  have 
to  deal  with,  saves  the  labour  of  many  in- 
quiries, and  brings  this  to  an  issue  in  few 
words  ;  it  is  like  travelling  in  a  plain  beaten 
road,  which  commonly  brings  a  man  sooner 
to  his  journey's  end  than  by-ways,  in  which 
men  often  lose  themselves.  In  a  word, 
whatever  convenience  may  be  thought  to 
be  in  falsehood  and  dissimulation,  it  is  soon 
over,  but  the  inconvenience  of  it  is  perpetual, 
because  it  brings  a  man  under  an  everlasting 
jealousy  and  suspicion,  so  that  he  is  not  be- 
lieved when  he  speaks  truth,  nor  trusted 
perhaps  when  he  means  honestly.  When  a 
man  has  once  forfeited  the  reputation  of  his 


integrity,  he  is  set  fast,  and  nothing  will 
then  serve  his  turn,  neither  truth  nor  false- 
hood. 
Sermons. 

VIRTUE  AND  VICE  DECLARED  BY  THE  GENE- 
RAL VOTE  OP  MANKIND. 

God  hath  shown  us  what  is  good  by  the 
general  vote  and  consent  of  mankind.  Not 
that  all  mankind  do  agree  concerning  virtue 
and  vice ;  but  that  as  to  the  greater  duties 
of  piety,  justice,  mercy,  and  the  like,  the 
exceptions  are  but  few  in  comparison,  and 
not  enough  to  infringe  a  general  consent. 
And  of  this  I  shall  offer  to  you  this  three- 
fold evidence : — 

1.  That  these  virtues  are  generally  praised 
and  held  in  esteem  by  mankind,  and  the 
contrary  vices  generally  reproved  and  evil 
spoken  of.  Now,  to  praise  anything,  is  to 
give  testimony  to  the  goodness  of  it;  and  to 
censure  anything,  is  to  declare  that  we  be- 
lieve it  to  be  evil.  And  if  we  consult  the 
history  of  all  ages,  we  shall  find  that  the 
things  which  are  generally  praised  in  the 
lives  of  men,  and  recommended  to  the  imi- 
tation of  posterity,  are  piety  and  devotion, 
gratitude  and  justice,  humanity  and  charity  ; 
and  that  the  contrary  to  these  are  marked 
with  ignominy  and  reproach  :  the  former  are 
commended  even  in  enemies,  and  the  latter 
are  branded  even  by  those  who  had  a  kind- 
ness for  the  persons  that  were  guilty  of 
them :  so  constant  hath  mankind  always 
been  in  the  commendation  of  virtue  and 
the  censure  of  vice.  Nay,  we  find  not  only 
those  who  are  virtuous  themselves  giving 
their  testimony  and  applause  to  virtue,  but 
even  those  who  are  vicious  ;  not  out  of  love 
to  goodness,  but  from  the  conviction  of  their 
own  minds,  and  from  a  secret  reverence 
they  bear  to  the  common  consent  and  opin- 
ion of  mankind.  And  this  is  a  great  testi- 
mony, because  it  is  the  testimony  of  an 
enemy,  extorted  by  the  mere  light  and  force 
of  truth. 

And,  on  the  contrary,  nothing  is  more 
ordinary  than  for  vice  to  reprove  sin,  and  to 
hear  men  condemn  the  like  or  the  same  things 
in  others  which  they  allow  in  themselves. 
And  this  is  a  clear  evidence  that  vice  is 
generally  condemned  by  mankind ;  that 
many  men  condemn  it  in  themselves ;  and 
those  who  are  so  kind  as  to  spare  themselves 
are  very  quick-sighted  to  spy  a  fault  in  any- 
body else,  and  will  censure  a  bad  action 
done  by  another  with  as  much  freedom  and 
impartiality  as  the  most  virtuous  man  in  the 
world. 

And  to  this  consent  of  mankind  about 
virtue  and  vice  the  Scripture  frequently  ap- 
peals. As  when  it  commands  us  to  provide 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


97 


things  honest  in  the  sight  of  all  men  ;  and 
by  well-doing  to  put  to  silence  the  ignorance 
of  foolish  men  ;  intimating  that  there  are 
some  things  so  confessedly  good,  and  owned 
to  be  such  by  so  general  a  vote  of  mankind, 
that  the  worst  of  men  have  not  the  face  to 
open  their  mouths  against  them.  And  it  is 
made  the  character  of  a  virtuous  action  if 
it  be  lovely  and  commendable,  and  of  good 
report:  Philip,  iv.  8,  "Whatsoever  things 
are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report,  if  there  be  any  virtue,  if  there  be 
any  praise,  make  account  of  these  things;'1 
intimating  to  us  that  mankind  do  generally 
concur  in  the  praise  and  commendation  of 
what  is  virtuous. 

2.  Men  do  generally  glory  and  stand  upon 
their  innocency  when  they  do  virtuously, 
but  are  ashamed  and  out  of  countenance 
when  they  do  the  contrary.  Now,  glory 
and  shame  are  nothing  else  but  an  appeal  to 
the  judgment  of  others  concerning  the  good 
or  evil  of  our  actions.  There  are,  indeed, 
some  such  monsters  as  are  impudent  in  their 
impieties,  but  these  are  but  few  in  compari- 
son. Generally,  mankind  is  modest:  the 
greatest  part  of  those  who  do  evil  are  apt  to 
blush  at  their  own  faults,  and  to  confess 
them  in  their  countenance,  which  is  an  ac- 
knowledgment that  they  are  not  only  guilty 
to  themselves  that  they  have  done  amiss, 
but  that  they  are  apprehensive  that  others 
think  so ;  for  guilt  is  a  passion  respecting 
ourselves,  but  shame  regards  others.  Now, 
it  is  a  sign  of  shame  that  men  love  to  con- 
ceal their  faults  from  others,  and  commit 
them  secretly  in  the  dark  and  without  wit- 
nesses, and  are  afraid  even  of  a  child  or  a 
fool  ;  or  if  they  be  discovered  in  them,  they 
are  solicitous  to  excuse  and  extenuate  them, 
and  ready  to  lay  the  fault  upon  anybody  else, 
or  to  transfer  their  guilt,  or  as  much  of  it 
as  they  can,  upon  others.  All  which  are 
certain  tokens  that  men  are  not  only  natu- 
rally guilty  to  themselves  when  they  commit 
a  fault,  but  that  they  are  sensible  also  what 
opinions  others  have  of  these  things. 

And,  on  the  contrary,  men  are  apt  to  stand 
upon  their  justification,  and  to  glory  when 
they  have  done  well.  The  conscience  of  a 
man's  own  virtue  and  integrity  lifts  up  his 
head,  and  gives  him  confidence  before  others, 
because  he  is  satisfied  they  have  a  good 
opinion  of  his  actions.  What  a  good  face 
does  a  man  naturally  set  upon  a  good  deed ! 
And  how  does  he  sneak  when  he  hath  d:>ne 
wickedly,  being  sensible  that  he  is  con- 
demned by  others,  as  well  as  by  himself!  No 
man  is  afraid  of  being  upbraided  for  having 
dealt  honestly  or  kindly  with  others,  nor 
does  he  account  it  any  calumny  or  reproach 
to  have  it  reported  of  him  that  he  is  a  sober 
and  chaste  man.  No  man  blusheth  when  he 


meets  a  man  with  whom  he  hath  kept  his 
word  and  discharged  his  trust;  but  every 
man  is  apt  to  do  so  when  he  meets  one  with 
whom  he  has  dealt  dishonestly,  or  who 
knows  some  notorious  crime  by  him. 

3.  Vice  is  generally  forbidden  and  pun- 
ished by  human  laws;  but  against  the 
contrary  virtues  there  never  was  any  law. 
Some  vices  are  so  manifestly  evil  in  them- 
selves, or  so  mischievous  to  human  society, 
that  the  laws  of  most  nations  have  taken 
care  to  discountenance  them  by  severe  pen- 
alties. Scarce  any  nation  was  ever  so  bar- 
barous as  not  to  maintain  and  vindicate  the 
honour  of  their  gods  and  religion  by  public 
laws.  Murder  and  adultery,  rebellion  and 
sedition,  perjury  and  breach  of  trust,  fraud 
and  oppression,  are  vices  severely  prohibited 
by  the  laws  of  most  nations, — a  clear  indica- 
tion what  opinion  the  generality  of  mankind 
and  the  wisdom  of  nations  have  always  had 
of  these  things. 

But  now,  against  the  contrary  virtues 
there  never  was  any  law.  No  man  was  ever 
impeached  for  living  soberly,  righteously, 
and  godly  in  this  present  world, — a  plain 
acknowledgment  that  mankind  always 
thought  them  good,  and  never  were  sensible 
of  the  inconvenience  of  them  :  for  had  they 
boen  so,  they  would  have  provided  against 
them  by  laws.  This  St.  Paul  takes  notice 
of  as  a  great  commendation  of  the  Christian 
virtues,— ''The  fruit  of  the  Spirit  is  love,  joy, 
peace,  long-suffering,  gentleness.  kindness, 
fidelity,  meekness,  temperance  :  against  such 
there  is  no  law."  As  if  he  had  said,  Turn, 
over  the  law  of  Moses,  search  those  of 
Athens  and  Sparta,  and  the  twelve  tables 
of  the  Romans,  and  those  innumerable  laws- 
that  have  been  added  since,  and  you  shall 
not  in  any  of  them  find  any  of  those  virtue* 
that  I  have  mentioned  condemned  and  for- 
bidden,— a  clear  evidence  that  mankind  never 
took  any  exception  against  them,  but  are 
generally  agreed  about  the  goodness  of  them. 

Sermons. 


JOHN    DRYDEN, 

one  of  the  most  eminent  of  English  poets 
and  prose  writers,  was  born  1631,  and  died 
1700.  His  principal  prose  compositions  are 
his  Essay  on  Dramatick  Poesy,  and  his  ex- 
cellent Prefaces  and  Dedications,  and  criti- 
cisms connected  with  them. 

"  Dryden  may  be  properly  considered  as  the 
father  of  English  criticism,  as  the  writer  who  first 
taught  us  to  determine  upon  principles  the  merit 
of  composition.  Of  our  former  poets,  the  greatest 
dramatist  wrote  without  rules,  conluetel  through 
life  and  nature  by  a  genius  that  rarely  niis!e  1,  anj 


98 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


rarely  deserted  him.  Of  the  rest,  those  who  knew 
the  laws  of  propriety  had  neglected  to  teach  them." 
— DR.  JOHNSON  :  Life  of  Dryden. 

"  As  to  his  writings,  I  may  venture  to  say  in 
general  terms,  that  no  man  hath  written  in  our 
language  so  much,  and  so  various  matter,  and  in 
so  various  manners,  so  well.  .  .  .  His  prose  had 
all  the  clearness  imaginable,  together  with  all  the 
nobleness  of  expression,  all  the  graces  and  orna- 
ments proper  and  peculiar  to  it,  without  deviating 
into  the  language  or  diction  of  poetry.  I  have 
heard  him  frequently  own  with  pleasure  that  if  he 
had  any  talent  of  English  prose,  it  was  owing  to 
his  having  often  read  the  writings  of  the  great 
Archbishop  Tillotson.  His  versification  and  his 
numbers  he  could  learn  of  nobody  :  for  he  first 
possessed  those  talents  in  perfection  in  our  tongue: 
and  they  who  have  succeeded  in  them  since  his 
time  have  been  indebted  to  his  example;  and  the 
more  they  have  been  able  to  imitate  him,  the  better 
they  have  succeeded." — CONGUEVE  :  Dedication  of 
Drydeii't  Dramatic  Works  to  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle. 

O.v  SHAKSPEARE,  BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER, 
AND  BEN  JONSON. 

To  begin,  then,  with  Shakspeare.  lie  was 
the  man  who,  of  all  modern,  and  perhaps 
ancient,  poets  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature 
were  still  present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them 
not  laboriously,  but  luckily.  When  he  de- 
scribes anything,  you  more  than  see  it, — you 
feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have 
wanted  learning,  give  him  the  greater  com- 
mendation. He  was  naturally  learned ;  he 
needed  not  the  spectacles  of  books  to  read 
nature ;  he  looked  inwards,  and  found  her 
there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike : 
were  he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  com- 
pare him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He 
is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic  wit 
degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swell- 
ing into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great 
when  some  great  occasion  is  presented  to 
him  :  no  man  can  ever  say  lie  had  a  fit  sub- 
ject for  his  wit,  and  did  not  then  raise  him- 
self as  high  above  the  rest  of  poets, 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  viburna  cupressi. 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales, 
of  Eton,  say,  that  there  was  no  subject  of 
which  any  poet  ever  writ  but  he  would  pro- 
duce it  much  better  done  in  Shakspeare: 
and  however  others  are  now  generally  pre- 
ferred before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he 
lived,  which  had  contemporaries  with  him 
Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never  equalled  them 
to  him  in  their  esteem.  And  in  the  lasi 
king's  court,  when  Ben's  reputation  was  at 
highest,  Sir  John  Suckling,  and  with  him 
the  greater  part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our 
Shakspeare  far  above  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  nm 
next  to  speak,  had,  with  the  advantage  of 


Shakspeare's  wit,  which  was  their  precedent, 
rreat  natural  gifts,  improved  by  study ;  Beau- 
nont,  especially,  being  so  accurate  a  judge 
of  plays,  that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he  lived, 
submitted  all  his  writings  to  his  censure  and, 
tis  thought,  used  his  judgment  in  correcting, 
f  not  contriving,  all  his  plots.  What  value 
be  had  for  him  appears  by  the  verses  he  writ 
to  him,  and  therefore  I  need  speak  no  farther 
of  it.  The  first  play  that  brought  Fletcher 
and  him  in  esteem  was  their  "  Philaster ;" 
for  before  that  they  had  written  two  or  three 
very  unsuccessfully  :  as  the  like  is  reported 
of  Ben  Jonson  before  he  writ  "  Every  man 
in  his  Humour."  Their  plots  were  generally 
more  regular  than  Shakspeare's,  especially 
those  which  were  made  before  Beaumont's 
death  ;  and  they  understood  and  imitated 
the  conversation  of  gentlemen  much  better; 
whose  wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness  of 
wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before  them  could 
paint  as  they  have  done.  Humour,  which 
Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particular  per- 
sons, they  made  it  not  their  business  to  de- 
scribe :  they  represented  all  the  passions 
very  lively,  but  above  all,  love.  I  am  apt 
to  believe  the  English  language  in  them 
arrived  to  its  highest  perfection  :  what  words 
have  since  been  taken  in  are  rather  super- 
fluous than  ornamental.  Their  plays  are 
now  the  most  pleasant  and  frequent  enter- 
tainments of  the  stage  ;  two  of  theirs  being 
acted  through  the  year  for  one  of  Shak- 
speare's or  Jonson's:  the  reason  is,  because 
there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  comedies, 
and  pathos  in  their  more  serious  plays, 
which  suits  generally  with  all  men's  hu- 
mours. Shakspeare's  language  is  likewise 
a  little  obsolete,  and  Ben  Jonson's  wit  comes 
short  of  theirs. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am 
now  arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him  while  he 
was  himself  (for  his  last  plays  were  but  his 
dotages)  I  think  him  the  most  learned  and 
judicious  writer  which  any  theatre  ever  had. 
lie  was  a  most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as 
well  as  others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted 
wit,  but  rather  that  he  was  frugal  of  it.  In 
his  works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or 
alter.  Wit,  and  language,  and  humour  also 
in  some  measure,  we  had  before  him  ;  but 
something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the  drama 
till  he  came.  He  managed  his  strength  to 
more  advantage  than  any  who  preceded 
him.  You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in 
any  of  his  scenes,  or  endeavouring  to  move 
the  passions ;  his  genius  was  too  sullen  and 
saturnine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially 
when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had 
performed  both  to  such  a  height.  Humour 
was  his  proper  sphere ;  and  in  that  he  de- 
lighted most  to  represent  mechanic  people, 
lie  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


99 


both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed 
boldly  from  them  :  there  is  scarce  a  poet 
or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors  of 
those  times  whom  he  lias  not  translated  in 
"  Sejanus''  and  "  Catiline."  But  he  has 
done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may 
see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  any  law. 
He  invades  authors  like  a  monarch ;  and 
what  would  be  theft  in  other  poets  is  only 
victory  in  him.  With  the  spoils  of  these 
write -s  he  so  represented  Rome  to  us,  in  its 
rites,  ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one 
of  th  nr  poets  had  written  either  of  his 
tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in 
him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  lan- 
guage; it  was  that  he  weaved  it  too  closely 
and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies  especially  : 
perhaps,  too,  he  did  a  little  too  much  Roman- 
ise our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which  he 
translated  almost  as  much  Latin  as  he 
found  them ;  wherein,  though  he  learnedly 
followed  their  language,  he  did  not  enough 
comply  with  the  idiom  of  ours.  If  1  would 
compare  him  with  Shakspeare  I  must  ac- 
knowledge him  the  more  correct  poet,  but 
Shakspeare  the  greater  wit.  Shakspeare 
was  the  Homer,  or  father,  of  our  dramatic 
poets  ;  Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern 
of  elaborate  writing:  I  admire  him,  but  I 
love  Shakspeare.  To  conclude  of  him  :  as 
he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so 
in  the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in 
his  "  Discoveries,"  we  have  as  many  and 
profitable  rules  for  perfecting  the  stage  as 
any  wherewith  the  French  can  furnish  us. 
Essay  on  Dramatic  Poesy. 

Ov  SPENSER  AXD  MILTOX. 

[In  epic  poetry]  the  English  have  only  to 
boast  of  Spenser  and  Milton,  who  neither 
of  them  wanted  either  genius  or  learning  to 
have  been  perfect  poets,  and  yet  both  of 
them  are  liable  to  many  censures.  For  there 
is  no  uniformity  in  the  design  of  Spenser : 
he  aims  at  the  accomplishment  of  no  one 
action,  he  raises  up  a  hero  for  every  one  of 
his  adventures,  and  endows  each  of  them 
with  some  particular  moral  virtue,  which 
renders  them  all  equal  without  subordination 
or  preference.  Every  one  is  most  valiant  in 
his  own  legend ;  only,  we  must  do  him  that 
justice  to  observe,  that  magnanimity,  which 
is  the  character  of  Prince  Arthur,  shines 
throughout  the  whole  poem,  and  succours 
the  rest  when  they  are  in  distress.  The 
original  of  every  knight  was  then  living  in 
the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  and  he  attrib- 
uted to  each  of  them  that  virtue  which  he 
thought  was  more  conspicuous  in  them, — an 
ingenious  piece  of  flattery,  though  it  turned 
not  much  to  his  account.  Had  he  lived 
to  finish  his  poem,  in  the  six  remaining 


legends,  it  had  certainly  been  more  of  a 
piece,  but  could  not  have  been  perfect,  be- 
cause the  model  was  not  true.  IJut  Prince 
Arthur,  or  his  chief  patron,  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  whom  he  intended  to  make  happy 
by  the  marriage  of  his  Gloriana,  dying  be- 
fore him,  deprived  the  poet  both  of  means 
and  spirit  to  .accomplish  his  design.  For 
the  rest,  his  obsolete  language,  and  the  ill 
choice  of  his  stanza,  are  faults  but  of  the 
second  magnitude;  for,  notwithstanding  the 
first,  he  is  still  intelligible,  at  least  after  a 
little  practice ;  and  for  the  last,  he  is  more 
to  be  admired  that,  labouring  under  such 
a  difficulty,  his  verses  are  so  numerous,  so 
various,  and  so  harmonious,  that  only  Virgil, 
whom  he  professedly  imitated,  has  surpassed 
him  among  the  Romans,  and  only  Mr.  Waller 
among  the  English. 

As  for  Mr.  Milton,  whom  we  all  admire 
with  so  much  justice,  his  .subject  is  not  that 
of  a  heroic  poem,  properly  so  called.  His 
design  is  the  losing  of  our  happiness;  his 
event  is  not  prosperous,  like  that  of  all  other 
epic  works ;  his  heavenly  machines  are 
many,  and  his  human  persons  are  but  two. 
But  I  will  not  take  Mr.  Rymer's  work  out 
of  his  hands:  he  has  promised  the  world  a 
critique  on  that  author,  wherein,  though  he 
would  not  allow  his  poem  for  heroic,  I  hope 
he  will  grant  us  that  his  thoughts  are  ele- 
vated, his  words  sounding,  and  that  no  man 
has  so  happily  copied  the  manner  of  Ilorner, 
or  so  copiously  translated  his  Grecisms,  and 
the  Latin  elegancies  of  Virgil.  It  is  true, 
he  runs  into  a  flat  of  thought  sometimes 
for  a  hundred  lines  together,  but  it  is  when 
he  has  got  into  a  track  of  Scripture.  His 
antiquated  words  were  his  choice,  not  his 
necessity  ;  for  therein  he  imitated  Spenser, 
as  Spenser  did  Chaucer.  And  though,  per- 
haps, the  love  of  their  masters  may  have 
transported  both  too  far,  in  the  frequent  use 
of  them,  yet,  in  my  opinion,  obsolete  words 
may  then  be  laudably  revived  when  either 
they  are  more  sounding  or  more  significant 
than  those  in  practice ;  and  when  their  ob- 
scurity is  taken  away  by  joining  other  words 
to  them  which  clear  the  sense,  according  to 
the  rule  of  Horace  for  the  admission  of  new 
words.  But  in  both  cases  a  moderation  is 
to  be  observed  in  the  use  of  them  ;  for  un- 
necessary coinage,  as  well  as  unnecessary 
revival,  runs  into  affectation, — a  fault  to  be 
avoided  on  either  hand.  Neither  will  I  jus- 
tify Milton  for  his  blank  verse,  though  I  may 
excuse  him  by  the  example  of  Hannibal 
Caro  and  other  Italians  who  have  used  it : 
for  whatever  causes  he  alleges  for  the 
abolishing  of  rhyme  (which  I  have  not  now 
the  leisure  to  examine),  his  own  particular 
reason  is  plainly  this,  that  rhyme  was  not 
his  talent :  he  had  neither  the  ease  of  doing 


100 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


it,  nor  the  graces  of  it;  which  is  manifest 
in  his  "Juvenilia,"  or  verses  written  in 
liis  youth,  where  his  rhyme  is  always  con- 
strained and  forced,  and  comes  hardly  from 
bim,  at  an  age  when  the  soul  is  most  pliant, 
and  the  passion  of  love  makes  almost  every 
man  a  rhymer  though  not  a  poet. 
Essay  on  Dramatic  1'oestj. 

ON  TRANSLATION. 

Thus  it  appears  necessary  that  a  man 
should  be  a  nice  critic  in  his  mother-tongue 
before  he  attempts  to  translate  in  a  foreign 
language.  Neither  is  it  sufficient  that  he 
be  able  to  judge  of  words  and  style,  but  he 
must  be  a  master  of  them  too :  he  must  per- 
fectly understand  his  author's  tongue,,  and 
absolutely  command  his  own:  so  that  to  be 
a  thorough  translator  he  must  be  a  thor- 
ough poet.  Neither  is  it  enough  to  give  his 
author's  sense,  in  good  English,  in  poetical 
expressions,  and  in  musical  numbers :  for, 
though  all  these  are  exceeding  difficult  to 
perform,  yet  there  remains  a  harder  task  ; 
and  it  is  a  secret  of  which  few  translators 
have  sufficiently  thought.  I  have  already 
hinted  a  word  or  two  concerning  it ;  that 
is,  the  maintaining  the  character  of  an  au- 
thor, which  distinguishes  him  from  all 
others,  and  makes  him  appear  that  indi- 
vidual poet  whom  you  would  interpret. 
For  example,  not  only  the  thoughts  but  the 
style  and  versification  of  Virgil  and  Ovid 
are  very  different;  yet  I  see,  even  in  our 
best  poets,  who  have  translated  some  parts 
of  them,  that  they  have  confounded  their 
several  talents;  and  by  endeavouring  only 
at  the  sweetness  and  harmony  of  numbers, 
have  made  them  both  so  much  alike,  that  if 
I  did  not  know  the  originals,  I  should  never 
l>e  able  to  judge  by  the  copies  which  was 
Virgil  and  which  was  Ovid.  It  was  objected 
agiiinst  a  late  noble  painter,  that  he  drew 
many  graceful  pictures,  but  few  of  them 
were  like.  And  this  happened  to  him  be- 
cause he  always  studied  himself  more  than 
those  who  sat  to  him.  In  such  translators 
I  can  easily  distinguish  the  hand  which  per- 
formed the  work,  but  I  cannot  distinguish 
their  poet  from  another.  Suppose  two  au- 
thors are  equally  sweet ;  yet  there  is  as 
great  distinction  to  be  made  in  sweetness, 
as  in  that  of  sugar  and  that  of  honey.  I 
can  make  the  difference  more  plain  by  giv- 
ing you  (if  it  l>e  worth  knowing)  my  own 
method  of  proceeding  in  my  translations  out 
of  four  several  poets  in  this  volume, — Vir- 
gil. Theocritus,  Lucretius,  and  Horace.  In 
each  of  these,  before  I  undertook  them,  I 
considered  the  genius  and  distinguishing 
character  of  my  author.  I  looked  on  Virgil 
as  a  succinct  and  grave  majestic  writer ;  one 


who  weighed  not  only  every  thought,  but 
every  word  and  syllable  ;  who  was  still  aim- 
ing to  crowd  his  sense  into  as  narrow  a 
compass  as  possibly  he  could:  for  which 
reason  he  is  so  very  figurative  that  he  re- 
quires (I  may  almost  say)  a  grammar  apart 
to  construe  him.  His  verse  is  everywhere 
sounding  the  very  thing  in  your  ears  whose 
sense  it  bears;  yet  the  numbers  are  per- 
petually varied,  to  increase  the  delight  of 
the  reader,  so  that  the  same  sounds  are 
never  repeated  twice  together.  On  the  con- 
trary, Ovid  and  Claudian,  though  they 
write  in  styles  differing  from  each  other,  yet 
have  each  of  them  but  one  sort  of  muisic  in 
their  verses. 

All  the  versification  and  little  variety  of 
Claudian  is  included  within  the  compass  of 
four  or  five  lines,  and  then  he  begins  again 
in  the  same  tenor,  perpetually  closing  his 
sense  at  the  end  of  a  verse,  and  that  ver.se 
commonly  which  they  call  golden,  or  two 
substantives  and  two  adjectives,  with  a  verb 
between  them  to  keep  the  peace. 

Ovid,  with  all  his  sweetness,  has  as  little 
variety  of  numbers  and  sound  as  he  [Clau- 
dian] ;  he  is  always,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
hand-gallop,  and  his  verse  runs  upon  carpet- 
ground.  He  avoids,  like  the  other,  all  syna- 
laephas,  or  cutting  off  one  vowel  when  it 
comes  before  another  in  the  following  word  ; 
so  that,  minding  only  smoothness,  he  wants 
both  variety  and  majesty.  But  to  return  to 
Virgil  :  though  he  is  smooth  where  smooth- 
ness is  required,  yet  he  is  so  far  from  affect- 
ing it,  that  he  seems  rather  to  disdain  it ; 
frequently  makes  use  of  synalaephas,  and 
concludes  his  sense  in  the  middle  of  his 
verse.  He  is  everywhere  above  conceits  of 
epigrammatic  wit  and  gross  hyperboles  ;  he 
maintains  majesty  in  the  midst  of  plainness  ; 
he  shines,  but  glares  not;  and  is  stately 
without  ambition,  which  is  the  vice  of  Luean. 
I  drew  my  definition  of  poetical  wit  from 
my  particular  consideration  of  him ;  for 
propriety  of  thoughts  and  words  are  only  to 
be  found  in  him  ;  and  where  they  are  proper, 
they  will  be  delightful.  Pleasure  follows  of 
necessity,  as  the  effect  does  the  cause,  and 
therefore  is  not  to  be  put  into  the  definition. 
This  exact  propriety  of  Virgil  I  particularly 
regarded  as  a  great  part  of  his  character; 
but  must  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  translate  any  part  of  him 
so  well  as  to  make  him  appear  wholly  like 
himself;  for  where  the  original  is  close  no 
version  can  reach  it  in  the  same  compass. 
Hannibal  Caro's,  in  the  Italian,  is  the  near- 
est, the  most  poetical,  and  the  most  sonorous 
of  any  translation  of  the  JEneids ;  yet, 
though  he  takes  advantage  of  blank  verse, 
he  commonly  allows  two  lines  for  one  of 
Virgil,  and  does  not  always  hit  his  sense. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


101 


THSSO  tells  us  in  his  letters  that  Sperone 
Speroni,  a  great  Italian  wit,  who  was  his 
contemporary,  observed  of  Virgil  and  Tally, 
that  the  Latin  orator  endeavoured  to  imitate 
the  copiousness  of  Homer,  the  Greek  poet ; 
and  that  the  Latin  poet  made  it  his  business 
to  reach  the  conciseness  of  Demosthenes,  the 
Greek  orator.  Virgil,  therefore,  being  so 
very  sparing  of  his  words,  and  leaving  so 
much  to  be  imagined  by  the  reader,  can 
never  be  translated  as  he  ought  in  any 
modern  tongue.  To  make  him  copious  is  to 
alter  his  character;  and  to  translate  him 
line  for  line  is  impossible  ;  because  the  Latin 
is  naturally  a  more  succinct  language  than 
either  the  Italian,  Spanish,  French,  or  even 
than  the  English,  which,  by  reason  of  its 
monosyllables,  is  far  the  most  compendious 
of  them.  Virgil  is  much  the  closest  of  any 
Roman  poet,  and  the  Latin  hexameter  has 
more  feet  than  the  English  heroic.  .  .  .  He 
who  excels  all  other  poets  in  his  own  lan- 
guage, were  it  possible  to  do  him  right,  must 
appear  above  them  in  our  tongue,  which,  as 
my  Lord  lloscommon  justly  observes,  ap- 
proaches nearest  to  the  Roman  in  its  ma- 
jesty ;  nearest,  indeed,  but  with  a  vast  in- 
terval betwixt  them.  There  is  an  inimitable 
grace  in  Virgil's  words,  and  in  them  princi- 
pally consists  that  beauty  which  gives  so 
inexpressible  a  pleasure  to  him  who  best 
understands  their  force.  This  diction  of  his 
(I  must  once  again  say)  is  never  to  be  copied  ; 
and  since  it  cannot,  he  will  appear  but  lame 
in  the  best  translation.  The  turns  of  his 
verse,  his  breakings,  his  propriety,  his  num- 
bers, and  his  gravity,  I  have  as  far  imitated 
as  the  poverty  of  our  language  and  the  has- 
tiness of  my  performance  would  allow.  I 
may  seem  sometimes  to  have  varied  from  his 
sense ;  but  I  think  the  greatest  variations 
may  be  fairly  deduced  from  him  ;  and  where 
I  leave  his  commentators,  it  may  be  I  under- 
stand him  better;  at  least,  I  writ  without 
consulting  them  in  many  places.  But  two 
particular  lines  in  "Mezentius  and  Lausus" 
I  cannot  so  easily  excuse.  They  are,  in- 
deed, remotely  allied  to  Virgil's  sense ;  but 
they  are  too  like  the  trifling  tenderness  of 
Ovid,  and  were  printed  before  I  had  consid- 
ered them  enough  to  alter  them.  The  first 
of  them  I  have  forgotten,  and  cannot  easily 
retrieve,  because  the  copy  is  at  the  press. 
The  second  is  this, — 

When  Lausus  died,  I  was  already  slain. 

This  appears  pretty  enough  at  first  sight ; 
but  I  am  convinced,  for  many  reasons,  that 
the  expression  is  too  bold.  That  Virgil  would 
not  have  said  it,  though  Ovid  would.  The 
reader  may  pardon  it,  if  he  please,  for 
the  freeness  of  the  confession  ;  and  instead 
of  that,  and  the  former,  admit  these  two 


lines,  which  are  more  according  to  the  au- 
thor,— 

Nor  ask  I  life,  nor  fought  with  that  design: 
As  I  had  used  my  fortune,  use  thou  thine. 

From   the  Preface  to  the  Translation  of 
Virgil's  JEueid. 


SAMUEL  PEPYS, 

Secretary  to  the  Admiralty  in  the  reigns  of 
Charles  II.  and  James  II.,  born  1632,  died 
1703,  left  a  valuable  chronicle  of  his  times, 
a  portion  of  which  appeared  under  the  title 
of  Memoirs  of  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq.,  compris- 
ing his  Diary  from  1659  to  1669,  deciphered 
by  the  Rev.  John  Smith  from  the  Original 
short-hand  MS.  in  the  Pepysian  Library,  and 
a  Selection  from  his  Private  Correspondence. 
Edited  by  Richard,  Lord  Braybrooke,  Lond., 
1825,  2  vols.  royal  4to:  and  other  editions. 
But  the  only  correct  edition  is  the  follow- 
ing :  The  Diary  and  Correspondence  of  Sam- 
uel Pepys,  Esq.,  F.R.S. ,  from  his  MS.  Cypher 
in  the  Pepysian  Library,  with  a  Life  and 
Notes  by  Richard,  Lord  Braybrooke ;  deci- 
phered with  Additional  Notes  by  the  Rev. 
Mynors  Bright,  M.A.,  President  and  Senior 
Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge, 
Bickers  and  Son,  1875,  6  vols.  med.  8vo, 
containing  about  one-third  fresh  and  un- 
published matter. 

"  If  quitting  the  broad  path  of  history,  we  seek 
for  minute  information  concerning  ancient  man- 
ners and  customs,  the  progress  of  arts  and  sciences, 
and  the  various  branches  of  antiquity,  we  have 
never  seen  so  rich  a  mine  as  the  volumes  before 
us.  The  variety  of  Pepys's  tastes  and  pursuits  led 
him  into  almost  every  department  of  life." — Sire 
WALTER  SCOTT:  (London)  Quarterly  Rev.,  xxxiii. 
308. 

"  Of  very  great  interest  and  curiosity." — LORD 
JEFFREY  :  Edin.  Rev.,  xliii.  26. 

THE  PLAGUE  IN  LONDON  IN  1665. 

September  2()th.  To  Lambeth.  But,  Lord! 
what  a  sad  time  it  is  to  see  no  boats  upon 
the  river,  and  grass  grows  all  up  and  down 
White  Hall  court,  and  nobody  but  poor 
wretches  in  the  streets!  and,  which  is  worse 
than  all,  the  duke  showed  us  the  number  of 
the  plague  this  week,  brought  in  the  last 
night  from  the  Lord  Mayor ;  that  it  is  in- 
creased about  600  more  than  the  last,  which 
is  quite  contrary  to  our  hopes  and  expecta- 
tions, from  the  coldness  of  the  late  season. 
For  the  whole  general  number  is  8297,  and 
of  them  the  plague  7165  ;  which  is  more  in 
the  whole  by  above  50  than  the  biggest  bill 
yet:  which  is  very  grievous  on  us  all. 

October  16th.  I  walked  to  the  Tower; 
but,  Lord !  how  empty  the  streets  are  and 
melancholy,  so  many  poor  sick  people  in 
the  streets  full  of  sores ;  and  so  many  sad 


102 


JOHN  LOCKE. 


stories  overheard  as  I  walk,  everybody  talk- 
ing of  this  dead,  and  that  man  sick,  and  so 
many  in  this  place,  and  so  many  in  that. 
And  they  tell  me  that  in  Westminster  there 
is  never  a  physician,  and  but  one  apothecary 
left,  all  being  dead  ;  but  that  there  are  great 
hopes  of  a  great  decrease  this  week :  God 
send  it! 

29th.  In  the  streets  did  overtake  and 
almost  run  upon  two  women  crying  and 
carrying  a  man's  coffin  between  them ;  I 
suppose  the  husband  of  one  of  them,  which, 
methinks,  is  a  s:id  thing. 

November  27th.  I  into  London,  it  being 
dark  night,  by  a  hackney-coach  ;  the  first  I 
have  durst  to  go  in  many  a  day,  and  with 
great  pain  now  for  fear.  But  it  being  un- 
safe to  go  by  water  in  the  dark  and  frosty 
cold,  and  unable,  being  weary  with  my 
morning  walk,  to  go  on  foot,  this  was  my 
only  way.  Few  people  yet  in  the  streets, 
nor  shops  open,  here  and  there  twenty  in  a 
place  almost ;  though  not  above  five  or  six 
o'clock  at  night. 

30th.  Great  joy  we  have  this  week  in  the 
weekly  bill,  it  being  come  to  544  in  all,  and 
but  333  of  the  plague,  so  that  we  are  en- 
couraged to  get  to  London  as  soon  as  we 
can. 

January  5th.  I  with  my  Lord  Brouncker 
and  Mrs.  Williams,  by  coach  with  four  horses 
to  London,  to  my  Lord's  house  in  Covent 
Garden.  But,  Lord  !  what  staring  to  see  a 
nobleman's  coach  come  to  town  ;  and  porters 
everywhere  bow  to  us  ;  and  such  begging 
of  beggars !  And  delightful  it  is  to  see 
the  town  full  of  people  again  ;  and  shops 
begin  to  open,  though  in  many  places  seven 
or  eight  together,  and  more,  all  shut:  but 
yet  the  town  is  full  compared  with  what  it 
used  to  be;  I  mean  the  city  end ;  for  Covent 
Garden  and  Westminster  are  yet  very  empty 
of  people,  no  court  nor  gentry  being  there. 

13th.  Home  with  his  lordship  to  Mrs. 
Williams' s  in  Covent  Garden,  to  dinner  (the 
first  time  I  ever  was  there),  and  there  met 
Captain  Coke :  and  pretty  merry,  though 
not  perfectly  so,  because  of  the  fear  that 
there  is  of  a  great  increase  again  of  the 
plague  this  week. 

22d.  The  first  meeting  of  Gresham  Col- 
lege since  the  plague.  l)r.  Goddard  did  fill 
us  with  talk  in  defence  of  his  and  his  fellow- 
pliysicians  going  out  of  town  in  the  plague 
time;  saying  that  their  particular  patients 
were  most  gone  out  of  town,  and  they  left 
at  liberty  ;  and  a  great  deal  more,  &c. 

30th.  This  is  the  first  time  that  I  have 
been  in  the  church  since  I  left  London  for 
the  plague,  and  it  frighted  me  indeed  to 
go  through  the  church  more  than  I  thought 
it  could  have  done,  to  see  so  many  graves 
lie  so  high  upon  the  churchyards,  where 


people  have  been  buried  of  the  plague.     I 
was  much  troubled  at  it,  and  do  not  think 
to  go  through  it  again  a  good  while. 
Diary. 


JOHN    LOCKE, 

the  famous  author  of  An  Essay  concerning 
the  Human  Understanding,  Lond.,  1690, 
fol.,  and  of  other  works, —  philosophical, 
theological,  political,  etc., — was  born  1632, 
and  died  1704.  The  last,  being  the  12th, 
collective  edition  of  his  Works  was  pub- 
lished, Lond.,  1824,  9  vols.  8vo.  Philosophi- 
cal Works,  with  a  Preliminary  Essay  and 
Notes  by  J.  A.  St.  John,  Lond.,  1843,  8vo, 
and  again  1854,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"His  phraseology,  though  in  general  careless 
and  unpolished,  has  always  the  merit  of  that  char- 
acteristical  unity  and  raciiiesoof  style  which  demon- 
strate that,  while  he  was  writing,  he  conceived 
himself  to  be  drawing  only  from  his  own  re- 
source*. With  respect  to  his  style,  it  may  be 
further  observed  that  it  resembles  that  of  a  well- 
educated  and  well-informed  man  of  the  world, 
rather  than  that  of  a  recluse  student  who  had 
made  an  object  of  the  art  of  composition.  ...  It 
may  be  presumed  to  have  contributed  its  share 
towards  his  great  object  of  turning  the  thoughts 
of  his  contemporaries  to  logical  and  metaphysical 
inquiries." — DUGALD  STEWART  :  First  Prtlim.  Dis- 
sert, to  Encyc.  lirit.,  7th  ed.,  i.  104. 

"Locke  and  [Adam]  Smith  chose  an  easy,  clear, 
and  free,  but  somewhat  loose  and  verbose,  style, — 
more  concise  in  Locke,  more  elegant  in  Smith, — 
in  both  exempt  from  pedantry,  but  not  void  of 
ambiguity  and  repetition." — Sm  JAMES  MACKIN- 
TOSH :  Works,  Lond.,  1854,  i.  309. 

CAUSE  OF  WEAKNESS  IN  MEN'S  UNDER- 
STANDING. 

There  is,  it  is  visible,  great  variety  in 
men's  understandings,  and  their  natural 
constitutions  put  so  wide  a  difference  be- 
tween some  men  in  this  respect,  that  art 
and  industry  would  never  be  able  to  mas- 
ter ;  and  their  very  natures  seem  to  want  a 
foundation  to  raise  on  it  that  which  other 
men  easily  attain  unto.  Amongst  men  of 
equal  education  there  is  a  great  inequality 
of  parts.  And  the  woods  of  America,  as 
well  as  the  schools  of  Athens,  produce  men 
of  several  abilities  in  the  same  kind.  Though 
this  be  so,  yet  I  imagine  most  men  come  very 
short  of  what  they  might  attain  unto  in  their 
several  degrees  by  a  neglect  of  their  under- 
standings. A  few  rules  of  logic  are  thought 
sufficient  in  this  case  for  those  who  pretend 
to  the  highest  improvement ;  whereas  I  think 
there  are  a  great  many  natural  defects  in 
the  understanding  capable  of  amendment 
which  are  overlooked  and  wholly  neglected. 
And  it  is  easy  to  perceive  that  men  are 
guilty  of  a  great  many  faults  in  the  exer- 
cise and  improvement  of  this  faculty  of  the 


JOHN  LOCKE. 


103 


mind,  which  hinder  them  in  their  progress, 
and  keep  them  in  ignorance  find  error  all 
their  lives.  Some  of  them  I  shall  take  no- 
tice of,  and  endeavour  to  point  out  proper 
remedies  for,  in  the  following  discourse. 

Besides  the  want  of  determined  ideas,  and 
of  sagacity  and  exercise  in  finding  out  and 
laying  in  order  intermediate  ideas,  there  are 
three  miscarriages  that  men  are  guilty  of  in 
reference  to  their  reason,  where  by  this  fac- 
ulty is  hindered  in  them  from  that  service 
it  might  do  and  was  designed  for.  And  lie 
that  reflects  upon  the  actions  and  discourses 
of  mankind,  will  find  their  defects  in  this 
kind  very  frequent  and  very  observable. 

1.  The  first  is  of  those  who  seldom  reason 
at  all,   but  do  and  think  according  to  the 
example  of  others,  whether  parents,  neigh- 
bours, ministers,  or  who  else  they  are  pleased 
to  make  choice  of  to  have  an  implicit  fuitli 
in,  for  the  saving  of  themselves  the  pains 
and  trouble  of  thinking  and  examining  for 
themselves. 

2.  The  second  is  of  those  who  put  passion 
in  the  place  of  reason,  and  being  resolved 
that  shall   govern  their  actions   and  argu- 
ments, neither  use  their  own,  nor  hearken 
to  other  people's  reason,  any  farther  than  it 
suits  their  humour,  interest,  or  party;  and 
these,  one  may  observe,  commonly  content 
themselves  with  words  which  have  no  dis- 
tinct ideas  to  them,  though  in  other  matters, 
that  they  come  with  an  unbiassed  indiffer- 
ency  to,  they  want  not  abilities  to  talk  and 
hear  reason,  where  they  have  no  secret  in- 
clination that  hinders  them  from  being  un- 
tractable  to  it. 

3.  The  third  sort  is  of  those  who  readily 
and  sincerely  follow  reason,  but  for  want  of 
having  that  which  one  may  call  large,  sound, 
round-about  sense,  have  not  a  full  view  of 
all  that  relates  to  the  question,  and  may  be 
of  moment  to  decide  it.     We  are  all  short- 
sighted, and  very  often  see  but  one  side  of 
a  matter :  our  views  are  not  extended  to  all 
that   has  a  connexion  with  it.     From  this 
defect,  I  think,  no  man  is  free.     We  see  but 
in  part,  and  we  know  but  in  part,  and  there- 
fore it  is  no  wonder  we  conclude  not  right 
from  our  partial  views.     This  might  instruct 
the  proudest  esteemer  of  his  own  parts  how 
useful  it  is  to  talk  and  consult  with  others, 
even   such  as  come  short  with  him  in  ca- 
pacity, quickness,  and  penetration  :  for  since 
no  one  sees  all,  and  we  generally  have  dif- 
ferent prospects  of  the  same  thing,  according 
to  our  different,  as  I  may  say,  positions  to 
it,  it  is  not  incongruous  to  think,  nor  beneath 
any  man  to  try,  whether  another  may  not 
have  notions  of  things  which  have  escaped 
him,  and  which  his  reason  would  make  use 
of  if  they  came  into  his  mind.     The  faculty 
of  reasoning  seldom  or  never  deceives  those 


who  trust  to  it ;  its  consequences  from  what 
it  builds  on  are  evident  and  certain  ;  but 
that  which  it  oftenest,  if  not  only,  misleads 
us  in,  is,  that  the  principles  from  which  we 
conclude,  the  grounds  upon  which  we  bottom 
our  reasoning,  are  hut  a  part:  something  is 
left  out  which  should  go  into  the  reckoning 
to  make  it  just  and  exact. 

PRACTICE  AXD  HABIT. 

We  are  born  with  faculties  and  powers 
capable  almost  of  anything,  such  at  least  as 
would  carry  us  farther  than  can  be  easily 
imagined  ;  but  it  is  only  the  exercise  of  those 
powers  which  gives  us  ability  and  skill  in 
anything,  and  leads  us  towards  perfection. 

A  middle-aged  ploughman  will  scarce  ever 
be  brought  to  the  carriage  and  language  of 
a  gentleman,  though  his  body  be  as  well 
proportioned,  and  his  joints  as  supple,  and 
his  natural  parts  not  any  way  inferior.  The 
legs  of  a  dancing-master,  and  the  fingers  of 
a  musician,  fall,  as  it  were,  naturally  with- 
out thought  or  pains,  into  regular  and  ad- 
mirable motions.  Bid  them  change  their 
parts,  and  they  will  in  vain  endeavour  to 
produce  like  motions  in  the  members  not 
used  to  them,  and  it  will  require  length  of 
time  and  long  practice  to  attain  but  some 
degrees  of  a  like  ability.  What  incredible 
and  astonishing  actions  do  we  find  rope- 
dancers  and  tumblers  bring  their  bodies  to  ! 
not  but  that  sundry  in  almost  all  manual 
arts  are  as  wonderful ;  but  I  name  those 
which  the  world  takes  notice  of  for  such, 
because,  on  that  very  account,  they  give 
money  to  see  them.  All  these  admired 
motions,  beyond  the  reach  and  almost  the 
conception  of  unpractised  spectators,  are 
nothing  but  the  mere  effects  of  use  and  in- 
dustry in  men  whose  bodies  have  nothing 
peculiar  in  them  from  those  of  the  amazed 
lookers  on. 

As  it  is  in  the  body,  so  it  is  in  the  mind  ; 
practice  makes  it  what  it  is ;  and  most  even 
of  those  excellencies  which  are  looked  on  as 
natural  endowments,  will  be  found,  when 
examined  into  more  narrowly,  to  be  the  prod- 
uct of  exercise,  and  to  be  raised  to  that  pitch 
only  by  repeated  actions.  Some  men  are 
remarked  for  pleasantness  in  raillery,  others 
for  apologues  and  apposite  diverting  stories. 
This  is  .apt  to  be  taken  for  the  effect  of  pure 
nature,  and  that  the  rather,  because  it  is  not 
got  by  rules,  and  those  who  excel  in  either 
of  them  never  purposely  set  themselves  to 
the  study  of  it  as  an  art  to  be  learnt.  But 
yet  it  is  true,  that  at  first  some  lucky  hit 
which  took  with  somebody,  and  gained  him 
commendation,  encouraged  him  to  try  again, 
inclined  his  thoughts  and  endeavours  that 
way,  till  at  last  he  insensibly  got  a  facility 


104 


JOHN  LOCKE. 


in  it  without  perceiving  how ;  and  this  is 
attributed  solely  to  nature,  which  was  much 
more  the  effect  of  use  and  practice.  I  do 
not  deny  that  natural  disposition  may  often 
give  the  first  rise  to  it;  but  that  never  car- 
ries a  man  far  without  use  and  exercise,  and 
it  is  practice  alone  that  brings  the  powers 
of  the  mind  as  well  as  those  of  the  body  to 
their  perfection.  Many  a  good  poetic  vein 
is  buried  under  a  trade,  and  never  produces 
anything  for  want  of  improvement.  We 
see  the  ways  of  discourse  and  reasoning  are 
very  different,  even  concerning  the  same 
matter,  at  court  and  in  the  university.  And 
he  that  will  go  but  from  Westminster-hall 
to  the  Exchange  will  find  a  different  genius 
and  turn  in  their  ways  of  talking ;  and  one 
cannot  think  that  all  whose  lot  fell  in  the 
city  were  born  with  different  parts  from 
those  who  were  bred  at  the  university  or 
inns  of  court. 

To  what  purpose  all  this,  but  to  show 
that  the  difference  so  observable  in  men's 
understandings  and  parts  does  not  arise  so 
much  from  the  natural  faculties  as  acquired 
habits?  lie  would  be  laughed  at  that  should 
go  about  to  make  a  fine  dancer  out  of  a 
country  hedger  at  past  fifty.  And  he  will 
not  have  much  better  success  who  shall  en- 
deavour at  that  age  to  make  a  man  reason 
well,  or  speak  handsomely,  who  has  never 
been  used  to  it,  though  you  should  lay  before 
him  a  collection  of  .all  the  best  precepts  of 
logic  or  oratory.  Nobody  is  made  anything 
by  hearing  of  rules,  or  laying  them  up  in 
his  memory;  practice  must  settle  the  habit 
of  doing  without  reflecting  on  the  rule;  and 
you  may  as  well  hope  to  make  a  good  painter 
or  musician,  extempore,  by  a  lecture  and 
instruction  in  the  arts  of  music  and  paint- 
ing, as  a  coherent  thinker,  or  strict  reasoner, 
by  a  set  of  rules,  showing  him  wherein  right 
reasoning  consists. 

This  being  so,  that  defects  and  weakness 
in  men's  understandings,  as  well  as  other 
faculties,  come  from  want  of  a  right  use  of 
their  own  minds,  I  am  apt  to  think  the  fault 
is  generally  mislaid  upon  nature,  and  there 
is  often  a  complaint  of  want  of  parts,  when 
the  fault  lies  in  want  of  a  due  improvement 
of  them.  We  see  men  frequently  dexterous 
and  sharp  enough  in  making  a  bargain,  who 
if  you  reason  with  them  about  matters  of 
religion  appear  perfectly  stupid. 

INJUDICIOUS  HASTE   IN  STUDY. 

The  eagerness  and  strong  bent  of  the 
mind  after  knowledge,  if  not  warily  regu- 
lated, is  often  a  hindrance  to  it.  Jt  still 
presses  into  farther  discoveries  and  new 
objects,  and  catches  at  the  variety  of  knowl- 
edge, and  therefore  often  stays  not  long 


enough  on  what  is  before  it,  to  look  into  it 
as  it  should,  for  haste  to  pursue  what  is  yet 
out  of  sight.  He  that  rides  post  through 
a  country  may  be  able,  from  the  transient 
view,  to  tell  in  general  how  the  parts  lie, 
and  may  be  able  to  give  some  loose  descrip- 
tion of  here  a  mountain  and  there  a  plain, 
here  a  morass  and  there  a  river  ;  woodland 
in  one  part  and  savannahs  in  another.  Such 
superficial  ideas  and  observations  as  these 
he  may  collect  in  galloping  over  it;  but  the 
more  useful  observations  of  the  soil,  plants, 
animals,  and  inhabitants,  with  their  several 
sorts  and  properties,  must  necessarily  escape 
him  ;  and  it  is  seldom  men  ever  discover  the 
rich  mines  without  some  digging.  Nature 
commonly  lodges  her  treasures  and  jewels 
in  rocky  ground.  If  the  matter  be  knotty, 
and  the  sense  lies  deep,  the  mind  must  stop 
and  buckle  to  it,  and  stick  upon  it  with 
labour  and  thought,  and  close  contempla- 
tion, and  not  leave  it  until  it  has  mastered 
the  difficulty  and  got  possession  of  truth. 
But  here  care  must  be  taken  to  avoid  the 
other  extreme:  a  man  must  not  stick  at 
every  useless  nicety,  and  expect  mysteries 
of  science  in  every  trivial  question  or  scru- 
ple that  he  may  raise.  He  that  will  stand 
to  pick  up  and  examine  every  pebble  that 
comes  in  his  way,  is  as  unlikely  to  return 
enriched  and  laden  with  jewels  as  the  other 
that  travelled  full  speed.  Truths  are  not 
the  better  nor  the  worse  for  their  obvious- 
ness or  difficulty,  but  their  value  is  to  be 
measured  by  their  usefulness  and  tendency. 
Insignificant  observations  should  not  take 
up  any  of  our  minutes  ;  and  those  that  en- 
large our  view,  and  give  light  towards  fur- 
ther and  useful  discoveries,  should  not  be 
neglected,  though  they  stop  our  course,  and 
spend  most  of  our  time  in  a  fixed  attention. 
There  is  another  haste  that  does  often  and 
will  mislead  the  mind,  if  it  be  left  to  itself 
and  its  own  conduct.  The  understanding 
is  naturally  forward,  not  only  to  learn  its 
knowledge  by  variety  (which  makes  it  skip 
over  one  to  get  speedily  to  another  part  of 
knowledge),  but  also  eager  to  enlarge  its 
views  by  running  too  fast  into  general  ob- 
servations and  conclusions,  without  a  due 
examination  of  particulars  enough  whereon 
to  found  those  general  axioms.  This  seems 
to  enlarge  their  stock,  but  it  is  of  fancies, 
not  realities ;  such  theories,  built  upon 
narrow  foundations,  stand  but  weakly,  and 
if  they  fall  not  themselves,  are  at  least  very 
hardly  to  be  supported  against  the  assaults 
of  opposition.  And  thus  men,  being  too  hasty 
to  erect  to  themselves  general  notions  and 
ill-grounded  theories,  find  themselves  de- 
ceived in  their  stock  of  knowledge,  when 
they  come  to  examine  their  hastily  assumed 
maxims  themselves,  or  to  have  them  attacked 


EZEKIEL  HOPKINS. 


105 


by  others.  General  observations,  drawn 
from  particulars,  are  the  jewels  of  knowl- 
edge, comprehending  great  store  in  a  little 
room ;  but  they  are  therefore  to  be  made 
with  the  greater  care  and  caution,  lest  if  we 
take  counterfeit  for  true,  our  loss  and  shame 
will  be  the  greater  when  our  stock  comes  to 
a  severe  scrutiny.  One  or  two  particulars 
may  suggest  hints  of  inquiry,  and  they  do 
well  who  take  those  hints;  but  if  they  turn 
them  into  conclusions,  and  make  them  pres- 
ently general  rules,  they  are  forward  indeed  ; 
but  it  is  only  to  impose  on  themselves  by 
propositions  assumed  for  truths  without  suf- 
ficient warrant.  To  make  such  observations 
is,  as  has  been  already  remarked,  to  make 
the  head  a  magazine  of  materials,  which  can 
hardly  be  called  knowledge,  or  at  least  it  is 
but  like  a  collection  of  lumber  not  reduced 
to  use  or  order;  and  he  that  makes  every- 
thing an  observation  has  the  same  useless 
plenty,  and  much  more  falsehood  mixed 
with  it.  The  extremes  on  both  sides  are  to 
be  avoided ;  and  he  will  be  able  to  give  the 
best  account  of  his  studies  who  keeps  his 
understanding  in  the  right  mean  between 
them. 


EZEKIEL    HOPKINS, 

born  1633,  Bishop  of  Raphoe,  1671,  and  of 
Londonderry.  1681 ,  died  1690,  was  the  author 
of  theological  treatises  and  sermons  which 
have  been  highly  commended.  A  collective 
edition  of  his  Works  was  published,  Lond., 
1701,  fol.  New  edition,  with  his  life,  by  Rev. 
Josiah  Pratt,  Lond.,  1809,  4  vols.  8vo,  large 
paper  8vo.  Other  editions  ;  among  which 
are  that  published  by  Henry  G.  Bohn,  Lond., 
1855,  2  vols.  imp.  8vo :  and  First  American 
from  Pratt' s  London  Edition.  Edited  by  Rev. 
Charles  W.  Quick,  Philada.,  3  vols.  8vo.  This 
last  edition  is  one  of  The  Leighton  Publica- 
tions, a  series  of  reprints  of  old  English 
divines  published  at  the  expense  of  the  late 
Thomas  II.  Powers,  Esq.,  of  Philadelphia,  as 
presents  to  clergymen. 

"Bishop  Hopkins,  for  his  excellency  in  that 
noble  faculty  [of  preaching]  was  celebrated  by  all 
men.  He  was  followed  and  admired  in  all  places 
where  he  lived,  and  was  justly  esteemed  one  of  the 
best  preachers  of  our  age,  and  his  discourses  always 
smelt  of  the  lamp  :  they  were  very  elaborate  and 
well  digested." — PRINCE:  Worthies  of  Devon. 

"  Four  excellencies  appear  t8  me  to  be  combined 
in  him  as  a  writer.  In  doctrine  he  is  sound  and 
discriminating;  in  style  rich  and  harmonious;  in 
illustration  apt  and  forcible;  and  in  application 
awakening  and  persuasive." — REV.  JOSIAH  PRATT. 

OF  THK  LAST  JUDGMENT. 

Beside  Scripture,  reason  itself  doth  clearly 
show  that  there  shall  be  a  future  judgmenu 


in  which  God  will  render  to  every  man  ac- 
cording to  his  works. 

i.  This  appears  from  the  accusing  or  excus- 
ing office  of  Conscience. 

Whence  proceeds  that  regret,  those  gnaw- 
ings  and  stingings  of  conscience  for  sin, 
which  sometimes  the  very  worst  of  men 
feel?  Because  every  man  doth,  as  it  were, 
presage  a  day  of  judgment,  wherein  those 
sinful  actions  shall  be  brought  to  an  account, 
and  they  punished  for  them.  Even  the  con- 
sciences of  the  heathen  themselves,  who 
never  had  the  light  of  the  Scripture  to 
reveal  to  them  the  judgment  of  the  last  day, 
would  witness  against  them,  disquiet,  and 
trouble  them,  when  they  sinned  against  their 
natural  light:  their  conscience  would  bear 
witness,  and  their  thoughts  accuse,  or  else 
excuse,  them  ;  as  the  Apostle  speaks,  Rom. 
ii.  15.  Now  what  was  it  that  could  trouble 
their  consciences,  but  only  some  secret  hints 
and  obscure  notions  of  a  judgment  and 
wrath  to  come.  We  find  them  all  strongly 
possessed  with  the  apprehensions  of  a  future 
state  in  proportion  to  their  present  actions: 
hence  their  barathrum  and  di/sium,  their 
hell  and  paradise :  hence  their  three  severe 
and  impartial  judges:  hence  their  strange 
invented  punishments,  bearing  a  corre- 
spondence to  the  crimes  of  those  who  were 
said  to  undergo  them  :  which,  though  they 
were  but  the  fictions  of  their  poets,  yet  the 
very  consent  of  nature  and  of  nations  dic- 
tated that  these  were  torments  to  be  suffered 
according  to  the  sins  here  committed.  The 
very  workings  of  natural  conscience,  there- 
fore, strongly  prove  that  there  shall  be  a 
judgment. 

ii.  This  too  may  be  evidently  proved  from 
the  equity  and  justice  of  God's  nature  com- 
pared with  the  seemingly  strange  and  un- 
equal dispensations  of  his  providence. 

Justice  obligeth  to  do  good  to  those  who 
are  good,  and  to  inflict  evil  upon  those  who 
are  evil.  Yet  Providence  in  this  life  seems 
to  dispense  affairs  quite  otherwise:  whatso- 
ever this  world  calls  good,  the  riches,  the 
power,  the  glory  of  it,  are  usually  heaped 
upon  wicked  men,  who  swagger  and  flaunt 
it  here,  and  fight  against  God  with  those 
very  weapons  which  he  puts  into  their 
hands:  whereas  many  of  those  who  are 
truly  holy  and  the  sincere  servants  of  God 
are  oftentimes  pinched  by  poverty,  perse- 
cuted causelessly,  opposed  unjustly,  despised 
and  trampled  upon,  by  every  one  who  will 
but  take  the  pains  to  do  it.  This  is  God's 
usual  dealing  and  method  with  men  in  this 
world.  And  it  seemed  so  unjust  and  un- 
equal, that  hereupon,  alone,  many  of  the 
ancient  heathens  denied  that  the  world  was 
governed  by  Providence.  .  .  .  There  is, 
therefore,  a  judgment  to  come:  and  then, 


106 


ROBERT  SOUTH. 


"  Say  ye  to  the  righteous,  that  it  shall  be 
well  with  them  :  for  they  shall  eat  the  fruit 
of  their  doings ;"  but  "  Woe  unto  the 
wicked  !"  then,  "  it  shall  be  ill  with  them  ; 
for  the  reward  of  their  works  shall  be  given 
them:"  Isa.  iii.  10,  11.  This  shall  be  the 
day  wherein  God  will  clear  up  the  equity  of 
his  justice  in  all  the  inequality  of  his  provi- 
dence. And  what,  then,  are  all  the  fine  and 
gay  things  of  this  world  ?  Believe  it,  a  poor 
saint,  who  hath  on  him  the  robe  of  Christ's 
righteousness,  will  be  found  much  better 
clothed  than  ever  Dives  was,  with  all  his 
purple. 

Death  Disarmed  of  its  Sting. 


ROBERT    SOUTH,  D.D., 

born  1633,  died  1716,  was  very  famous  for 
pulpit  eloquence.  Among  the  late  collective 
editions  of  his  Works  are  the  following:  Ox- 
ford (Clarendon  Press),  1823,  7  vols.  8vo, 
again,  1843,  5  vols.  8vo ;  Edin.,  1843,  2  vols. 
8vo;  Lond.,  1843,  2  vols.  8vo;  Phila.,  4  vols. 
in  2  vols.  8vo  ;  N.  York,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"Of  all  the  English  preachers,  South  seems  to 
us  to  furnish,  in  point  of  ulyle,  the  truest  speci- 
mens of  the  most  effective  species  of  pulpit  elo- 
quence. .  .  .  His  ftyle  is  ...  everywhere  direct, 
condensed,  pungent.  His  sermons  are  well  worthy 
of  frequent  and  diligent  perusal  by  every  young 
preacher." — HENRY  ROGERS:  Edin.  Rev.,  Ixxii.  82. 

"  Nor  cnn  the  ingenuity,  the  subtlety,  the  bril- 
liancy of  South,  though  too  exuberant  in  point, 
and  drawing  away  the  attention  from  the  subject 
to  the  epigrammatic  diction,  be  regarded  other- 
wise than  as  proofs  of  the  highest  order  of  intel- 
lect."— LORD  ]'ROITGIIAM  :  Contrib.  to  Edin.  Jtev., 
1856,  i.  128.  See  also  113. 

RELIGION  NOT  HOSTILE  TO  PLEASURE. 

That  pleasure  is  man's  chiefest  good  (be- 
cause, indeed,  it  is  the  perception  of  good 
that  is  properly  pleasure)  is  an  assertion 
most  certainly  true,  though,  under  the  com- 
mon acceptance  of  it,  not  only  false,  but 
odious,  lor,  according  to  this,  pleasure 
and  sensuality  pass  for  terms  equivalent; 
and  therefore  he  that  takes  it  in  this  sense, 
alters  the  subject  of  the  discourse.  Sensu- 
ality is  indeed  a  part,  or  rather  one  part,  of 
pleasure,  such  an  one  as  it  is.  For  pleasure, 
in  general,  is  the  consequent  apprehension 
of  a  suitable  object  suitably  applied  to  a 
rightly  disposed  faculty ;  and  so  must  be 
conversant  both  about  the  faculties  of  the 
body  and  of  the  soul  respectively,  as  being 
the  result  of  the  fruitions  belonging  to  both. 
Now,  amongst  those  many  arguments  used 
to  press  upon  men  the  exercise  of  religion. 
I  know  none  that  are  like  to  be  so  successful 
as  those  that  answer  and  remove  the  preju- 


dices that  generally  possess  and  bar  up  the 
hearts  of  men  against  it:  amongst  which 
there  is  none  so  prevalent  in  truth,  though 
so  little  owned  in  pretence,  as  that  it  is  an 
enemy  to  men's  pleasures,  that  it  bereaves 
them  of  all  the  sweets  of  converse,  dooms 
them  to  an  absurd  and  perpetual  melancholy, 
designing  to  make  the  world  nothing  else 
but  a  great  monastery:  with  which  notion 
of  religion  nature  and  reason  seem  to  have 
great  reason  to  be  dissatisfied.  For  since 
God  never  created  any  faculty,  either  in  soul 
or  body,  but  withal  prepared  for  it  a  suitable 
object,  and  that  in  order  to  its  gratification, 
can  we  think  that  religion  was  designed  only 
for  a  contradiction  to  nature,  and  with  the 
greatest  and  most  irrational  tyranny  in  the 
world,  to  tantalize  and  tie  men  up  from  en- 
joyment, in  the  midst  of  all  the  opportuni- 
ties of  enjoyment?  to  place  men  with  the 
most  furious  affections  of  hunger  and  thirst 
in  the  very  bosom  of  plenty,  and  then  to 
tell  them  that  the  envy  of  Providence  has 
sealed  up  everything  that  is  suitable  under 
the  character  of  unlawful?  For  certainly, 
first  to  frame  appetites  for  to  receive  pleas- 
ure, and  then  to  interdict  them  with  a  Touch 
not,  taste  riot,  can  be  nothing  else  than  only 
to  give  them  occasion  to  devour  and  prey 
upon  themselves,  and  so  to  keep  men  under 
the  perpetual  torment  of  an  unsatisfied 
desire:  a  thing  hugely  contrary  to  the 
natural  felicity  of  the  creature,  and  conse- 
quently to  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the 
great  Creator. ' 

He,  therefore,  that  would  persuade  men 
to  religion  both  with  art  and  efficacy,  must 
found  the  persuasion  of  it  on  this,  that  it 
interferes  not  with  any  rational  pleasure, 
that  it  bids  nobody  quit  the  enjoyment  of 
any  one  thing  that  his  reason  can  prove  to 
him  ought  to  be  enjoyed.  'Tis  confessed, 
when,  through  the  cross  circumstances  of  a 
man's  temper  or  condition,  the  enjoyment 
of  a  pleasure  would  certainly  expose  him  to 
a  greater  inconvenience,  then  religion  bids 
him  quit  it;  that  is,  it  bids  him  prefer  the 
endurance  of  a  lesser  evil  before  a  greater, 
nnd  nature  itself  does  no  less.  Religion, 
therefore,  entrenches  upon  none  of  our 
privileges,  invades  none  of  our  pleasures : 
it  may,  indeed,  sometimes  command  us  to 
change,  but  never  totally  to  abjure  them. 

Sermons. 

INGRATITUDE  AN  INCURABLE  VICE. 

As  a  man  tolerably  discreet  ought  by  no 
means  to  attempt  the  making  of  such  an  one 
his  friend,  so  neither  is  he,  in  the  next  place, 
to  presume  to  think  that  he  shall  be  able  so 
much  as  to  alter  or  meliorate  the  humour 
of  an  ungrateful  person  by  any  acts  of  kind- 


EDWARD   STILLINGFLEET. 


107 


ness,  though  never  so  frequent,  never  so 
obliging. 

Philosophy  will  teach  the  learned,  and 
experience  may  teach  all,  that  it  is  n  thing 
hardly  feasible.  For,  love  such  an  one,  and 
he  shall  despise  you.  Commend  him,  and, 
as  occasion  serves,  lie  shall  revile  you.  Give 
him,  and  he  shall  but  laugh  at  your  easiness. 
Save  his  life  ;  but  when  you  have  done,  look 
to  your  own. 

The  greatest  favours  to  such  an  one  are 
but  the  motion  of  a  ship  upon  the  waves: 
they  leave  no  trace  nor  sign  behind  them  ; 
they  neither  soften  nor  win  upon  him  ;  they 
neither  melt  nor  endear  him,  but  leave  him 
as  hard,  as  rugged,  and  as  unconcerned  as 
ever.  All  kindnesses  descend  upon  such  a 
temper  as  showers  of  rains  or  rivers  of  fresh 
water  falling  into  the  main  sea:  the  sea 
swallows  them  all,  but  is  not  at  all  changed 
or  sweetened  by  them.  I  may  truly  say  of 
the  mind  of  an  ungrateful  person,  that  it  is 
kindness-proof.  It  is  impenetrable,  uncon- 
querable: unconquerable  by  that  which  con- 
quers all  things  else,  even  by  love  itself. 
Flints  may  be  melted — we  see  it  daily — but 
an  ungrateful  heart  cannot;  no,  not  by  the 
strongest  and  the  noblest  flame.  After  all 
your  attempts,  all  your  experiments,  for  any 
thing  that  man  can  do,  he  that  is  ungrateful 
will  be  ungrateful  still.  And  the  reason  is 
manifest:  for  you  may  remember  that  I  told 
you  that  ingratitude  sprung  from  a  principle 
of  ill  nature:  which  being  a  thing  founded 
in  such  a  certain  constitution  of  blood  and 
spirit,  as,  being  born  with  a  man  into  the 
world,  and  upon  that  account  called  nature, 
shall  prevent  all  remedies  that  can  be  ap- 
plied by  education,  and  leave  such  a  bias 
upon  the  mind  as  is  beforehand  with  all 
instruction. 

So  that  you  shall  seldom  or  never  meet 
witli  an  ungrateful  person,  but  if  you  look 
backward,  and  trace  him  up  to  his  original, 
you  will  find  that  he  was  born  so ;  and  if 
you  could  look  forward  enough,  it  is  a  thou- 
sand to  one  but  you  will  find  that  he  also 
dies  so  :  for  you  shall  never  light  upon  an  ill- 
natured  man  who  was  not  also  an  ill-natured 
child,  and  gave  several  testimonies  of  his 
being  so  to  discerning  persons,  long  before 
the  use  of  his  reason. 

The  thread  that  nature  spins  is  seldom 
broken  off  by  anything  but  death.  I  do  not 
by  this  limit  the  operation  of  God's  grace, 
for  that  may  do  wonders:  but  humanly 
speaking,  and  according  to  the  method  of 
the  world,  and  the  little  correctives  supplied 
by  art  and  discipline,  it  seldom  fails  but  an 
ill  principle  has  its  course,  and  nature  makes 
good  its  blow.  And  therefore,  where  ingrati- 
tude begins  remarkably  to  show  itself,  he 
surely  judges  most  wisely  who  takes  alarm 


betimes,  and,  arguing  the  fountain  from  the 
stream,  concludes  that  there  is  ill-nature  at 
the  bottom  ;  and  so,  reducing  his  judgment 
into  practice,  timely  withdraws  his  frus- 
taneous  baffled  kindnesses,  and  sees  tho 
folly  of  endeavouring  to  stroke  a  tiger  into 
a  lamb,  or  to  court  an  Ethiopian  out  of  his 
colour. 
Sermons. 


EDWARD    STILLINGFLEET, 
D.D., 

born  1635,  Bishop  of  Worcester,  1689,  died 
1699,  was  the  author  of  many  theological 
treatises  and  sermons,  of  which  the  fullest 
edition  was  published  Lond.,  1710,  6  vols. 
fol.,  and  Miscellaneous  Discourses,  1735,  8vo. 
His  Origines  Britannicse  ;  or,  The  Antiq- 
uities of  the  British  Churches,  appeared 
Lond.,  1685,  fol.,  1837,  8vo,  1840,  8vo,  with 
Lloyd  on  Church  Government,  edited  by  T. 
P.  Pantin,  Oxf.,  1842,  8vo.  Dr.  John  Inett's 
Origines  Anglicanse,  vol.  i.,  Lond.,  1704,  fol., 
vol.  ii.,  Oxf.,  1710,  fol.,  new  edition  by  the 
Rev.  John  Griffiths,  Oxf.,  1855,  3  vols.  8vo, 
was  intended  as  a  continuation  of  the  Ori- 
gines Britannicae.  Stillingueet's  Origines 
Sacrae  ;  or,  A  Rational  Account  of  the  Chris- 
tian Faith,  &c.,  was  published  Lond.,  1662, 
4to,  and  frequently  since;  recently,  Oxf., 
1836  (some  1837),  2  vols.  8vo. 

"  He  [the  student]  will  begin  with  a  defence 
of  Revelation  in  general,  as  it  lies  in  Grotius  de 
Veritate  Christianas  Heligionis,  enlarged  by  Still- 
ingfleet's  Origines  SacrtB,  which  may  be  consid- 
ered a  kind  of  Commentary  on  the  other's  Text. 
The  work  I  mean  is  that  written  by  Mr.  Stilling- 
fleet;  not  that  unfinished  little  work  which  bears 
the  same  title  written  when  he  became  Bishop  of 
Worcester." — BISHOP  WARBUKTO.V  :  Directions  to 
hia  Student. 

"  Justly  esteemed  one  of  the  best  defences  of 
revealed  religion  that  ever  was  extant  in  our  own 
or  any  other  language." — DR.  GOODWIN. 

TRUE  WISDOM. 

That  is  the  truest  wisdom  of  a  man  which 
doth  most  conduce  to  the  happiness  of  life. 
For  wisdom,  as  it  refers  to  action,  lies  in  the 
proposal  of  a  right  end  and  the  choice  of 
the  most  proper  means  to  attain  it :  which 
end  doth  not  refer  to  any  one  part  of  a 
man's  life,  but  to  the  whole  as  taken  to- 
gether. He,  therefore,  only  deserves  tho 
name  of  a  wise  man,  not  that  considers  how 
to  be  rich  and  g;eat  when  he  is  poor  and 
mean,  nor  how  to  be  well  when  he  is  sick, 
nor  how  to  escape  a  present  danger,  nor  how 
to  compass  a  particular  design  ;  but  lie  that 
considers  the  whole  course  of  his  life  to- 
gether, and  what  is  fit  for  him  to  make  the 


ins 


EDWARD  ST1LLINGFLEET. 


end  of  it,  and  by  what  means  he  may  best 
enjoy  the  happiness  of  it. 

I  confess  it  is  one  great  part  of  a  wise 
man  never  to  propose  to  himself  too  much 
happiness  here ;  for  whoever  doth  so  is  sure 
to  find  himself  deceived,  and  consequently 
is  so  much  more  miserable  as  he  fails  in  his 
greatest  expectations.  But  since  God  did 
not  make  men  on  purpose  to  be  miserable, 
since  there  is  a  great  difference  as  to  men's 
conditions,  since  that  difference  depends  very 
much  on  their  own  choice,  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  reason  to  place  true  wisdom  in  the 
choice  of  those  things  which  tend  most  to 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  life. 

That  which  gives  a  man  the  greatest  sat- 
isfaction in  what  he  doth,  and  either  pre- 
vents, or  lessens,  or  makes  him  more  easily 
bear,  the  troubles  of  life,  doth  the  most  con- 
duce to  the  happiness  of  it.  It  was  a  bold  say- 
ingof  Epicurus,  "  That  it  is  in  ore  desirable  to 
be  miserable  by  acting  according  to  reason 
than  to  be  happy  in  going  against  it ;"  and 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  can  well  agree  with  his 
notion  of  felicity ;  but  it  is  a  certain  truth, 
that  in  the  consideration  of  happiness,  the 
satisfaction  of  a  man's  own  mind  weighs 
down  all  the  external  accidents  of  life.  For, 
suppose  a  man  to  have  riches  and  honours 
as  great  as  Ahasuerus  bestowed  on  his  high- 
est favourite,  Hainan,  yet  by  his  sad  in- 
stance we  find  that  a  small  discontent,  when 
the  mind  suffers  it  to  increase  and  to  spread 
its  venom,  doth  so  weaken  the  power  of  rea- 
son, disorder  the  passions,  make  a  man's  life 
so  uneasy  to  him,  as  to  precipitate  him  from 
the  height  of  his  fortune  into  the  depth  of 
ruin,  lint  on  the  other  side,  if  we  suppose 
a  man  to  be  always  pleased  with  his  condi- 
tion, to  enjoy  an  even  and  quiet  mind  in 
every  state,  being  neither  lifted  up  with 
prosperity  nor  cast  down  with  adversity,  he 
is  really  happy  in  comparison  with  the  other. 
It  is  a  mere  speculation  to  discourse  of  any 
complete  happiness  in  this  world  ;  but  that 
which  doth  either  lessen  the  number,  or 
abate  the  weight,  or  take  off  the  malignity 
of  the  troubles  of  life,  doth  contribute  very 
much  to  that  degree  of  happiness  which  may 
be  expected  here. 

The  integrity  and  simplicity  of  a  man's 
mind  doth  all  this.  In  the  first  place  it 
gives  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  a  man's  own 
mind.  For,  although  it  is  impossible  for 
a  man  not  to  be  liable  to  error  and  mistake, 
yet,  if  he  doth  mistake  with  an  innocent 
mind,  he  hath  the  comfort  of  his  innocency 
when  he  thinks  himself  bound  to  correct 
his  error.  But  if  a  man  prevaricates  with 
himself,  and  acts  against  the  sense  of  his 
own  mind,  though  his  conscience  did  not 
judge  aright  at  that  time,  yet  the  goodness 
of  the  bare  act,  with  respect  to  the  rule,  will 


not  prevent  the  sting  that  follows  the  want 
of  inward  integrity  in  doing  it.  "  The  back- 
slider in  heart,"  saith  Solomon,  "shall  be 
filled  with  his  own  ways,  but  a  good  man 
shall  be  satisfied  from  himself."  The  doing 
just  and  worthy  and  generous  things  with- 
out any  sinister  ends  and  designs,  leaves  a 
most  agreeable  pleasure  to  the  mind,  like 
that  of  a  constant  health,  which  is  better 
felt  than  expressed. 
Sermons. 

IMMODERATE  SELF-LOVE. 

There  is  a  love  of  ourselves  which  is 
founded  on  nature  and  reason,  and  is  made 
the  measure  of  our  love  to  our  neighbour  ; 
for  we  are  to  love  our  neighbour  as  our- 
selves ;  and  if  there  were  no  due  love  of 
ourselves,  there  could  be  none  of  our  neigh- 
bour. But  this  love  of  ourselves,  which  is 
so  consistent  with  the  love  of  our  neigh- 
bour, can  be  no  enemy  to  our  peace  :  for 
none  can  live  more  quietly  and  peaceably 
than  those  who  love  their  neighbours  as 
themselves.  But  there  is  a  self-love  which 
the  Scripture  condemns,  because  it  makes 
men  peevish  and  froward,  uneasy  to  them- 
selves and  to  their  neighbours,  filling  them 
with  jealousies  and  suspicions  of  others  with 
respect  to  themselves,  making  them  apt  to 
mistrust  the  intention  and  designs  of  others 
towards  them,  and  so  producing  ill-will  to- 
wards them  ;  and  where  that  hath  once  got 
into  men's  hearts,  there  can  be  no  long  peace 
with  those  they  bear  a  secret  grudge  and 
ill-will  to.  The  bottom  of  all  is,  they  have 
a  wonderful  value  for  themselves  and  those 
opinions,  and  notions,  and  parties,  and  fac- 
tions, they  happen  to  be  engaged  in,  and 
these  they  make  the  measure  of  their  esteem 
and  love  of  others.  As  far  as  they  comply 
and  suit  with  them,  so  far  they  love  them, 
and  no  farther.  If  we  ask,  "  Cannot  good 
men  differ  about  some  things,  and  yet  bo 
good  still?"  "Yes."  "Cannot  such  love 
one  another  notwithstanding  such  differ- 
ence?" "  No  doubt  they  ought."  Whence 
comes  it,  then,  that  a  small  difference  in 
opinion  is  so  apt  to  make  a  breach  in  affec- 
tion ?  In  plain  truth  it  is,  every  one  would 
be  thought  to  be  infallible,  if  for  shame 
they  durst  to  pretend  to  it ;  and  they  have 
so  good  an  opinion  of  themselves  that  they 
cannot  bear  such  as  do  not  submit  to  them. 
From  hence  arise  quarrellings  and  disput- 
ings,  and  ill  language,  not  becoming  men  or 
Christians.  But  all  this  conies  from  their 
setting  up  themselves  and  their  own  notions 
and  practices,  which  they  would  make  n 
rule  to  the  rest  of  the  world ;  and  if  others 
have  the  same  opinions  of  themselves,  it  ia 
impossible  but  there  must  be  everlasting 


LADY  RACHEL  RUSSELL.— SIR    GEORGE  MACKENZIE.    109 


clashing  and  disputing*,  and  from  thence 
falling  into  different  parties  and  factions  ; 
which  can  never  be  prevented  till  they  come 
to  more  reasonable  opinions  of  themselves, 
and  more  kind  and  charitable  towards  others. 
Sermons. 


LADY   RACHEL   RUSSELL, 

the  wife  of  Lord  William  Russell,  who  was 
unjustly  executed  for  alleged  treason,  1683, 
was  born  1636,  and  died  1723. 

As  we  have  remarked  in  another  place, 
"  her  constancy  to  her  husband  in  his  mis- 
fortunes, her  services  in  court  as  his  aman- 
uensis, and  her  efforts  to  save  him  from  the 
fatal  block,  together  with  her  Letters,  first 
published  fifty  years  after  her  death,  have 
embalmed  her  memory  in  the  hearts  of 
thousands." 

Letters  of  Lady  Rachel  Russell,  Lond., 
1773,  4to,  and  later  editions.  Of  modern 
editions,  we  notice,  Lond.,  1821,  2  vols. 
18mo;  1825,  2  vols.  12mo;  with  additional 
Letters,  1853,  2  vols.  p.  8vo.  See  also,  Life 
of  Lady  Russell  and  her  Correspondence 
with  her  Husband,  1672  to  1682,  by  Lord 
John  [now  Earl]  Russell,  Lond.,  1820,  8vo, 
and  The  Married  Life  of  Rachel,  Lady  Rus- 
sell, by  M.  Guizot,  translated  from  the  French 
[by  John  Morton],  Lond.,  1855,  cr.  8vo. 

"  It  is  very  remarkable  how  much  better  women 
write  than  men.  I  have  now  before  me  a  volume 
of  letters  written  by  the  widow  of  the  beheaded 
Lord  Russell,  which  are  full  of  the  most  moving 
and  expressive  eloquence.  I  want  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  to  let  them  be  printed." — Horace  Walpole 
to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  Oct.  14,  1751:  WALPOLE'S 
LETTERS,  ed.  1861,  ii.  371.  See  also  V.  448, n.,  462. 

"  Her  letters  are  written  with  an  elegant  sim- 
plicity, with  truth  and  nature,  which  can  flow 
only  from  the  heart.  The  tenderness  and  con- 
stancy of  her  affection  for  her  murdered  lord  pre- 
sents an  image  to  melt  the  soul." — BISHOP  BURXET. 

FROM  LADY  RUSSELT,  TO  DOCTOR  FITZ- 
WILLIAM. 

SOUTH AMPTO*  HOUSE,  17th  July,  1685. 
Never  shall  I,  good  doctor,  I  hope,  forget 
your  work  (as  I  may  term  it)  of  labour  and 
love :  so  instructive  and  comfortable  do  I 
find  it,  that  at  any  time  when  I  have  read 
any  of  your  papers  I  feel  a  heat  within  me 
to  be  repeating  my  thanks  to  you  anew, 
which  is  all  I  can  do  towards  the  discharge 
of  a  debt  you  have  engaged  me  in  ;  and 
though  nobody  loves  more  than  I  to  stand 
free  from  all  engagements  I  cannot  answer, 
yet  I  do  not  wish  for  it  here,  I  would  have 
it  as  it  is ;  and  although  I  have  the  present 
advantage,  you  will  have  the  future  reward  : 
and  if  I  can  truly  reap  what  I  know  you 
design  me  by  it,  a  religious  and  quiet  sub- 
mission to  all  providences,  I  am  assured  you 


will  esteem  to  have  attained  it  here  in  some 
measure.  Never  could  you  more  seasonably 
have  fed  me  with  such  discourses,  and  left 
me  with  expectations  of  new  repasts,  in  a 
more  seasonable  time  than  these  my  miser- 
able months,  and  in  those  this  very  week  in 
which  I  have  lived  over  again  that  fatal  day 
that  determined  what  fell  out  a  week  after, 
and  that  has  given  me  so  long  and  so  bitter 
a  time  of  sorrow.  But  God  has  a  compass 
in  his  providences  that  is  out  of  our  reach, 
and  as  he  is  all  good  and  wise,  that  consid- 
eration should  in  reason  slacken  the  fierce 
rages  of  grief.  But,  sure,  doctor,  it  is  the 
nature  of  sorrow  to  lay  hold  on  all  things 
which  give  a  new  ferment  to  it:  then  how 
could  I  choose  but  feel  it  in  a  time  of  so  much 
confusion  as  these  last  weeks  have  been, 
closing  so  tragically  as  they  have  done  ;  anil 
sure  never  any  poor  creature,  for  two  whole 
years  together,  has  had  more  awakers  to 
quicken  and  revive  the  anguish  of  its  soul 
than  I  have  had  :  yet  I  hope  I  do  most  truly 
desire  that  nothing  may  be  so  bitter  to  me 
as  to  think  that  I  have  in  the  least  offended 
thee,  0  my  God,  and  that  nothing  may  be 
so  marvellous  in  my  eyes  as  the  exceeding 
love  of  my  Lord  Jesus :  that  heaven  being 
my  aim,  and  the  longi>ig  expectation  of  my 
soul,  I  may  go  through  honour  and  dis- 
honour, good  report  and  bad  report,  pros- 
perity and  adversity,  with  some  evenness  of 
mind. 

The  inspiring  me  with  these  desires  is,  I 
hope,  a  token  of  his  never-failing  love  to- 
wards me,  though  an  unthankful  creature, 
for  all  the  good  things  I  have  enjoyed,  and 
do  still  in  the  lives  of  hopeful  children  by 
so  beloved  a  husband.  God  has  restored  me 
my  little  girl ;  the  surgeon  says  she  will  do 
well.  .  .  .  Sure  nobody  has  enjoyed  more 
pleasure  in  the  conversations  and  tender 
kindnesses  of  a  husband  and  a  sister  than 
myself,  yet  how  apt  am  I  to  be  fretful  that 
I  must  not  still  do  so!  but  I  must  follow 
that  which  seems  to  be  the  will  of  God,  how 
unacceptable  soever  it  may  be  to  me. 

Letters  of  Lady  Rachel  Russell. 


SIR   GEORGE   MACKENZIE, 

born  1636,  died  1691,  was  the  author  of  a 
number  of  legal,  moral,  political,  poetical 
and  other  works,  but  is  best  known  as  an 
essayist :  see  his  Essays  upon  Several  Moral 
Subjects;  To  which  is  Prefixed  an  Account 
of  his  Life  and  Writings,  Lond.,  1713,  8vo. 

"  His  Miscellaneous  Essays,  both  in  prose  and 
verse,  may  now  be  dispensed  with,  or  laid  aside, 
without  difficulty.  They  have  not  vigour  enough 
for  long  life.  But,  if  they  be  considered  as  the 
elegant  amusement  of  a  statesman  and  lawyer, 


110 


THOMAS  SPRAT. 


who  had  little  leisure  for  the  culture  of  letter?, 
they  afford  a  striking  proof  of  the  variety  of  his 
accomplishments  and  the  refinement  of  his  taste. 
In  several  of  his  Moral  Essays  both  the  subject 
and  the  manner  betray  an  imitation  of  Cowley, 
who  was  at  that  moment  beginn  ng  the  reforma- 
tion of  English  style.1' — SIR  JAMKS  MACKINTOSH  : 
Edin.  Rev.,  xxxvi.  5,  and  in  his  Works,  ii.  120. 

"  The  Essays  of  Sir  George  Mackenzie  are  empty 
and  diffuse  :  the  style  is  full  of  pedantic  words  to 
a  degree  of  barbarism ;  and  though  they  were 
chiefly  written  after  the  Revolution,  he  seems  to 
have  wholly  formed  himself  on  the  older  writers, 
such  as  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  or  even  Feltham." — 
11  AI.I.AM  :  Lit.  Hist  of  Europe,  4th  ed.,  Lond.,  1854, 
iii.  559. 

VIRTUE  MORE  PLEASANT  THAN  VICE. 

The  first  objection,  whose  difficulty  de- 
serves an  answer,  is  that  virtue  obliges  us 
to  oppose  pleasures,  and  to  accustom  our- 
selves with  such  rigours,  seriousness,  and 
patience,  as  cannot  but  render  its  practice 
uneasy.  And  if  the  reader's  own  ingenuity 
supply  not  what  may  be  rejoined  to  this,  it 
will  require  a  discourse  that  shall  have  no 
other  design  besides  its  satisfaction.  And 
really  to  show  by  what  means  every  man 
may  make  himself  easily  happy,  and  how  to 
soften  the  appearing  rigours  of  philosophy, 
is  a  design  which,  if  I  thought  it  not  worthy 
of  a  sweeter  pen,  should  be  assisted  by 
mine ;  and  for  whicli  I  have,  in  iny  current 
experience,  gathered  some  loose  reflections 
and  observations,  of  whose  cogency  I  have 
this  assurance,  that  they  have  often  mod- 
erated the  wildest  of  my  own  straying  incli- 
nations, and  so  might  pretend  to  a  more 
prevailing  ascendant  over  such  whose  reason 
and  temperament  make  them  much  more 
reclaimable.  But  at  present  my  answer  is, 
that  philosophy  enjoins  not  the  crossing  of 
our  own  inclinations,  but  in  order  to  their 
accomplishment;  and  it  proposes  pleasure 
as  its  end,  as  well  as  vice,  though,  for  its 
more  fixed  establishment,  it  sometimes  com- 
mands what  seems  rude  to  such  as  are 
strangers  to  its  intentions  in  them.  Thus 
temperance  resolves  to  heighten  the  pleas- 
ures of  enjoyment,  by  defending  us  against 
all  the  assaults  of  excess  and  oppressive 
loathing  ;  and  when  it  lessens  our  pleasures, 
it  intends  not  to  abridge  them,  but  to  make 
them  fit  and  convenient  for  us,  even  as  sol- 
diers, who,  though  they  purpose  not  wounds 
and  starvings,  yet  if  without  these  they  cannot 
reach  those  laurels  to  which  they  climb,  they 
will  not  so  far  disparage  their  own  hopes  as 
to  think  they  should  fix  them  upon  anything 
whose  purchase  deserves  not  the  suffering 
of  these.  Physic  cannot  be  called  a  cruel 
employment,  because  to  preserve  what  is 
sound  it  will  cutoff  what  is  tainted;  and 
these  vicious  persons  whose  laziness  forms 


this  doubt  do  answer  it  when  they  endure 
the  sickness  of  drunkenness,  the  toiling  of 
avarice,  the  attendance  of  rising  vanity,  and 
the  watchings  of  anxiety ;  and  all  this  to 
satisfy  inclinations  whose  shortness  allows 
little  pleasures,  and  whose  prospect  ex- 
cludes all  future  hopes.  Such  as  disquiet 
themselves  by  anxiety  (which  is  a  fre- 
quently repeated  self-murder),  are  more 
tortured  than  they  could  be  by  the  want  of 
what  they  pant  after:  that  longed-for  pos- 
session of  a  neighbour's  estate,  or  of  a  pub- 
lic employment,  makes  deeper  impressions 
of  grief  by  their  absence  than  their  enjoy- 
ment can  repair.  And  a  philosopher  will 
sooner  convince  himself  of  their  not  being 
the  necessary  integrants  of  our  happiness, 
than  the  miser  will,  by  all  his  assiduous- 
ness, gain  them. 


THOMAS   SPRAT, 

born  1636,  Bishop  of  Rochester,  1684,  died 
1713.  was  the  author  of  a  History  of  the 
Royal  Society  of  London  for  the  Improving 
of  Natural  Knowledge,  Lond.,  1667,  etc., 
4to,  and  of  some  other  works,  including 
poems. 

"The  correctest  writer  of  the  age,  and  comes 
nearest  to  the  great  original  of  Greece  and  Home, 
by  a  studious  imitation  of  the  ancients.  .  .  .  Ilia 
sermons  are  truly  fine." — DR.  II.  FELTOH  :  Dintei-t. 
on  Readiiiy  the  Ctaisicn,  1711. 

"  His  language  is  always  beautiful.  .  .  .  All  his 
sermons  deserve  a  reading." — DR.  DODDRJDGE. 

VIEW  OF  THE  DIVINE  GOVERNMENT  AFFORDED 
BY  EXPERIMENTAL  PHILOSOPUT. 

We  are  guilty  of  false  interpretations  of 
providence  and  wonders  when  we  either 
make  those  to  be  miracles  that  are  none,  or 
when  we  put  a  false  sense  upon  those  that 
are  real ;  when  we  make  general  events  to 
have  a  private  aspect,  or  particular  accidents 
to  have  some  universal  signification.  Though 
both  these  may  seem  at  first  to  have  the 
strictest  appearance  of  religion,  yet  they  are 
the  greatest  usurpations  on  the  secrets  of 
the  Almighty,  and  unpardonable  presump- 
tions on  his  high  prerogatives  of  punish- 
ment and  reward. 

And  now,  if  a  moderating  of  these  ex- 
travagances must  be  esteemed  profaneness, 
I  confess  I  cannot  absolve  the  experimental 
philosopher.  It  must  be  granted  that  he 
will  be  very  scrupulous  in  believing  all 
manner  of  commentaries  on  prophetical  vis- 
ions, in  giving  liberty  to  new  predictions, 
and  in  assigning  the  causes  and  marking 
out  the  paths  of  God's  judgments  amongst 
his  creatures. 

He  cannot  suddenly  conclude  all  extraor- 


THOMAS  SPRAT. 


Ill 


dinary  events  to  be  the  immediate  finger  of 
God ;  because  he  familiarly  beholds  the  in- 
ward workings  of  things,  and  thence  per- 
ceives that  many  effects  which  used  to  af- 
fright the  ignorant  are  brought  forth  by  the 
common  instruments  of  nature.  He  cannot 
be  suddenly  inclined  to  pass  censure  on 
men's  eternal  condition  from  any  temporal 
judgments  that  may  befall  them;  because 
his  long  converse  with  all  matters,  times  and 
places  has  taught  him  the  truth  of  what  the 
Scripture  says,  that  "all  things  happen  alike 
to  all."  He  cannot  blindly  consent  to  all 
imaginations  of  devout  men  about  future 
contingencies,  seeing  he  is  so  rigid  in  exam- 
ining all  particular  matters  of  fact.  He 
cannot  be  forward  to  assent  to  spiritual 
raptures  and  revelations  ;  because  he  is  truly 
acquainted  with  the  tempers  of  men's  bodies, 
the  composition  of  their  blood,  and  the  power 
of  fancy,  and  so  better  understands  the  dif- 
ference between  diseases  and  inspirations. 

But  in  all  this  he  commits  nothing  that  is 
irreligious.  'Tis  true,  to  deny  that  God  has 
heretofore  warned  the  world  of  what  was  to 
come,  is  to  contradict  the  very  Godhead 
itself;  but  to  reject  the  sense  which  any 
private  man  shall  fasten  to  it,  is  not  to  dis- 
dain the  Word  of  God,  but  the  opinions  of 
men  like  ourselves.  To  declare  against  the 
possibility  that  new  prophets  may  be  sent 
from  heaven,  is  to  insinuate  that  the  same 
infinite  Wisdom  which  once  showed  itself 
that  way  is  now  at  an  end.  But  to  slight 
all  pretenders  that  come  without  the  help 
of  miracles  is  not  a  contempt  of  the  Spirit, 
but  a  just  circumspection  that  the  reason 
of  men  be  not  over-reached.  To  deny  that 
God  directs  the  course  of  human  things,  is 
stupidity;  but  to  hearken  to  every  prodigy 
that  men  frame  against  their  enemies,  or  for 
themselves,  is  not  to  reverence  the  power  of 
God,  but  to  make  that  serve  the  passions, 
the  interests,  and  revenges  of  men. 

It  is  a  dangerous  mistake,  into  which 
many  good  men  fall,  that  we  neglect  the 
dominion  of  God  over  the  world,  if  we  do 
not  discover  in  every  turn  of  human  actions 
many  supernatural  providences  and  miracu- 
lous events.  Whereas  it  is  enough  for  the 
honour  of  his  government,  that  he  guides 
the  whole  creation  in  its  wonted  course  of 
causes  and  effects :  as  it  makes  as  much  for 
the  reputation  of  a  prince's  wisdom,  that  he 
can  rule  his  subjects  peaceably  by  his  known 
and  standing  laws,  as  that  he  is  often  forced 
to  make  use  of  extraordinary  justice  to 
punish  or  rewai'd. 

Let  us.  then,  imagine  our  philosopher  to 
have  all  slowness  of  belief,  and  rigour  of 
trial,  which  by  some  is  miscalled  a  blind- 
ness of  mind  and  hardness  of  heart.  Let 
us  suppose  that  he  is  most  unwilling  to 


grant  that  anything  exceeds  the  force  of 
nature,  but  where  a  full  evidence  convinces 
him.  Let  it  be  allowed  that  he  is  always 
alarmed,  and  ready  on  his  guard,  at  the 
noise  of  any  miraculous  event,  lest  his 
judgment  should  be  surprised  by  the  dis- 
guises of  faith.  But  does  he  by  this  dimin- 
ish the  authority  of  ancient  miracles?  or 
does  he  not  rather  confirm  them  the  more, 
by  confining  their  number,  and  taking  care 
that  every  falsehood  should  not  mingle  with 
them?  Can  he  by  this  undermine  Chris- 
tianity, which  does  not  now  stand  in  need  of 
such  extraordinary  testimonies  from  heaven  ? 
or  do  not  they  rather  endanger  it  who 
still  venture  its  truths  on  so  hazardous  a 
chance,  who  require  a  continuance  of  signs 
and  wonders,  as  if  the  works  of  our  Saviour 
and  his  apostles  had  not  been  sufficient? 
Who  ought  to  be  esteemed  the  most  carnally- 
minded — the  enthusiast  that  pollutes  reli- 
gion with  his  own  passions,  or  the  experi- 
menter that  will  not  use  it  to  flatter  and 
obey  his  own  desires,  but  to  subdue  them  ? 
Who  is  to  be  thought  the  greatest  enemy  of 
the  Gospel — he  that  loads  men's  faith  by  so 
many  improbable  things  as  will  go  near  to 
make  the  reality  itself  suspected,  or  he  that 
only  admits  a  few  arguments  to  confirm  the 
evangelical  doctrines,  but  then  chooses  those 
that  are  unquestionable  ?  It  cannot  be  an 
ungodly  purpose  to  strive  to  abolish  all  holy 
cheats,  which  are  of  fatal  consequence  both 
to  the  deceivers  and  those  that  are  deceived : — • 
to  the  deceivers,  because  they  must  needs  be 
hypocrites,  having  the  argument  in  their 
keeping ;  to  the  deceive:!,  because  if  their 
eyes  shall  ever  bo  opened,  and  they  chance 
to  find  that  they  have  been  deluded  in  any 
one  thing,  they  will  be  apt  not  only  to  re- 
ject that,  but  even  to  despise  the  very  truths 
themselves  which  they  had  before  been 
taught  by  those  deluders. 

It  were,  indeed,  to  be  confessed  that  this 
severity  of  censure  on  religious  things  were 
to  be  condemned  in  experimenters,  if,  while 
they  deny  any  wonders  that  are  falsely  at- 
tributed to  the  true  God,  they  should  ap- 
prove those  of  idols  or  false  deities.  But 
that  is  not  objected  against  them.  They 
make  no  comparison  between  his  power  and 
the  works  of  any  others,  but  only  between 
the  several  ways  of  his  own  manifesting 
himself.  Thus,  if  they  lessen  one  heap, 
yet  they  still  increase  the  other;  in  the 
main,  they  diminish  nothing  of  his  right. 
If  they  take  from  the  prodigies,  they  add  to 
the  ordinary  works  of  the  same  Author. 
And  those  ordinary  works  themselves  they 
do  almost  raise  to  the  height  of  wonders,  by 
the  exact  discovery  which  they  make  of 
their  excellencies;  while  the  enthusiast  goes 
near  to  bring  down  the  price  of  the  true  and 


112 


WILLIAM  BEVERIDGE. 


primitive  miracles,  by  such  n  vast  and  such 
a  negligent  augmenting  of  their  number. 

By  this,  I  hope,  it  appears  that  this  in- 
quiring, this  scrupulous,  this  incredulous 
temper,  is  not  the  disgrace,  but  the  honour, 
of  experiments.  And,  therefore,  I  will  de- 
clare them  to  be  the  most  seasonable  study 
for  the  present  temper  of  our  nation.  This 
wild  amusing  men's  minds  with  prodigies 
and  conceits  of  providence,  has  been  one  of 
the  most  considerable  causes  of  those  spir- 
itual distractions  of  which  our  country  has 
long  been  the  theatre.  This  is  a  vanity  to 
which  the  English  seem  to  have  been  always 
subject  above  others.  There  is  scarce  any 
modern  historian  that  relates  our  foreign 
wars  but  he  has  this  objection  against  the 
disposition  of  our  countrymen,  that  they 
used  to  order  their  affairs  of  the  greatest 
importance  according  to  some  obscure  omens 
or  predictions  that  passed  amongst  them  on 
little  or  no  foundations.  And  at  this  time, 
especially  this  last  year  [1066],  this  gloomy 
and  ill-boding  humour  has  prevailed.  So 
that  it  is  now  the  fittest  season  for  experi- 
ments to  arise,  to  teach  us  a  wisdom  which 
springs  from  the  depths  of  knowledge,  to 
shake  off  the  shadows,  and  to  scatter  the 
mists,  which  fill  the  minds  of  men  with  a 
vain  consternation.  This  is  a  work  well 
becoming  the  most  Christian  profession. 
For  the  most  apparent  effect  which  attended 
the  passion  of  Christ  was  the  putting  of  an 
eternal  silence  on  all  the  false  oracles  and 
dissembled  inspirations  of  ancient  times. 

History  of  the  Royal  Society. 


WILLIAM  BEVERIDGE,  D.D., 

born  1^38,  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  famous  for 
his  learning,  piety,  and  good  works,  was  the 
author  of  many  theological  works,  of  which 
a  collective  edition  of  those  in  English  was 
first  published,  with  a  Memoir  of  the  Au- 
thor, and  a  Critical  Examination  of  his 
Writings,  by  Thomas  Hartwell  Home.  M.A., 
Lond.,  1X24,  9  vols.  8vo.  New  edition  of 
Bishop  Beveridge's  Works,  in  Library  of 
Anglo-Catholic  Theology,  1848,  10  vols. 
8vo. 

"Our  learned  and  venerable  bishop  delivered 
himself  with  those  ornaments  alone  which  his  sub- 
ject suggested  to  him,  and  wrote  in  that  plainness 
and  solemnity  of  style,  that  gravity  and  simplicity, 
which  gave  authority  to  the  sacred  truths  he 
taught,  and  unanswerable  evidence  to  the  doctrines 
he  defended.  There  is  something  so  great,  primi- 
tive, and  apostolical  in  his  writings,  that  it  creates 
an  awe  and  veneration  in  our  mind :  the  impor- 
tance of  his  subjects  is  above  the  decoration  of 
words  j  and  what  is  great  and  majestic  in  itself 


looketh  most  like  itself  the  less  it  is  adorned."— • 
DR.  HENRY  FELTOX. 

"  Beveridge's  Practical  Works  are  much  like 
Henry's,  but  not  equal  to  his." — DR.  DODDUIUGK. 

SELF-DENIAL. 

Christ  hath  said  in  plain  terms,  "  If  any 
man  will  come  after  me,  let  him  deny  him- 
self;" implying  that  he  that  doth  not  deny 
himself  cannot  go  after  him. 

But  besides  that,  there  is  an  impossibility 
in  the  thing  itself,  that  any  one  should  be  a 
true  Christian  or  go  after  Christ,  and  not 
deny  himself,  as  may  be  easily  perceived  if 
we  will  but  consider  what  true  Christianity 
requires  of  us,  and  what  it  is  to  be  a  real 
Christian.  A  true  Christian,  we  know,  is 
one  that  lives  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight; 
that  "  looks  not  at  the  things  which  are 
seen,  but  at  those  things  which  are  not 
seen;"  that  believes  whatsoever  Christ  hath 
said,  trusteth  on  whatsoever  he  hath  prom- 
ised, and  obeyeth  whatsoever  he  hath  com- 
manded ;  that  receiveth  Christ  as  his  only 
Priest  to  make  atonement  for  him.  as  his 
only  Prophet  to  instruct,  and  as  his  only 
Lord  and  Master  to  rule  and  govern  him. 
In  a  word,  a  Christian  is  one  that  gives  up 
himself  and  all  he  hath  to  Christ,  who  gave 
himself  and  all  he  hath  to  him  ;  and  there- 
fore the  very  notion  of  true  Christianity  im- 
plies and  supposes  the  denial  of  ourselves, 
without  which  it  is  as  impossible  for  a  man 
to  be  a  Christian  as  it  is  for  a  subject  to  be 
rebellious  and  loyal  to  his  prince  at  the  same 
time;  and  therefore  it  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  we  go  out  of  ourselves  before  we 
can  go  to  him.  We  must  strip  ourselves  of 
our  very  selves  before  we  can  put  on  Christ ; 
for  Christ  himself  hath  told  us  that  "no 
man  can  serve  two  masters;  for  either  he 
will  hate  the  one  and  love  the  other,  or  else 
he  will  hold  to  the  one  and  despise  the 
other."  We  cannot  serve  both  "God  and 
Mammon,"  Christ  and  ourselves  too :  so  that 
we  must  either  deny  ourselves  to  go  after 
Christ,  or  else  deny  Christ  to  go  after  our- 
selves, so  as  to  mind  our  own  selfish  ends  and 
designs  in  the  world. 

And  verily  it  is  a  hard  case  if  we  cannot 
deny  ourselves  for  him,  who  so  far  denied 
himself  for  us  as  to  lay  down  his  life  to  re- 
deem ours.  He  who  was  equal  to  God  him- 
self, yea,  who  himself  was  the  true  God,  so 
far  denied  himself  as  to  become  man.  yea, 
"  a  man  of  sorrows  and  acquainted  with 
griefs,"  for  us;  and  cannot  we  deny  our- 
selves so  much  as  a  fancy,  a  conceit,  a  sin, 
or  lust,  for  him  ?  How,  then,  can  we  expect 
that  he  should  own  us  for  his  friends,  hia 
servants,  or  his  disciples?  No,  he  will 
never  do  it.  Neither  can  we  in  reason  ex- 
pect that  he  should  give  himself  and  all  the 


THOMAS  DECKER. 


113 


merits  of  his  death  and  passion  unto  us,  so 
long  as  we  think  much  to  give  ourselves  to 
him,  or  to  deny  ourselves  for  him.  And 
therefore  if  we  desire  to  be  made  partakers 
of  all  those  glorious  things  that  he  hath 
purchased  with  his  own  most  precious  blood 
for  the  sons  of  men,  let  us  beiiin  here, — in- 
dulge our  flesh  no  longer,  but  deny  ourselves 
whatsoever  God  hath  been  pleased  to  forbid. 
Arid  for  this  end,  let  us  endeavour  each  day 
more  and  more  to  live  above  ourselves,  above 
the  temper  of  our  bodies,  and  above  the  al- 
lurements of  the  world:  live  as  those  who 
believe  and  profess  that  they  are  none  of 
their  own,  but  Christ's, — his  by  creation  :  it 
was  he  that  made  us, — his  by  preservation: 
it  is  he  that  maintains  us, — and  his  by  re- 
demption :  it  is  he  that  hath  purchased  and 
redeemed  us  with  his  own  blood.  And 
therefore  let  us  deny  ourselves  for  the  future 
to  our  very  selves,  whose  we  are  not,  and 
devote  ourselves  to  him,  Avhose  alone  we  are. 
By  this  we  shall  manifest  ourselves  to  be 
Christ's  disciples  indeed,  especially  if  we  do 
not  only  deny  ourselves,  but  also  take  up 
our  cross  and  follow  him. 

Private    Thoughts  on  a   Christian   Life, 
Part  II 


THOMAS    DECKER,    OR   DEK- 
KER, 

was  well  known  in  the  reign  of  James  I.  as 
a  writer  of  plays  and  tracts  (more  than  fifty 
in  number)  and  as  a  co-author  with  Web- 
ster, Rowley,  Ford,  and  Johnson  of  various 
dramas.  The  best  known  of  his  productions 
is  entitled  The  Gvll's  Ilorne-booke,  Lond., 
1609,  4to ;  new  ed.,  by  Dr.  Nott,  Bristol, 
1812,  4to. 

'•'  His  '  Gul's  Horne-Booke,  or  fashions  to  please 
all  sorts  of  Guls,'  first  printed  in  1609,  exhibits  a 
very  curious,  minute,  and  interesting  picture  of 
the  manners  and  habits  of  the  middle  class  of  so- 
ciety, and  on  this  account  will  be  hereafter  fre- 
quently referred  lo  in  these  pages." — Di-nke't  Shak- 
speare  and  His  Times. 

"The  pamphlets  and  plays  of  Decker  alone 
would  furnish  a  more  complete  view  of  the  habits 
and  customs  of  his  contemporaries  in  vulgar  and 
middle  life  than  could  easily  be  collected  from  all 
the  grave  annals  of  the  times." — (Lond.)  Qiinr.  Rev. 

In  his  description  of  London  life,  in  The 
Fortunes  of  Nigel,  Sir  Walter  Scott  draws 
largely  from  The  Gull's  IIorne-Booke,  of 
which  we  give  some  specimens. 

How  A  GALLAXT  SHOULD  BEHAVE  HIMSELF 
IN  PAUL'S  WALKS. 

lie  that  would  strive  to  fashion  his  legs 
to  his  silk  stockings,  and  his  proud  gait  to 
his  broad  garters,  let  him  whiff  down  these 
8 


observations :  for  if  he  once  get  to  walk  by 
the  book,  and  I  see  no  reason  but  he  may, 
as  well  as  fight  by  the  book,  Paul's  may  be 
proud  of  him:  Will  Clarke  shall  ring  forth 
encomiums  in  his  honour;  John,  in  Paul's 
churchyard,  shall  fit  his  head  for  an  excel- 
lent block;  whilst  all  the  inns  of  court  re- 
joice to  behold  his  most  handsome  calf. 

Your  Mediterranean  isle  is  then  the  only 
gallery  wherein  the  pictures  of  all  your 
true  fashionate  and  complimental  gulls  are, 
and  ought  to  be,  hung  up.  Into  that  gal- 
lery carry  your  neat  body ;  but  take  heed 
you  pick  out  such  an  hour  Avhen  the  main 
shoal  of  islanders  are  swimming  up  and 
down.  And  first  observe  your  doors  of  en- 
trance, and  your  exit ;  not  much  unlike  the 
players  at  the  theatres  ;  keeping  your  de- 
corums even  in  fantasticality.  As,  for  ex- 
ample, if  you  prove  to  be  a  northern  gentle- 
man, I  would  wish  you  to  pass  through  the 
north  door,  more  often  especially  than  any 
of  the  other ;  and  so,  according  to  your 
countries,  take  note  of  your  entrances. 

Now  for  your  venturing  into  the  walk. 
Be  circumspect,  and  wnry  what  pillar  you 
come  in  at ;  and  take  heed  in  any  case,  as 
you  love  the  reputation  of  your  honour, 
that  you  avoid  the  serving  man's  leg,  and 
approach  not  within  five  fathom  of  that 
pillar  ;  but  bend  your  course  directly  in 
the  middle  line,  that  the  whole  body  of  the 
church  may  appear  to  be  yours  ;  where,  in 
view  of  all,  you  may  publish  your  suit  in 
what  manner  you  affect  most,  either  with  the 
slide  of  your  cloak  from  the  one  shoulder ; 
and  then  you  must,  as  'twere  in  angor, 
suddenly  snatch  at  the  middle  of  the  inside, 
if  it  be  taffeta  at  the  least ;  and  so  by  that 
means  your  costly  lining  is  betrayed,  or  else 
by  the  pretty  language  of  compliment.  But 
one  note  by  the  way  do  I  especially  woo  you 
to,  the  neglect  of  which  makes  many  of  our 
gallants  cheap  and  ordinary,  that  by  no 
means  you  be  seen  above  four  turns  ;  but  in 
the  fifth  make  yourself  away,  either  in  some 
of  the  sernsters'  shops,  the  new  tobacco  office, 
or  amongst  the  booksellers,  where,  if  you 
cannot  read,  exercise  your  smoke,  and  in- 
quire who  has  writ  against  this  divine  weed. 
&c.  For  this  withdrawing  yourself  a  little 
will  much  benefit  your  suit,  which  else,  by 
too  long  walking,  would  be  stale  to  the 
whole  spectators:  hut  howsoever,  if  Paul's 
jacks  l>e  once  up  with  their  elbows,  and 
quarrelling  to  strike  eleven  ;  as  soon  as  ever 
the  clock  has  parted  them,  and  ended  the 
fray  with  his  hammer,  let  not  the  duke's 
gallery  contain  you  any  longer,  but  pass 
away  apace  in  open  view  ;  in  which  depart- 
ure, if  by  chance  you  either  encounter,  or 
aloof  off  throw  your  inquisitive  eye  upon 
any  knight  or  squire,  being  your  familiar, 


114 


THOMAS  ELL  WOOD. 


salute  him  not  by  his  name  of  Sir  such-a- 
one,  or  so  ;  but  call  him  Ned  or  Jack,  &c. 
This  will  set  off  your  estimation  with  great 
men  ;  and  if,  though  there  be  a  dozen  com- 
panies between  you,  'tis  the  better  he  call 
aloud  to  you,  for  that  is  most  genteel,  to 
know  where  he  shall  find  you  at  two  o'clock ; 
tell  him  at  such  an  ordinary,  or  such  ;  and 
be  sure  to  name  those  that  are  dearest,  and 
whither  none  but  your  gallants  resort.  After 
dinner  you  may  appear  again,  having  trans- 
lated yourself  out  of  your  English  cloth 
cloak  into  a  slight  Turkey  grogram,  if  you 
have  that  happiness  of  shifting;  and  then 
be  seen,  for  a  turn  or  two,  to  correct  your 
teeth  with  some  quill  or  silver  instrument, 
and  to  cleanse  your  gums  with  a  wrought 
handkerchief;  it  skills  not  whether  you 
dined  or  no ;  that  is  best  known  to  your 
stomach,  or  in  what  place  you  dined  ;  though 
it  were  with  cheese,  of  your  own  mother's 
making,  in  your  chamber,  or  study. 
The  GuWs  Horne-Booke. 


THOMAS  ELLWOOD, 

born  1639,  died  1713,  was  the  author  of 
Sacred  History,  or  The  Historical  Part  of 
the  Holy  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments,  Digested  into  due  Method,  with 
Observations,  1705-9,  Lond.,  1794,  2  vols. 
8vo.  and  other  works,  of  which  a  History 
of  His  Life,  1714,  8vo,  is  especially  valuable 
on  account  of  its  description  of  Milton,  to 
whom  Ellwood  was  reader. 

ELLWOOD'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  MILTON. 

He  received  me  courteously,  as  well  for 
the  sake  of  Dr.  Paget,  who  introduced  me, 
jis  of  Isaac  Penington,  who  recommended 
me.  to  both  of  whom  he  bore  a  good  respect; 
.and  having  inquired  divers  things  of  me, 
with  respect  to  my  former  progressions  in 
learning,  he  dismissed  me,  to  provide  my- 
self of  such  accommodations  as  might  be 
most  suitable  to  my  future  studies. 

I  went,  therefore,  and  took  myself  a  lodg- 
ing as  near  to  his  house  (which  was  then  in 
Jewin-Street)  as  conveniently  I  could;  and, 
from  thenceforward,  went  every  day,  in  the 
afternoon  (except  on  the  first  days  of  the 
week),  and  sitting  by  him  in  his  dining- 
room,  read  to  him  such  books  in  the  Latin 
tongue  as  he  pleased  to  hear  me  read. 

At  my  first  sitting  to  read  to  him,  observ- 
ing that  I  used  the  English  pronunciation, 
lie  told  me  if  I  would  have  the  benefit  of  the 
Latin  tongue  (not  only  to  read  and  under- 
stand Latin  authors,  but  to  converse  with 
foreigners,  either  abroad  or  at  home),  I 
must  learn  the  foreign  pronunciation.  To 


this  I  consenting,  he  instructed  me  how  to 
sound  the  vowels,  so  different  from  the 
common  pronunciation  used  by  the  English 
(who  speak  Anglice  their  Latin),  that  (with 
some  few  other  variations  in  sounding  some 
consonants,  in  particular  cases,  as  C,  before 
E  or  I,  like  Ch ;  Sc,  before  I,  like  Sh,  &c.) 
the  Latin  thus  spoken  seemed  as  different 
from  that  which  was  delivered  as  the  Eng- 
lish generally  speak  it,  as  if  it  was  another 
language. 

I  had,  before,  during  my  retired  life  at 
my  father's,  by  unwearied  diligence  and 
industry,  so  far  recovered  the  rules  of  gram- 
mar (in  which  I  had  once  been  very  ready), 
that  I  could  both  read  a  Latin  author  and, 
after  a  sort,  hammer  out  his  meaning.  But 
this  change  of  pronunciation  proved  a  new 
difficulty  to  me.  It  was  now  harder  to  me 
to  read  than  it  was  before  to  understand 
when  read.  But 

Labor  omnia  vincit 
Iinprobus. 

Incessant  pains 
The  end  obtains. 

And  so  did  I,  which  made  my  reading  the 
more  acceptable  to  my  master.  He,  on  the 
other  hand,  perceiving  with  what  earnest 
desire  I  pursued  learning,  gave  me  not  only 
all  the  encouragement,  but  all  the  help,  he 
could;  for,  having  a  curious  ear,  he  under- 
stood, by  rny  tone,  when  I  understood  what 
I  read,  and  when  I  did  not ;  and  accordingly 
would  stop  me,  examine  me,  and  open  the 
most  difficult  passages  to  me. 

Thus  I  went  on  for  about  six  weeks'  time, 
reading  to  him  in  the  afternoons,  and  exer- 
cising myself,  with  my  own  books,  in  my 
chamber,  in  the  forenoon.  I  was  sensible  of 
an  improvement. 

But,  alas  1  I  had  fixed  my  studies  in  a 
wrong  place.  London  and  I  could  never 
agree  for  health.  My  lungs  (as  I  suppose) 
were  too  tender  to  bear  the  sulphureous  air 
of  that  city  ;  so  that  I  soon  began  to  droop, 
and  in  less  than  two  months'  time  I  was 
fain  to  leave  both  my  studies  and  the  city, 
and  return  into  the  country  to  preserve  life  ; 
and  much  ado  I  had  to  get  thither.  .  .  . 
[Having  recovered,  and  gone  back  to  Lon- 
don,] I  was  very  kindly  received  by  iny 
master,  who  had  conceived  so  good  an  opin- 
ion of  me  that  my  conversation  (I  found) 
was  acceptable  to  him  ;  and  he  seemed  heart- 
ilv  glad  of  my  recovery  and  return  ;  and  into 
our  old  method  of  study  we  fell  again,  I  read- 
ing to  him,  and  he  explaining  to  me  as  occa- 
sion required.  .  .  . 

Some  little  time  before  I  went  to  Aylos- 
bury  prison  I  was  required  by  my  quondam 
master,  Milton,  to  take  a  house  for  him  in 
the  neighbourhood  where  I  dwelt,  that  he 


WILLIA  M  SIIERL  0  CK. 


115 


might  get  out  of  the  city,  for  the  safety  of 
himself  and  his  family,  the  pestilence  then 
growing  hot  in  London.  I  took  a  pretty  box 
for  him  in  Giles  Chalfont,  a  mile  from  me, 
of  which  I  gave  him  notice,  and  intended  to 
have  waited  on  him,  and  see  him  well  settled 
in  it,  but  was  prevented  by  that  imprison- 
ment. 

But  now,  being  released,  and  returned 
home,  I  soon  made  a  visit  to  him,  to  wel- 
come him  into  the  country. 

After  some  common  discourse  had  passed 
between  us,  he  called  for  a  manuscript  of 
his,  which,  being  brought,  he  delivered  to 
me,  bidding  me  to  take  it  home  with  me, 
and  read  it  at  my  leisure,  and,  when  I  had 
so  done,  return  it  to  him  with  my  judgment 
thereupon. 

When  I  came  home,  and  had  set  myself  to 
read  it,  I  found  it  was  that  excellent  poem 
which  he  entitled  "  Paradise  Lost."  After 
I  had,  with  the  utmost  attention,  read  it 
through,  I  made  him  another  visit,  and 
returned  him  his  book,  with  due  acknowl- 
edgment for  the  favour  he  had  done  me  in 
communicating  it  to  me.  He  asked  me  how 
I  liked  it,  and  what  I  thought  of  it,  which 
I  modestly  but  freely  told  him  ;  and  after 
some  further  discourse  about  it,  I  pleasantly 
said  to  him,  "Thou  hast  said  much  here  of 
Paradise  Lost;  but  what  hast  thou  to  say  of 
Paradise  Found?"  He  made  me  no  answer, 
but  sat  some  time  in  a  muse;  then  br:>ke 
off  that  discourse,  and  fell  upon  another 
subject. 

After  the  sickness  was  over,  and  the  city 
•well  cleansed,  and  become  safely  habitable 
again,  he  returned  thither;  and  when,  after- 
wards, I  went  to  wait  on  him  there  (which 
I  seldom  failed  of  doing,  whenever  my  occa- 
sions drew  me  to  London),  he  showed  me  his 
second  poem,  called  "  Paradise  Regained," 
and.  in  a  pleasant  tone,  said  to  me,  "This  is 
owing  to  you,  for  you  put  it  into  my  head  at 
Chalfont:  which  before  I  had  not  thought  of." 

Eilwoo/.Vs  History  of  his  Life. 


WILLIAM   SHERLOCK,  D.D., 

born  1641,  Prebendary  of  St.  Paul's,  1681, 
Master  of  the  Temple,  1684,  Dean  of  St. 
Paul's,  1691,  died  1707,  was  the  author 
of  more  than  sixty  publications,  chiefly 
books  and  pamphlets  against  Romanism, 
theological  and  political  tracts,  and  single 
sermons.  We  notice :  Discourse  concern- 
ing the  Knowledge  of  Jesus  Christ  and  our 
Union  with  Him,  Lond.,  1674,  8vo ;  The 
Case  of  Resistance  to  the  Supreme  Powers, 
1684,  8vo ;  Practical  Discourses  concerning 
Death,  Lond.,  1689,  8vo,  19th  edit.,  1723, 
8vo ;  A  Vindication  of  the  Doctrine  of  the 


Trinity,  and  of  the  Incarnation  of  the  Son 
of  God,  Lond.,  1690,  1691,  1694,  4to;  Prac- 
tical Discourse  concerning  a  Future  Judg- 
ment, Lond.,  1692,  8vo,  5th  edit.,  1699,  8vo, 
etc.;  Scripture  Proofs  of  our  Saviour's  Di- 
vinity, 1706,  8vo.  A  collection  of  his  Ser- 
mons edited  by  Mr.  White  was  published 
1700,  8vo,  3d  edit,  1719,  8vo,  vol.  ii.,  1719, 
8vo,  new  edit,  of  both  vols.,  1755,  2  vols. 
8vo. 

"He  was  a  clear,  a  polite,  and  a  strong  writer, 
.  .  .  but  he  was  apt  to  assume  too  much  to  him- 
self, and  to  treat  his  adversaries  with  contempt: 
this  created  him  many  enemies,  and  made  him 
pass  for  an  insolent,  haughty  man." — BISHOP  BUH- 
NET:  Own  Time*,  edit.  1833,  iv.  388. 

"  On  moral  subjects  his  arguments  are  generally 
strong,  exceeding  proper  for  conviction.  He  is 
plain  and  manly,  great  and  animated.  His  repre- 
sentations are  exceeding  awful  ;  therefore  his 
'Death'  and  'Judgment'  are  his  best  books.  His 
book  on  '  Providence'  is  by  many  thought  to  be 
the  best  on  that  subject." — DR.  DODDRIDGE. 

LIFE  NOT  TOO  SHORT. 

Such  a  long  life  [as  that  of  the  antedilu- 
vians] is  not  reconcilable  with  the  present 
state  of  the  world.  What  the  state  of  the 
world  was  before  the  flood,  in  what  manner 
they  lived,  and  how  thev  employed  their 
time,  we  cannot  tell,  for  Moses  has  given  no 
account  of  it;  but  taking  the  world  as  it  is, 
and  as  we  find  it,  I  dare  undertake  to  con- 
vince those  men  who  are  most  apt  to  com- 
plain of  the  shortness  of  life,  that  it  would 
not  be  for  the  general  happiness  of  mankind 
to  have  it  much  longer:  for,  1st,  The  world 
is  at  present  very  unequally  divided  ;  some 
have  a  large  share  and  portion  of  it,  others 
have  nothing  but  what  they  can  earn  by 
very  hard  labour,  or  extort  from  other  men's 
charity  by  their  restless  importunities,  or 
gain  by  more  ungodly  arts.  Now,  though 
the  rich  and  prosperous,  who  have  the  world 
at  command,  and  live  in  ease  and  pleasure, 
would  be  very  well  contented  to  spend  some 
hundred  years  in  this  world,  yet  I  should 
think  fifty  or  threescore  years  abundantly 
enough  for  slaves  and  beggars ;  enough  to 
spend  in  hunger  and  want,  in  a  jail  and  a 
prison.  And  those  who  are  so  foolish  as  not 
to  think  this  ''nough,  owe  a  great  deal  to  the 
wisdom  and  goodness  of  God  that  he  does. 
So  that  the  greatest  part  of  mankind  have 
great  reason  to  be  contented  with  the  short- 
ness of  life,  because  they  have  no  temptation 
to  wish  it  longer. 

2dly,  The  present  state  of  this  world  re- 
quires a  more  quick  succession.  The  world 
is  pretty  well  peopled,  and  is  divided  amongst 
its  present  inhabitants;  and  but  very  few, 
in  comparison,  as  I  observed  before,  have 
any  considerable  share  in  the  division.  Now, 
let  us  but  suppose  that  all  our  ancestors,  who 


116 


WILLIAM  SHERLOCK. 


lived  an  hundred  or  two  hundred  years  ago, 
were  alive  still,  and  possessed  their  old  es- 
tates and  honours,  what  had  become  of  this 
present  generation  of  men,  who  have  now 
taken  their  places,  and  make  as  great  a  show 
and  hustle  in  the  world  as  they  did?  And 
if  you  look  back  three,  or  four,  or  five  hun- 
dred years,  the  case  is  still  so  much  the 
worse ;  the  world  would  be  over-peopled ; 
and  where  there  is  one  miserable  man  now, 
there  must  have  been  five  hundred;  or  the 
world  must  have  been  common,  and  all  men 
reduced  to  the  same  level ;  which,  I  believe, 
the  rich  and  happy  people,  who  are  so  fond 
of  long  life,  would  not  like  very  well.  This 
would  utterly  undo  our  young  prodigal  heirs, 
were  their  hopes  of  succession  three  or  four 
hundred  years  off,  who,  as  short  as  life  is 
now,  think  their  fathers  make  very  little 
haste  to  their  graves.  This  would  spoil 
their  trade  of  spending  their  estates  before 
they  have  them,  and  make  them  live  a  dull 
sober  life,  whether  they  would  or  no  ;  and 
such  a  life,  I  know,  they  don't  think  worth 
having.  And  therefore,  I  hope  at  least  they 
Avill  not  make  the  shortness  of  their  fathers' 
lives  an  argument  against  providence  ;  and 
yet  such  kind  of  sparks  as  these  are  com- 
monly the  wits  that  set  up  for  atheism,  and, 
when  it  is  put  into  their  heads,  quarrel  with 
everything  which  they  fondly  conceive  will 
weaken  the  belief  of  a  God  and  a  providence, 
and,  among  other  things,  with  the  shortness 
of  life  :  which  they  have  little  reason  to  do, 
when  they  so  often  outlive  their  estates. 

3dly,  The  world  is  very  bad  as  it  is;  so 
bad,  that  good  men  scarce  know  how  to 
spend  fifty  or  threescore  years  in  it;  but 
consider  how  bad  it  would  probably  be  were 
the  life  of  men  extended  to  six,  seven,  or 
eight  hundred  years.  If  so  near  a  prospect 
of  the  other  world  as  forty  or  fifty  years 
cannot  restrain  men  from  the  greatest  vil- 
lanies,  what  would  they  do  if  they  could  as 
reasonably  suppose  death  to  be  three  or  four 
hundred  years  off'?  If  men  make  such  im- 
provements in  wickedness  in  twenty  or  thirty 
years,  what  would  they  do  in  hundreds? 
And  what  a  blessed  place  then  would  this 
world  be  to  live  in  !  We  see  in  the  old 
world,  when  the  life  of  men  was  drawn  out 
to  so  great  a  length,  the  wickedness  of  man- 
kind grew  so  insufferable  that  it  repented 
God  he  had  made  man ;  and  he  resolved 
to  destroy  that  whole  generation,  excepting 
Noah  and  his  family.  And  the  most  prob- 
able account  that  can  be  given  how  they 
came  to  grow  so  universally  wicked,  is  the 
long  and  prosperous  lives  of  such  wicked 
men,  who  by  degrees  corrupted  others,  and 
they  others,  till  there  was  but  one  righteous 
family  left,  and  no  other  remedy  left  but  to 
destroy  them  all ;  leaving  only  that  righteous 


family  as  the  seed  and  future  hopes  of  the 
new  world. 

And  when  God  had  determined  in  himself 
and  promised  to  Noah  never  to  destroy  the 
world  again  by  such  an  universal  destruc- 
tion, till  the  last  and  final  judgment,  it  was 
necessary  by  degrees  to  shorten  the  lives  of 
men,  which  was  the  most  effectual  means  to 
make  them  more  governable,  and  to  remove 
bad  examples  out  of  the  world,  which  would 
hinder  the  spreading  of  the  infection,  and 
people  and  reform  the  world  again  by  new 
examples  of  piety  and  virtue.  For  when 
there  are  such  quick  successions  of  men, 
there  are  few  ages  but  have  some  great 
and  brave  examples,  which  give  a  new  and 
better  spirit  to  the  world. 

ON  OUR  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  TIME  OF 
DEATH. 

For  a  conclusion  of  this  argument,  I  shall 
briefly  vindicate  the  wisdom  and  goodness 
of  God  in  concealing  from  us  the  time  of 
our  death.  This  we  are  very  apt  to  com- 
plain of,  that  our  lives  are  so  very  uncertain, 
that  we  know  not  to-day  but  what  we  may 
die  to-morrow  ;  and  we  would  be  mighty 
glad  to  meet  with  any  one  who  would  cer- 
tainly inform  us  in  this  matter,  how  long 
we  are  to  live.  But  if  Ave  think  a  little 
better  of  it,  we  shall  be  of  another  mind. 

For,  1st,  Though  I  presume  many  of  you 
would  be  glad  to  know  that  you  shall  cer- 
tainly live  twenty,  or  thirty,  or  forty  veara 
longer,  yet  would  it  be  any  comfort  to  know 
that  you  must  die  to-morrow,  or  some  few 
months,  or  a  year  or  two  hence  ?  which  may 
be  your  case  for  ought  you  know  ;  and  this, 
I  believe,  you  are  not  very  desirous  to  know  ; 
for  how  would  this  chill  your  blood  and 
spirits  !  How  would  it  overcast  all  the  pleas- 
ures and  comforts  of  life  !  You  would  spend 
your  days  like  men  under  the  sentence  of 
death,  while  the  execution  is  suspended. 

Did  all  men  who  must  die  young  certainly 
know  it,  it  would  destroy  the  industry  and 
improvements  of  half  mankind,  which  would 
half  destroy  the  world,  or  be  an  insupport- 
able mischief  to  human  societies  :  for  what 
man  who  knows  that  he  must  die  at  twenty, 
or  five-and-twenty,  a  little  sooner  or  later, 
would  trouble  himself  with  ingenious  or 
gainful  arts,  or  concern  himself  any  more 
with  this  world  than  just  to  live  so  long  in 
it?  And  yet,  how  necessary  is  the  service  of 
such  men  in  the  world  !  What  great  things 
do  they  many  times  do  !  and  what  great  im- 
provements do  they  make!  How  pleasant 
and  diverting  is  their  conversation  while  it 
is  innocent !  How  do  they  enjoy  themselves, 
and  give  life  and  spirit  to  the  graver  age  1 
How  thin  would  our  schools,  our  shops,  our 


SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON. 


117 


universities,  and  all  places  of  education,  be 
did  they  know  how  little  time  many  of  them 
were  to  live  in  the  world  !  For  would  such 
men  concern  themselves  to  learn  the  arts  of 
living,  who  must  die  as  soon  as  they  have 
learnt  them  ?  Would  any  father  be  at  a  great 
expense  in  educating  his  child,  only  that  he 
might  die  with  a  little  Latin  and  Greek, 
logic  and  philosophy?  No:  half  the  world 
must  be  divided  into  cloisters  and  nunneries, 
and  nurseries,  for  the  grave. 

Well,  you'll  say,  suppose  that ;  and  is  not 
this  an  advantage  above  all  the  inconveni- 
ences you  can  think  of,  to  secure  the  salva- 
tion of  so  many  thousands  who  are  now 
eternally  ruined  by  youthful  lusts  and  vani- 
ties, but  would  spend  their  days  in  piety 
and  devotion,  and  make  the  next  world  their 
only  care,  if  they  knew  how  little  while 
they  were  to  live  here  ? 

llight:  I  grant  this  might  be  a  good  way 
to  correct  the  heat  and  extravagances  of 
youth,  and  so  it  would  be  to  show  them 
heaven  and  hell ;  but  God  does  not  think  fit 
to  do  either,  because  it  offers  too  much  force 
and  violence  to  men's  minds  ;  it  is  no  trial 
of  their  virtue,  of  their  reverence  for  God, 
of  their  conquests  and  victory  over  this 
world  by  the  power  of  faith,  but  makes  re- 
ligion a  matter  of  necessity,  not  of  choice: 
now,  God  will  force  and  drive  no  man  to 
heaven  ;  the  gospel  dispensation  is  the  trial 
and  discipline  of  ingenuous  spirits;  and  if 
the  certain  hopes  and  fears  of  another  world, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  our  living  here,  will 
not  conquer  these  flattering  temptations, 
and  make  men  seriously  religious,  as  those 
who  must  certainly  die,  and  go  into  another 
world,  and  they  know  not  how  soon,  God  will 
not  try  whether  the  certain  knowledge  of  the 
time  of  their  death  will  make  them  religious. 
That  they  may  die  young,  and  that  thou- 
sands do  so,  is  reason  enough  to  engage 
young  men  to  expect  death,  and  prepare  for 
it ;  if  they  will  venture,  they  must  take 
their  chance,  and  not  say  they  had  no  warn- 
ing of  dying  young,  if  they  eternally  mis- 
carry by  their  wilful  delays. 

And  besides  this,  God  expects  our  youth- 
ful service  and  obedience,  though  we  were 
to  live  on  till  old  age  :  that  we  may  die 
young  is  not  the  proper,  much  less  the 
only,  reason  why  we  should  remember  our 
Creator  in  the  days  of  our  youth,  but  be- 
cause God  has  a  right  to  our  youthful 
strength  and  vigour;  and  if  this  will  not 
oblige  us  to  an  early  piety,  we  must  not 
expect  that  God  will  set  death  in  our  view, 
to  fright  and  terrify  us:  as  if  the  only  de- 
sign God  had  in  requiring  our  obedience 
was,  not  that  we  live  like  reasonable  crea- 
tures, to  the  glory  of  their  Maker  and  Re- 
deemer, but  that  we  might  repent  of  our 


sins  time  enough  to  escape  hell.  God  is  so 
merciful  as  to  accept  of  returning  prodigals, 
but  does  not  think  fit  to  encourage  us  in  sin, 
by  giving  us  notice  when  we  shall  die,  and 
when  it  is  time  to  think  of  repentance. 

2dly,  Though  I  doubt  not  but  that  it 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  you  to  know 
that  you  should  live  till  old  age,  yet  con- 
sider a  little  with  yourselves,  and  then  tell 
me  whether  you  yourselves  can  judge  it  wise 
and  fitting  for  God  to  let  you  know  this? 

I  observed  to  you  before  what  danger 
there  is  in  flattering  ourselves  with  the  hopes 
of  long  life  ;  that  it  is  apt  to  make  us  too 
fond  of  this  world  when  we  expect  to  live  so 
long  in  it ;  that  it  weakens  the  hopes  and 
fears  of  the  next  world,  by  removing  it  at  too 
great  a  distance  from  us  ;  that  it  encourages 
men  to  live  in  sin,  because  they  have  time 
enough  before  them  to  indulge  their  lusts, 
and  to  repent  of  their  sins,  and  make  their 
peace  with  God  before  they  die  :  and  if  the 
uncertain  hope  of  this  undoes  so  many  men, 
what  would  the  certain  knowledge  of  it  do  ? 
Those  who  are  too  wise  and  considerate  to 
be  imposed  on  by  such  uncertain  hopes, 
might  be  conquered  by  the  certain  knowl- 
edge of  a  lonsr  life. 


SIR    ISAAC    NEWTON, 

the  most  illustrious  of  natural  philosophers, 
born  1642,  died  1727,  in  addition  to  his 
works  upon  mathematics,  philosophy,  chro- 
nology, etc.,  was  the  author  of  Observations 
upon  the  Prophecies  of  Daniel,  and  the  Apoc- 
alypse of  St.  John.  Lond.,  1733, 4to,  and  other 
Biblical  treatises. 

In  a  review  of  the  characteristics  and 
achievements  of  the  great  minds  which  ruled 
the  republic  of  letters  and  the  domain  of 
science  in  the  latter  days  of  Charles  II.,  an 
eloquent  historian  remarks: 

"  But  the  glory  of  these  men,  eminent  as  they 
were,  is  cast  into  the  shade  by  the  transcendent 
lustre  of  one  immortal  name.  In  Isaac  Newton 
two  kinds  of  intellectual  power — which  have  little 
in  common  and  which  are  not  often  found  together 
in  a  very  high  degree  of  vigour,  but  which,  never- 
theless, are  equally  necessary  in  the  most  sublime 
departments  of  natural  philosophy — were  united 
as  they  have  never  been  united  before  or  since. 
There  may  have  been  minds  as  happily  constituted 
as  his  for  the  cultivation  of  pure  mathematical 
science  ;  there  may  have  been  minds  as  happily 
constituted  for  the  cultivation  of  science  purely 
experimental;  but  in  no  other  mind  have  the  de- 
monstrative faculty  and  the  inductive  faculty  co- 
existed in  such  supreme  excellence  and  perfect 
harmony.  Perhaps  in  an  age  of  Scotists  and 
Thomists  even  his  intellect  might  have  run  to 
waste,  as  many  intellects  ran  to  waste  which  were 
inferior  only  to  his.  Happily,  the  spirit  of  the 
age  in  which  his  lot  was  cast  gave  the  right  direc- 


118 


SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON. 


tion  to  his  mind,  anil  his  mind  reacted  with  ten- 
fold force  on  the  spirit  of  the  age.  In  the  year 
1(585,  his  fame,  though  splendid,  was  only  dawn- 
ing :  but  his  genius  was  in  the  meridian.  His 
great  work — that  work  which  effected  a  revolution 
in  the  most  important  provinces  of  natural  phi- 
losophy— had  been  completed  [it  was  completed 
in  May,  1686],  but  was  not  yet  published  [in  mid- 
Butnmer,  1687],  and  was  just  about  to  be  submitted 
to  the  consideration  of  the  Royal  Society  [sub- 
mitted May,  1686]." — LORD  MACAULAY  :  Hist,  of 
Enylattd,  vol.  i.  ch.  iii. 

The  results  of  Newton's  diligent  exami- 
nation of  the  Scriptures  should  be  given  in 
his  own  words:  "I  find,"  he  remarks, 
"  more  sure  marks  of  the  authenticity  of 
the  Bible  than  in  any  profane  history  what- 
ever. .  .  .  Worshipping  God  and  the  Lamb 
in  the  temple:  God,  for  his  benefaction  in 
creating  all  things,  and  the  Lamb,  for  his 
benefaction  in  redeeming  us  with  his  blood." 

THE  PROPHETIC  LANGUAGE. 

For  understanding  the  prophecies,  we  are, 
in  the  first  place,  to  acquaint  ourselves  with 
the  figurative  language  of  the  prophets. 
This  Janguage  is  taken  from  the  analogy 
between  the  world  natural  and  an  empire 
or  kingdom  considered  as  a  world  politic. 

Accordingly,  the  whole  world  natural, 
consisting  of  heaven  and  earth,  signifies  the 
whole  world  politic,  consisting  of  thrones  and 
people;  or  so  much  of  it  as  is  considered  in 
the  prophecy.  And  the  things  in  that  world 
signify  the  analogous  things  in  this.  For 
the  heavens,  and  the  things  therein,  signify 
thrones  and  dignities,  and  those  who  enjoy 
them  ;  and  the  earth,  with  the  things  thereon, 
the  inferior  people;  and  the  lowest  part  of 
the  earth,  called  Hades,  or  Hell,  the  lowest 
or  most  miserable  part  of  them.  Whence, 
ascending  towards  heaven,  and  descending 
to  the  earth,  are  put  for  rising  and  falling 
in  power  and  honour ;  rising  out  of  the 
earth  or  waters,  and  falling  into  them,  for 
the  rising  up  to  any  dignity  or  dominion, 
out  of  the  inferior  state  of  the  people,  or 
falling  down  from  the  same  into  that  inferior 
state  ;  descending  into  the  lower  parts  of  the 
earth,  for  descending  to  a  very  low  and  un- 
happy state ;  speaking  with  a  faint  voice 
out  of  the  dust,  for  being  in  a  weak  and  low 
condition  ;  moving  from  one  place  to  another, 
for  translation  from  one  office,  dignity,  or 
dominion  to  another;  great  earthquakes, 
and  the  shaking  of  heaven  and  earth,  for 
the  shaking  of  dominions,  so  as  to  distract 
and  overthrow  them  ;  the  creating  a  new 
heaven  and  earth,  and  the  passing  away  of 
nn  old  one,  or  the  beginning  and  end  of  the 
world,  for  the  rise  and  reign  of  the  body 
politic  signified  thereby. 

In  the  heavens,  the  sun  and  moon  are,  by 


the  interpreters  of  dreams,  put  for  the  per- 
sons of  kings  and  queens.  But  in  sacred 
prophecy,  which  regards  not  single  persons, 
the  sun  is  put  for  the  whole  species  and  race 
of  kings,  in  the  kingdom  or  kingdoms  of  the 
world  politic,  shining  with  regal  pomp  and 
glory  ;  the  moon  for  the  body  of  the  common 
people,  considered  as  the  king's  wife ;  the 
stars  for  subordinate  princes  and  great  men, 
or  for  bishops  and  rulers  of  the  people  of 
God,  when  the  sun  is  Christ;  light  for  the 
glory,  truth,  and  knowledge  wherewith 
great  and  good  men  shine  and  illuminate 
others;  darkness  for  obscurity  of  condition, 
and  for  error,  blindness,  and  ignorance ; 
darkening,  smiting,  or  settling  of  the  sun, 
moon,  and  stars,  for  the  ceasing  of  a  king- 
dom, or  for  the  desolation  thereof,  propor- 
tional to  the  darkness;  darkening  the  sun, 
turning  the  moon  into  blood,  and  falling  of 
the  stars,  for  the  same ;  new  moons,  for  the 
return  of  a  dispersed  people  into  a  body 
politic  or  ecclesiastic. 

Fire  and  meteors  refer  to  both  heaven  and 
earth,  and  signify  as  follows  : — Burning  any- 
thing with  fire,  is  put  for  the  consuming 
thereof  by  war ;  a  conflagration  of  the  earth 
or  turning  a  country  into  a  lake  of  fire,  for 
the  consumption  of  a  kingdom  by  war ;  the 
being  in  a  furnace,  for  the  being  in  slavery 
under  another  nation  ;  the  ascending  up  of 
the  smoke  of  any  burning  thing  for  ever  and 
ever,  for  the  continuation  of  a  conquered 
people  under  the  misery  of  perpetual  sub- 
jection and  slavery;  the  scorching  heat  of 
the  sun,  for  vexatious  wars,  persecutions, 
and  troubles  inflicted  by  the  king;  riding 
on  the  clouds,  for  reigning  over  much 
people;  covering  the  sun  with  a  cloud,  or 
with  smoke,  for  oppression  of  the  king  by 
the  armies  of  an  enemy  ;  tempestuous  winds, 
or  the  motion  of  clouds,  for  wars;  thunder, 
or  the  voice  of  a  cloud,  for  the  voice  of  a 
multitude;  a  storm  of  thunder,  lightning, 
hail,  and  overflowing  rain,  for  a  tempest  of 
war  descending  from  the  heavens  and  clouds 
politic  on  the  heads  of  their  enemies;  rain, 
if  not  immoderate,  and  dew,  and  living 
water,  for  the  graces  and  doctrines  of  the 
Spirit ;  and  the  defect  of  rain,  for  spiritual 
barrenness. 

In  the  earth,  the  dry  land  and  congregated 
waters,  as  a  sea,  a  river,  a  flood,  are  put  for 
the  people  of  several  regions,  nations,  and 
dominions  ;  embittering  of  waters,  for  great 
affliction  of  the  people  by  war  and  persecu- 
tion ;  turning  things  into  blood,  for  the  mys- 
tical death  of  bodies  politic,  that  is,  for  their 
dissolution ;  the  overflowing  of  a  sea  or 
river,  for  the  invasion  of  the  earth  politic, 
by  the  people  of  the  waters  ;  drying  up  of 
waters,  for  the  conquest  of  their  regions,  by 
the  earth  ;  fountains  of  waters  for  cities,  tho 


WILLIAM  PENN. 


119 


permanent  heads  of  rivers  politic ;  moun- 
tains and  islands,  for  the  cities  of  the  earth 
and  sea  politic,  with  the  territories  and 
dominions  belonging  to  those  cities  ;  dens 
and  rocks  of  mountains,  for  the  temples  of 
cities;  the  hiding  of  men  in  those  dens  and 
rocks,  for  the  shutting  of  idols  in  their  tem- 
ples ;  houses  and  ships,  for  families,  assem- 
blies, and  towns  in  the  earth  and  sea  politic  ; 
and  a  navy  of  ships  of  war,  for  an  army  of 
that  kingdom  that  is  signified  by  the  sea. 

Animals  also,  and  vegetables,  are  put  for 
the  people  of  several  regions  and  conditions; 
and  particularly  trees,  herbs,  and  land  ani- 
mals, for  the  people  of  the  earth  politic ; 
flags,  reeds,  and  fishes,  for  those  of  the 
waters  politic;  birds  and  insects,  for  those  of 
the  politic  heaven  and  earth  ;  a  forest,  for  a 
kingdom  ;  and  a  wilderness,  for  a  desolate 
and  thin  people. 

If  the  world  politic,  considered  in  proph- 
ecy, consists  of  many  kingdoms,  they  are 
represented  by  as  many  parts  of  the  world 
natural,  as  the  noblest  by  the  celestial  frame, 
and  then  the  moon  and  clouds  are  put  for 
the  common  people;  the  less  noble,  by  the 
earth,  sea,  and  rivers,  and  by  the  animals  or 
vegetables,  or  buildings  therein  ;  and  thon 
the  greater  and  more  powerful  animals  and 
taller  trees,  are  put  for  kings,  princes,  and 
nobles.  And  because  the  whole  kingdom  is 
the  body  politic  of  the  king,  therefore  the 
sun,  or  a  tree,  or  a  beast,  or  a  bird,  or  a  man, 
whereby  the  king  is  represented,  is  put  in  a 
large  signification  for  the  whole  kingdom; 
and  several  animals,  as  a  lion,  a  bear,  a 
leopard,  a  goat,  according  to  their  qualities, 
are  put  for  several  kingdoms  and  bodies 
politic  ;  and  sacrificing  of  beasts,  for  slaugh- 
tering and  conquering  of  kingdoms ;  and 
friendship  between  beasts,  for  peace  between 
kingdoms.  Yet  sometimes  vegetables  and 
animals  are,  by  certain  epithets  or  circum- 
stances, extended  to  other  significations;  as 
a  tree,  when  called  the  "  tree  of  life"  or 
"  of  knowledge"  ;  and  a  beast,  when  called 
"  the  old  serpent,"  or  worshipped. 


WILLIAM    PENN, 

the  founder  of  Pennsylvania,  a  man  illus- 
trious for  wisdom  and  virtue,  born  1644, 
died  1718,  was  the  author  of  No  Cross,  No 
Crown,  a  Discourse  shewing  the  Nature  and 
Discipline  of  the  Holy  Cross  of  Christ, 
Lond.,  1669,  12mo;  Brief  Account  of  the 
llise  and  Progress  of  the  People  called 
Quakers,  Lond.,  1694,  12mo,  etc.;  Fruits 
of  a  Father's  Love :  being  the  Advice  of 
William  Penn  to  his  Children,  Lond.,  1726, 
12mo,  and  of  other  works.  See  the  Select 


Works  of  William  Penn,  with  a  Journal  of 
his  Life,  Lond.,  1771,  fol.,  large  paper;  2d 
ed.,  Lond.,  1782,  5  vols.  8vo  ;  Lond.,  1825,  3 
vols.  8vo. 

"  It  should  be  sufficient  for  the  glory  of  William 
Penn  that  he  stands  upon  record  as  the  most  hu- 
mane, the  most  moderate,  and  the  most  pacific  of 
all  rulers." — LORD  JEFFREY:  Contrib.  to  Edin. 
Itev.,  1853,849. 

"  To  William  Penn  belongs  the  distinction,  des- 
tined to  brighten  as  men  advance  in  virtue,  of  first 
in  human  history  establishing  the  Law  'if  Love  as 
a  rule  of  conduct  in  the  intercourse  of  nations." — 
CHAULES  SUMXER:  The  True  Grandeur  of  Nations: 
Orations  and  Speeches,  1850,  i.  114. 

TUB  PRIDE  OF  NOBLE  BIRTH. 

That  people  are  generally  proud  of  their 
persons  is  too  visible  and  troublesome,  espe- 
cially if  they  have  any  pretence  either  to 
blood  or  beauty ;  the  one  has  raised  many 
quarrels  among  men,  and  the  other  among 
women,  and  men  too  often,  for  their  sakes, 
and  at  their  excitements.  But  to  the  first: 
what  a  pother  has  this  noble  blood  made  in 
the  world,  antiquity  of  name  or  family, 
whose  father  or  mother,  great-grandfather 
or  great-grandmother,  was  best  descended 
or  allied?  what  stock  or  what  clan  they 
carne  of?  what  coat  of  arms  they  have? 
which  had,  of  right,  the  precedence?  But, 
methinks,  nothing  of  man's  folly  has  less 
show  of  reason  to  palliate  it. 

For,  first,  what  matter  is  it  of  whom  any 
one  descended,  that  is  not  of  ill  fame  ;  since 
'tis  his  own  virtue  that  must  raise,  or  vice 
depress  him  ?  An  ancestors  character  is 
no  excuse  to  a  man's  ill  actions,  but  an  ag- 
gravation of  his  degeneracy  ;  and  since  vir- 
tue comes  not  by  generation,  I  neither  am 
the  better  nor  the  worse  for  my  forefather  : 
to  be  sure  not  in  God's  account ;  nor  should 
it  be  in  man's.  Nobody  would  endure  in- 
juries the  easier,  or  reject  favours  the  more, 
for  coming  by  the  hand  of  a  man  well  or  ill 
descended.  I  confess  it  were  greater  honour 
to  have  had  no  blots,  and  with  an  hereditary 
estate  to  have  had  a  lineal  descent  of  worth  : 
but  that  was  never  found ;  no,  not  in  the 
most  blessed  of  families  upon  earth  ;  I  mean 
Abraham's.  To  be  descended  of  wealth  and 
titles  fills  no  man's  head  with  brains,  or 
heart  with  truth  :  those  qualities  come  from 
a  higher  cause.  'Tis  vanity,  then,  and  most 
condemnable  pride,  for  a  man  of  bulk  and 
character  to  despise  another  of  less  size  in 
the  world,  and  of  meaner  alliance,  for  want 
of  them  ;  because  the  latter  may  have  the 
merit,  where  the  former  has  only  the  effects 
of  it  in  an  ancestor :  arid  though  the  one  be 
great  by  means  of  a  forefather,  the  other  is 
so  too,  but  'tis  by  his  own  ;  then,  pray,  which 
is  the  bravest  man  of  the  two? 


120 


WILLIAM  PENN. 


"  0,"  says  the  person  proud  of  blood,  "  it 
•was  never  a  good  world  since  we  have  had 
so  many  upstart  gentlemen !"  But  what 
should  others  have  said  of  that  man's  ances- 
tor, when  he  started  first  up  into  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  world?  For  he,  and  all  men 
and  families,  ay,  and  all  states  and  king- 
doms too,  have  had  their  upstarts,  that  is, 
their  beginnings.  This  is  like  being  the 
True  Church,  because  old.  not  because  good  ; 
for  families  to  be  noble  by  being  old,  and 
not  by  being  virtuous.  No  such  matter :  it 
must  be  age  in  virtue,  or  else  virtue  before 
age;  for  otherwise,  a  man  should  be  noble 
by  means  of  his  predecessor,  and  yet  the 
predecessor  less  noble  than  he,  because  he 
was  the  acquirer:  which  is  a  paradox  that 
Avill  puzzle  all  their  heraldry  to  explain. 
Strange!  that  they  should  be  more  noble 
than  their  ancestor,  that  got  their  nobility 
for  them !  But  if  this  be  absurd,  as  it  is, 
then  the  upstart  is  the  noble  man  ;  the  man 
that  got  it  by  his  virtue:  and  those  only  are 
entitled  to  his  honour  that  are  imitators  of 
his  virtue  ;  the  rest  may  bear  his  name  from 
his  blood,  but  that  is  all.  If  virtue,  then, 
give  nobility,  which  heathens  themselves 
agree,  then  families  are  no  longer  truly 
noble  than  they  are  virtuous.  And  if  virtue 
go  not  by  blood,  but  by  the  qualifications 
of  the  descendants,  it  follows,  blood  is  ex- 
cluded ;  else  blood  would  bar  virtue,  and  no 
man  that  wanted  the  one  should  be  allowed 
the  benefit  of  the  other  ;  which  were  to  stint 
and  bound  nobility  for  want  of  antiquity, 
and  make  virtue  useless. 

No :  let  blood  and  name  go  together  ;  but 
pray,  let  nobility  and  virtue  keep  com- 
pany, for  they  are  nearest  of  kin.  'Tis  thus 
posited  by  God  himself,  that  best  knows  how 
to  apportion  things  with  an  equal  and  just 
hand.  He  neither  likes  nor  dislikes  by  de- 
scent ;  nor  does  he  regard  what  people  were, 
but  are.  He  remembers  not  the  righteous- 
ness of  any  man  that  leaves  his  righteous- 
ness, much  less  any  unrighteous  man  for  the 
righteousness  of  his  ancestor. 

No  Cross,  No  Crown. 

PE\\'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS  CHILDREN. 
Next,  betake  yourselves  to  some  honest, 
industrious  course  of  life,  and  that  not  of 
sordid  covetousness,  but  for  example,  and  to 
avoid  idleness.  And  if  you  change  your 
condition  and  marry,  choose  with  the  knowl- 
edge and  consent  of  your  mother,  if  living, 
or  of  guardians,  or  those  that  have  the 
charge  of  you.  Mind  neither  beauty  nor 
riches,  but  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and  a  sweet 
and  amiable  disposition,  such  as  you  can 
love  above  all  this  world,  and  that  may  make 
your  habitations  pleasant  and  desirable  to 
you. 


And  being  married,  be  tender,  affectionate, 
patient,  and  meek.  Live  in  the  fear  of  the 
Lord,  and  he  will  bless  you  and  your  off- 
spring. Be  sure  to  live  within  compass; 
borrow  not,  neither  be  beholden  to  any. 
Ruin  not  yourselves  by  kindness  to  others  ; 
for  that  exceeds  the  due  bounds  of  friend- 
ship, neither  will  a  true  friend  expect  it. 
Small  matters  I  heed  not. 

Let  your  industry  and  parsimony  go  no 
further  than  for  a  sufficiency  for  life,  and  to 
make  a  provision  for  your  children,  and  that 
in  moderation,  if  the  Lord  gives  you  any. 
I  charge  you  help  the  poor  and  needy;  let 
the  Lord  have  a  voluntary  share  of  your  in- 
come for  the  good  of  the  poor,  both  in  our 
society  and  others  ;  for  we  are  all  his  crea- 
tures ;  remembering  that  he  that  giveth  to 
the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord. 

Know  well  your  incomings,  and  your  out- 
goings may  be  better  regulated.  Love  not 
money  nor  the  world :  use  them  only,  and 
they  will  serve  you  ;  but  if  you  love  them 
you  serve  them,  which  will  debase  your 
spirits  as  well  as  offend  the  Lord. 

Pity  the  distressed,  and  hold  out  a  hand  of 
help  to  them  ;  it  may  be  your  case,  and  as 
you  mete  to  others  God  will  mete  to  you 
again.  Be  humble  and  gentle  in  your  con- 
versation ;  of  few  words,  I  charge  you,  but 
always  pertinent  when  you  speak,  hearing 
out  before  you  attempt  to  answer,  and  then 
speaking  as  if  you  would  persuade,  not  im- 
pose. 

Affront  none,  neither  revenge  the  affronts 
that  are  done  to  you  ;  but  forgive,  and  you 
shall  be  forgiven  of  your  Heavenly  Father. 

In  making  friends,  consider  well  first ;  and 
when  you  are  fixed,  be  true,  not  wavering  by 
reports,  nor  deserting  in  affliction,  for  that 
becomes  not  the  good  and  virtuous. 

Watch  against  anger ;  neither  speak  nor 
act  in  it:  for,  like  drunkenness,  it  makes  a 
man  a  beast,  and  throws  people  into  desper- 
ate inconveniences. 

Avoid  flatterers,  for  they  are  thieves  in 
disguise;  their  praise  is  costly,  designing 
to  get  by  those  they  bespeak  ;  they  are  the 
worst  of  creatures  ;  they  lie  to  flatter,  and 
flatter  to  cheat ;  and,  which  is  worse,  if  you 
believe  them,  you  checit yourselves  most  dan- 
gerously. Butthevirtuous, though  poor,  love, 
cherish,  and  prefer.  Remember  David,  who, 
asking  the  Lord,  "Who  shall  abide  in  thy 
tabernacle?  who  shall  dwell  upon  thy  holy 
hill?"  answers,  "  He  that  walketh  uprightly, 
worketh  righteousness,  and  speaketh  the 
truth  in  his  heart ;  in  whose  eyes  the  vile 
person  is  contemned,  but  honoureth  them 
who  fear  the  Lord  !" 

Next,  my  children,  be  temperate  in  all 
things :  in  your  diet,  for  that  is  physic  by 
prevention  ;  it  keeps,  nay,  it  makes,  people 


ROBERT  BARCLAY. 


121 


healthy,  and  their  generation  sound.  This 
is  exclusive  of  the  spiritual  advantage  it 
brings.  Be  also  plain  in  your  apparel: 
keep  out  that  lust  which  reigns  too  much 
over  some:  let  your  virtues  be  your  orna- 
ments, remembering  life  is  more  than  food, 
and  the  body  than  raiment.  Let  your  fur- 
niture be  simple  and  cheap.  Avoid  pride, 
avarice,  and  luxury.  Read  my  "  No  Cross, 
No  Crown."  There  is  instruction.  Make 
your  conversation  with  the  most  eminent  for 
wisdom  and  piety,  and  shun  all  wicked  men 
sis  you  hope  for  the  blessing  of  God  and  the 
comfort  of  your  father's  living  and  dying 
prayers.  Be  sure  you  speak  no  evil  of  any, 
no,  not  of  the  meanest,  much  less  of  your 
superiors,  as  magistrates,  guardians,  tutors, 
teachers,  and  elders  in  Christ. 

Be  no  busybodies  ;  meddle  not  with  other 
folk's  matters,  but  when  in  conscience  and 
duty  pressed  ;  for  it  procures  trouble,  and 
is  ill  manners,  and  very  unseemly  to  wise 
men. 

In  your  families  remember  Abraham, 
Moses,  and  Joshua,  their  integrity  to  the 
Lord,  and  do  as  you  have  them  for  your  ex- 
amples. 

Let  the  fear  and  service  of  the  living  God 
be  encouraged  in  your  houses,  and  that 
plainness,  sobriety,  and  moderation  in  all 
things,  as  becometh  God's  chosen  people  ; 
and  as  I  advise  you,  my  beloved  children, 
do  you  counsel  yours,  if  God  should  give 
you  any.  Yea,  I  counsel  and  command 
them  as  my  posterity,  that  they  love  and 
porve  the  Lord  God  with  an  upright  heart, 
that  he  may  bless  you  and  yours  from  gen- 
eration to  generation. 

And  as  for  you,  who  are  likely  to  be  con- 
cerned in  the  government  of  Pennsylvania 
and  my  parts  of  East  Jersey,  especially  the 
first.  I  do  charge  you  before  the  Lord  God 
and  his  holy  angels,  that  you  be  lowly,  dili- 
gent, and  tender,  fearing  God,  loving  the 
people,  and  hating  covetousness.  Let  jus- 
tice have  its  impartial  course,  and  the  law 
free  passage.  Though  to  your  loss,  protect 
no  man  against  it;  for  you  are  not  above 
the  law,  but  the  law  above  you.  Live,  there- 
fore, the  lives  yourselves  you  would  have  the 
pe  iple  live,  and  then  you  have  right  and 
Ijoldness  to  punish  the  transgressor.  Keep 
upon  the  square,  for  God  sees  you :  there- 
fore, do  your  duty,  and  be  sure  you  see  with 
your  own  eyes,  and  hear  with  your  own 
ears.  Entertain  no  lurchers,  cherish  no  in- 
formers for  gain  or  revenge,  use  no  tricks, 
fly  to  no  devices  to  support  or  cover  injus- 
tice :  1m t  let  your  hearts  be  upright  before 
the  Lord,  trusting  in  him  above  the  contri- 
vances of  men,  and  none  shall  be  able  to 
hurt  or  supplant. 

Fruits  of  a  Father's  Love. 


ROBERT  BARCLAY, 

born  at  Gordonstown,  Morayshire,  Scotland, 
1648,  died  1690,  will  always  be  known  by 
An  Apology  for  the  True  Christian  Divinity, 
as  the  same  is  held  forth,  and  preached  by 
the  people,  Called,  in  Scorn,  Quakers,  etc., 
[Aberdeen?]  1678,  4to;  2d  edit.  [London?], 
1678,  4to.  Original,  in  Latin,  Lond.,  1676, 
4to.  In  English,  8th  edit.,  Birmingham, 
Baskerville,  1765.  royal  4to.  For  other  edi- 
tions and  translations,  see  Joseph  Smith's 
Descriptive  Catalogue  of  Friends'  Books, 
1867,  i.  179-184. 

"  A  man  of  eminent  gifts  and  great  endowments, 
expert  not  only  in  the  language  of  the  learned, 
but  also  well  versed  in  the  writings  of  the  ancient 
Fathers,  and  other  ecclesiastical  writers,  and  fur- 
nished with  a  great  understanding,  being  not  only 
of  a  sound  judgment,  but  also  strong  in  argu- 
ments."— SEWEL:  Hist,  of  the  Quaker*. 

"  I  take  him  to  be  so  great  a  man,  that  I  profess 
freely,  I  had  rather  engage  against  a  hundred 
Bellannines,  Hardings,  and  Stapletons,  than  with 
one  Barclay." — Nonius  OP  BEMERTOX  :  Second 
Treatise  of  the  Liyht  Within. 

In  his  Apology  Barclay  gives  his  reasons 
against 

TITLES  OF  HONOUR. 

We  affirm  positively,  That  it  is  not  lawful 
for  Christians  either  to  give  or  receive  these 
titles  of  honour,  as  Your  Holiness,  Your 
Majesty,  Your  Excellency,  Your  Eminency, 
&c. 

First,  because  these  titles  are  no  part  of 
that  obedience  which  is  due  to  magistrates 
or  superiors ;  neither  doth  the  giving  of 
them  add  to  or  diminish  from  that  subjection 
we  owe  to  them,  which  consists  in  obeying 
their  just  and  lawful  commands,  not  in  titles 
and  designations. 

Secondly,  we  find  not  that  in  the  Scrip- 
ture any  such  titles  are  used,  either  under  the 
law  or  the  gospel :  but  that  in  the  speaking 
to  kings,  princes,  or  nobles,  they  used  only  a 
simple  compellation,  as,  "  0  King  !"  and  that 
without  any  further  designation,  save,  per- 
haps, the  name  of  the  person,  as,  ''  0  King 
Agrippa,"  &c. 

Thirdly,  it  lays  a  necessity  upon  Chris- 
tians most  frequently  t')  lie  ;  because  the 
persons  obtaining  these  titles,  either  by 
election  or  hereditarily,  may  frequently  be 
found  to  have  nothing  really  in  them  de- 
serving them,  or  answering  to  them :  as 
some  to  whom  it  is  said,  u  Your  Excellency," 
having  nothing  of  excellency  in  them;  and 
who  is  called  "Your  Grace,"  appear  to  be 
an  enemy  to  grace ;  and  he  who  is  called 
"  Your  Honour,"  is  known  to  be  base  and 
ignoble.  I  wonder  what  law  of  man,  or 
what  patent,  ought  to  oblige  me  to  make  a 
lie,  in  calling  good  evil,  and  evil  good.  I 


122 


M.  DE  RAPIN  SIEUR  DE   THOTRAS. 


wonder  what  law  of  man  can  secure  me,  in 
so  doing,  from  the  just  judgment  of  God, 
that  will  make  me  account  for  every  evil 
word.  And  to  lie  is  something  more. 
Surely,  Christians  should  he  ashamed  that 
such  laws,  manifestly  crossing  the  law  of 
God,  should  be  among  them.  .  .  . 

Fourthly,  as  to  those  titles  of  "  Holi- 
ness," "Eminency,"  and  "Excellency," 
used  among  the  Papists  to  the  Pope  and 
Cardinals,  &c. ;  and  "Grace,"  "Lordship," 
and  "  Worship,"  used  to  the  clergy  among 
the  Protestants,  it  is  a  most  blasphemous 
usurpation.  For  if  they  use  "  Holiness" 
and  "Grace,"  because  these  things  ought 
to  be  in  a  Pope  or  in  a  Bishop,  how  come 
they  to  usurp  that  peculiarly  to  themselves? 
Ought  not  holiness  and  grace  to  be  in  every 
Christian  ?  And  so  every  Christian  should 
say,  "  Your  Holiness,"  and  "  Your  Grace," 
one  to  another.  Next,  how  can  they  in  rea- 
son claim  any  more  titles  than  were  practised 
and  received  by  the  apostles  and  primitive 
Christians,  whose  successors  they  pretend 
they  are ;  and  as  whose  successors  (and  no 
otherwise)  themselves,  I  judge,  will  confess 
any  honour  they  seek  is  due  to  them  ?  Now, 
if  they  neither  sought,  received,  nor  ad- 
mitted such  honour,  nor  titles,  how  came 
these  by  them  ?  If  they  say  they  did,  let  them 
prove  it  if  they  can  :  we  find  no  such  thing- 
in  the  Scripture.  The  Christians  speak  to 
the  apostles  without  any  such  denomination, 
neither  saying,  "If  it  please  your  Grace," 
"your  Holiness,"  nor  "your  Worship;"  they 
are  neither  called  "  My  Lord  Peter,"  nor  "  My 
Lord  Paul  ;"  nor  yet  Master  Peter,  nor  Mas- 
ter Paul  ;  nor  Doctor  Peter,  nor  Doctor  Paul ; 
but  singly  Paul  and  Peter  ;  and  that  not  only 
in  the  Scripture,  but  for  some  hundreds  of 
years  after:  so  this  appears  to  be  a  manifest 
fruit  of  the  apostasy.  For  if  these  titles 
arise  either  from  the  office  or  worth  of  the 
persons,  it  will  not  be  denied  but  the  apostles 
deserved  them  better  than  any  now  that 
call  for  them.  But  the  case  is  plain  :  the 
apostles  had  the  holiness,  the  excellency,  the 
grace  ;  and  because  they  were  holy,  excellent, 
and  gracious,  they  neither  used  nor  per- 
mitted such  titles;  but  these  having  neither 
holiness,  excellency,  nor  grace,  will  needs 
be  so  called  to  satisfy  their  ambitious  and 
ostentatious  mind,  which  is  a  manifest  token 
of  their  hypocrisy. 

Fifthly,  as  to  that  title  of  "Majesty," 
usually  ascribed  to  princes,  we  do  not  find 
it  given  to  any  such  in  the  Holy  Scripture  ; 
but  that  it  is  specially  and  peculiarly  ascribed 
unto  God.  .  .  .  We  find  in  the  Scripture  the 
proud  'king  Nebuchadnezzar  assuming  this 
title  to  himself,  who  at  that  time  received  a 
sufficient  reproof  by  a  sudden  judgment 
which  came  upon  him. 


Therefore  in  all  the  compilations  used  to 
princes  in  the  Old  Testament,  it  is  not  to  be 
found,  nor  yet  in  the  New.  Paul  was  very 
civil  to  Agrippa,  yet  he  gives  him  no  such 
title.  Neither  was  this  title  used  among 
Christians  in  the  primitive  times. 


M.    DE    RAPIN    SIEUR   DE 
THOYRAS, 

born  at  Castres,  France,  1661,  died  1725, 
was  the  author  of  the  following  work,  The 
History  of  England  (from  the  Earliest  Period 
to  the  Revolution  in  1688),  written  in  French 
by  Mr.  Rapin  de  Thoyras,  translated  into 
English,  with  additional  Notes  (and  a  Con- 
tinuation to  the  Accession  of  K.  George  II.), 
by  N.  Tindal,  M.A.,  Lond.,  1743-47,  5  vols. 
folio.  Other  editions. 

"  The  historian  Rapin  is  remarkable  for  his  im- 
partiality and  candour.  Although  the  edition  of 
1743  is  usually  called  the  best,  that  of  1732  is  p ref- 
erable as  regards  impressions  of  the  plates.  The 
pagination  of  the  two  editions  is  the  same ;  nnd 
there  is  perceptible  difference  in  the  text." — • 
Lowxden's  liibl.  Man.,  Bohn's  edit.,  iv.  2047,  q.  v. 

"Hume  wrote  his  History  for  fame,  Rapin  for 
instruction ;  and  both  gained  their  ends." — VOL- 
TAIRE :  Martin  Sherlock's  Letters  from  an  Eiiylivh 
Traveller,  Lond.,  1780,  4to. 

CHARACTER  OF  ELIZABETH. 

Elizabeth  had  a  great  deal  of  wit.  and 
was  naturally  of  a  sound  and  solid  judg- 
ment. This  was  visible  by  her  whole  man- 
agement, from  one  end  of  her  reign  to  the 
other.  Nothing  shews  her  capacity  more 
than  her  address  in  surmounting  all  the 
difficulties  and  troubles  created  by  her  ene- 
mies, especially  when  it  is  considered  who 
these  enemies  were  ;  persons  the  most  power- 
ful, the  most  artful,  the  most  subtile,  and  the 
least  scrupulous  in  Europe.  The  following 
are  the  maxims  which  she  laid  down  for  the 
rule  and  measures  of  her  whole  conduct, 
and  from  which  she  never  swerved  :  "  To 
make  herself  beloved  by  her  people  :  To  be 
frugal  of  her  treasure:  To  keep  up  dissen- 
sion amongst  her  neighbours." 

Her  enemies  pretend  that  her  abilities 
consisted  wholly  in  overstrained  dissimula- 
tion, and  a  profound  hypocrisy.  In  a  word, 
they  say  she  was  a  perfect  comedian.  For 
my  part,  I  don't  deny  that  she  made  great 
use  of  dissimulation,  as  well  with  regard  to 
the  courts  of  France  and  Spain  as  to  the 
queen  of  Scotland  and  the  Scots.  I  am  also 
persuaded  that,  being  as  much  concerned  to 
gain  the  love  and  esteem  of  her  subjects, 
she  affected  to  speak  frequently,  and  with 


CHARLES  ROLLIN. 


123 


them.  And  that  she  had  a  mind  to  make  it 
believed  that  she  did  some  tilings  from  an 
excessive  love  to  her  people,  which  she  was 
led  to  more  by  her  own  interest. 

Avarice  is  another  failing  which  her  own 
friends  reproach  her  with.  I  will  not  deny 
that  she  was  too  parsimonious,  and  upon 
some  occasions  stuck  too  close  to  the  maxims 
she  had  laid  down,  not  to  be  at  any  expence 
but  what  was  absolutely  necessary.  How- 
ever, in  general  I  maintain,  that  if  her  cir- 
cumstances did  not  require  her  to  be  covet- 
ous, at  least  they  required  that  she  should 
not  part  with  her  money  but  with  great 
caution,  both  in  order  to  preserve  the  affec- 
tion of  her  people,  and  to  keep  herself 
always  in  a  condition  to  withstand  her  ene- 
mies. .  .  . 

It  is  not  so  easy  to  justify  her  concerning 
the  death  of  the  Queen  of  Scots.  Here  it 
must  be  owned  she  sacrificed  equity,  justice, 
and  it  may  be  her  own  conscience,  to  her 
safety.  If  Mary  was  guilty  of  the  murder 
of  her  husband,  as  there  is  ground  to  believe, 
it  was  not  Elizabeth's  business  to  punish  her 
for  it.  And  truly  it  was  not  for  that  she 
took  away  her  life  ;  but  she  made  use  of  that 
pretence  to  detain  her  in  prison,  under  the 
deceitful  colour  of  making  her  innocence 
appear.  On  this  occasion  her  dissimulation 
was  blameworthy.  This  first  piece  of  in- 
justice drew  her  in  afterwards  to  use  a  world 
of  artful  devices  to  get  a  pretence  to  ren- 
der Mary's  imprisonment  perpetual.  From 
hence  arose  in  the  end  the  necessity  of  put- 
ting her  to  death  on  the  scaffold.  This 
doubtless  is  Elizabeth's  great  blemish,  which 
manifestly  proves  to  what  degree  she  carried 
the  fear  of  losing  a  crown.  The  continued 
fear  and  uneasiness  she  was  under  on  that 
account  is  what  characterises  her  reign, 
because  it  was  the  mainspring  of  almost  all 
her  acting.  The  best  thing  that  can  be  said 
in  Elizabeth's  behalf  is,  that  the  Queen  of 
Scots  and  her  friends  had  brought  matters 
to  such  a  pass,  that  one  of  the  two  queens 
must  perish,  and  it  was  natural  that  the 
weakest  should  fall.  I  don't  believe  any- 
body ever  questioned  her  being  a  true  Prot- 
estant. But,  as  it  was  her  interest  to  be, 
some  have  taken  occasion  to  doubt  whether 
the  zeal  she  expressed  for  her  religion  was 
the  effect  of  her  persuasion  or  policy.  All 
that  can  be  said  is,  that  she  happened  some- 
times to  prefer  her  temporal  concerns  before 
those  of  religion.  To  sum  up  in  two  words 
what  may  serve  to  form  Elizabeth's  char- 
acter, I  shall  add,  she  was  a  good  and  illus- 
trious queen,  with  many  virtues  and  noble 
qualities  and  few  faults.  But  what  ought 
above  all  things  to  make  her  memory  pre- 
cious is,  that  she  caused  the  English  to  enjoy 
a  state  of  felicity  unknown  to  their  ancestors, 


under  most  part  of  the  kings,  her  predeces- 
sors. 

The  History  of  England. 


CHARLES    ROLLIN, 

born  in  Paris,  1661,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in 
the  College  du  Plessis,  1687,  and  of  Elo- 
quence in  the  Royal  College  de  France, 
1688;  Principal  of  the  University  of  Paris, 
1694-1696,  died  1741,  was  the  author  of  a 
work  on  the  Study  of  Belles-Lettres  (Trait6 
de  la  Maniere  d'enseigner  et  6tudier  les 
Belles-Lettres,  1726)  ;  of  an  Ancient  His- 
tory (Histoire  Ancienne,  1730-38,  12  vols.) ; 
and  of  a  History  of  Rome  (Histoire  Ro- 
maine,  1738). 

GENERAL  REFLECTIONS 

upon  what  is  called  Good  Taste,  as  it  now 
falls  under  our  consideration,  that  is,  with 
reference  to  the  reading  of  authors,  and 
composition,  is  a  clear,  lively,  and  distinct 
discerning  of  all  the  beauty,  truth,  and  just- 
ness of  the  thoughts  and  expressions  which 
compose  a  discourse.  It  distinguishes  what 
is  conformable  to  eloquence  and  propriety  in 
every  character,  and  suitable  in  different  cir- 
cumstances. And  whilst,  with  a  delicate 
and  exquisite  sagacity,  it  notes  the  graces, 
turns,  manners,  and  expressions  most  likely 
to  please,  it  perceives  also  all  the  defects 
which  produce  the  contrary  effect,  and  dis- 
tinguishes precisely  wherein  those  defects 
consist,  and  how  far  they  are  removed  from 
the  strict  rules  of  art  and  the  real  beauties 
of  nature. 

This  happy  faculty,  which  it  is  more  easy 
to  conceive  than  define,  is  less  the  effect  of 
genius  than  judgment,  and  a  kind  of  nat- 
ural reason  wrought  up  to  perfection  by 
study.  It  serves  in  composition  to  guide  and 
direct  the  understanding.  It  makes  use  of 
the  imagination,  but  without  submitting  to 
it,  and  keeps  it  always  in  subjection.  It 
consults  nature  universally,  follows  it  step 
by  step,  and  is  a  faithful  image  of  it.  Re- 
served and  sparing  in  the  midst  of  abun- 
dance and  riches,  it  dispenses  the  beauties 
and  graces  of  discourse  with  temper  and 
wisdom.  It  never  suffers  itself  to  be  daz- 
zled with  the  false,  how  glittering  a  figure 
soever  it  may  make.  'Tis  equally  offended 
with  too  much  and  too  little.  It  knows  pre- 
cisely where  it  must  stop,  and  cuts  off,  with- 
out regret  or  mercy,  whatever  exceeds  the 
beautiful  and  perfect.  'Tis  the  want  of  this 
quality  which  occasions  the  various  species 
of  bad  style  ;  as  bombast,  conceit,  and  witti- 
cism ;  in  which,  as  Quinctilian  says,  the 
genius  is  void  of  judgment,  and  suffers  itself 


124 


DANIEL  DE  FOE. 


to  be  carried  away  with  an  appearance  of 
beauty,  quoties  iiujenium  judicio  caret,  and 
specie  boni  fallitur. 

Taste,  simple  and  uniform  in  its  principle, 
is  varied  and  multiplied  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  ways,  yet  so  as  under  a  thousand 
different  forms,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  a  de- 
clamatory or  concise,  sublime  or  simple,  jo- 
cose or  serious  style,  'tis  always  the  same, 
and  carries  with  it  a  certain  character  of  the 
true  and  natural,  immediately  perceived  by 
all  persons  of  judgment.  We  cannot  say 
the  style  of  Terence,  Phaedrus,  Sallust.  Cae- 
sar, Tully,  Livy,  Virgil,  and  Horace  is  the 
same.  And  yet  they  have  all,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression,  a  certain  tincture  of 
a  common  spirit,  which  in  that  diversity  of 
genius  and  style  makes  an  affinity  between 
them,  and  the  sensible  difference  also  be- 
twixt them  and  the  other  writers,  who  have 
not  the  stamp  of  the  best  age  of  antiquity 
upon  them. 

I  have  already  said  that  this  distinguish- 
ing faculty  was  a  kind  of  natural  reason 
wrought  up  to  perfection  by  study.  In  re- 
ality all  men  bring  the  first  principles  of 
taste  with  them  into  the  world,  as  well  as 
those  of  rhetoric  and  logic.  As  a  proof  of 
this,  we  may  urge  that  every  good  orator  is 
almost  always  infallibly  approved  of  by  the 
people,  and  that  there  is  no  difference  of 
taste  and  sentiment  upon  this  point,  as 
Tully  observes,  between  the  ignorant  and 
the  learned. 

The  case  is  the  same  with  music  and 
painting.  A  concert  that  has  all  its  parts 
well  composed  and  well  executed,  both  as  to 
instruments  and  voices,  pleases  universally. 
But  if  any  discord  arises,  any  ill  tone  of 
voice  be  intermixed,  it  shall  displease  even 
those  who  are  absolutely  ignorant  of  music. 
They  know  not  what  it  is  that  offends  them, 
but  they  find  somewhat  grating  in  it  to  their 
ears.  And  this  proceeds  from  the  taste  and 
sense  of  harmony  implanted  in  them  by 
nature.  In  like  manner,  a  fine  picture 
charms  and  transports  a  spectator  who  has 
no  idea  of  painting.  Ask  him  what  pleases 
him,  and  why  it  pleases  him,  and  he  cannot 
easily  give  an  account,  or  specify  the  real 
reasons  ;  but  natural  sentiment  works  almost 
the  same  effect  in  him  as  art  and  use  in  con- 
noisseurs. 

The  like  observations  will  hold  good  as  to 
the  taste  we  are  here  speaking  of.  Most  men 
have  the  first  principles  of  it  in  themselves, 
though  in  the  greater  part  of  them  they  lie 
dormant  in  a  manner,  for  want  of  instruc- 
tion or  reflection  ;  as  they  are  often  stifled 
or  corrupted  by  vicious  education,  bad  cus- 
toms, or  reigning  prejudices  of  the  age  and 
country. 

But  how  depraved  soever  the  taste  may 


be,  it  is  never  absolutely  lost.  There  are 
certain  fixed  remains  of  it,  deeply  rooted  in 
the  understanding,  wherein  all  men  agree. 
Where  these  secret  seeds  are  cultivated  with 
care,  they  may  be  carried  to  a  far  greater 
height  of  perfection.  And  if  it  so  happens 
that  any  fresh  light  awakens  these  first 
notions  and  renders  the  mind  attentive  to  the 
immutable  rules  of  truth  and  beauty,  so  as 
to  discover  the  natural  and  necessary  con- 
sequences of  them,  and  serves  at  the  .same 
time  for  a  model  to  facilitate  the  application 
of  them,  we  generally  see  that  men  of  the 
best  sense  gladly  cast  off  their  ancient 
errors,  correct  the  mistakes  of  their  former 
judgments,  and  return  to  the  justness  and 
delicacy  which  are  the  effects  of  a  refined 
taste,  and  by  degrees  draw  others  after  them 
into  the  same  way  of  thinking. 

To  be  convinced  of  this,  we  need  only 
look  upon  the  success  of  certain  great  orators 
and  celebrated  authors,  who,  by  their  natural 
talents,  have  recalled  these  primitive  ideas, 
and  given  fresh  life  to  these  seeds,  which  lie 
concealed  in  the  mind  of  every  man.  In  a 
little  time  they  united  the  voices  of  those 
who  made  the  best  use  of  their  reason  in 
their  fervour  ;  and  soon  after  gained  the  ap- 
plause of  every  age  and  condition,  both 
ignorant  and  learned.  It  would  be  easy  to 
point  out  amongst  ns  the  date  of  the  good 
taste  which  now  reigns  in  all  arts  and 
sciences  ;  by  tracing  each  up  to  its  original 
we  should  see  that  a  small  number  of  men 
of  genius  have  acquired  the  nation  this  glory 
and  advantage. 

Study  of  Belles-Lettres. 


DANIEL  DE  FOE, 

born  1661,  died  1731,  was  the  author  of  more 
than  two  hundred  works  (see  Bohn's  Lown- 
dc.s's  Bibliographer's  Manual,  ii.  612-622), 
of  which  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  A  Journal 
of  the  Plague  Year  (1665):  written  by  a 
Citizen  who  continued  all  the  while  in  Lon- 
don, Never  made  publick  before,  Lond.,  1722, 
8vo,  are  the  best  known.  Both  are  fictitious. 

"  Perhaps  there  exists  no  work,  either  of  in- 
struction or  entertainment,  in  the  English  lan- 
guage, which  has  been  more  generally  read,  and 
more  universally  admired,  than  the  Life  and  Ad- 
ventures of  Robinson  Crusoe.  It  is  difficult  to 
sny  in  whnt  the  charm  consists,  by  which  persons 
of  all  classes  and  denominations  are  thus  fasci- 
nated ;  yet  the  majority  of  readers  will  recollect  it 
ns  among  the  first  works  that  awakened  and  inter- 
ested their  youthful  attention;  and  feel,  even  in 
advanced  life,  and  in  the  maturity  of  their  under- 
standing, that  there  nre  still  associated  with  Rob- 
inson Crusoe  the  sentiments  peculiar  to  that  period 
when  all  is  new.  all  glittering  in  prospect,  and 
when  those  visions  are  most  bright  which  the  ex- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


125 


perience  of  after-life  tends  only  to  darken  and  de- 
stroy."— SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

"  Most  of  our  readers  are  probably  familiar  with 
De  Foe's  history  of  that  great  calamity  (the 
Plague), — a  work  in  which  fabulous  incidents  and 
circumstances  are  combined  with  authentic  narra- 
tives with  an  art  and  verisimilitude  which  no  other 
writer  has  ever  been  able  ta  communicate  to  no- 
tion."— Edln.  licciew,  xxiv.  321. 

THE  PLAGUE  ix  LOVDOX  ix  1G85. 

The  Plague,  like  a  great  fire,  if  a  few 
houses  only  are  contiguous  where  it  hap- 
pens, can  only  burn  a  few  houses ;  or  if  it 
begins  in  a  single  or,  as  we  call  it,  a  lone 
house,  can  only  burn  that  lone  house  where 
it  begins:  but  if  it  begins  in  a  close-built 
town,  or  city,  and  gets  a-liead,  there  its  fury 
increases,  it  rages  over  the  whole  place,  and 
consumes  all  it  can  reach.  .  .  . 

It  is  true;  hundreds,  yea  thousands,  of 
families  fled  away  at  this  last  Plague,  but 
then  of  them  many  fled  too  late,  and  not  only 
died  in  their  flight,  but  carried  the  distemper 
with  them  into  the  countries  where  they 
went,  and  infected  those  whom  they  went 
among  for  safety:  which  confounded  the 
thing,  and  made  that  be  a  propagation  of 
the  distemper  which  was  the  best  means  to 
prevent  it;  and  this  too  is  an  evidence  of  it, 
and  brings  me  back  to  what  I  only  hinted  at 
before,  but  must  speak  more  fully  to  here, 
namely,  that  men  went  about  apparently 
well  many  days  after  they  had  the  taint  of 
the  disease  in  their  vitals,  and  after  their 
spirits  were  so  seized  as  that  they  could 
never  escape  it;  and  that  all  the  while  they 
did  so  they  were  dangerous  to  others, — I 
say  this  proves  that  so  it  was ;  for  such 
people  infected  the  very  towns  they  went 
through  ;  and  it  was  by  that  means  that  al- 
most all  the  great  towns  in  England  had  the 
distemper  among  them,  more  or  less;  and 
always  they  would  tell  you  such  a  Londoner 
or  such  a  Londoner  brought  it  down. 

It  must  not  be  omitted  that,  when  I  speak 
of  those  people  who  were  really  thus  dan- 
gerous, I  suppose  them  to  be  utterly  ignorant 
of  their  own  condition  ;  for  if  they  really 
knew  their  circumstances  to  be  such  as  in- 
deed they  were,  they  must  have  been  a  kind 
of  wilful  murderers,  if  they  would  have 
gone  abroad  among  healthy  people,  and  it 
would  have  verified  indeed  the  suggestion 
which  I  mentioned  above,  and  which  I 
thought  seemed  untrue,  viz.,  that  the  in- 
fected people  were  utterly  careless  as  to  giv- 
ing the  infection  to  others,  and  rather  forward 
to  do  it  than  not ;  and  I  believe  it  was  partly 
from  this  very  thing  that  they  raised  that 
suggestion,  which  I  hope  was  not  really  true 
in  fact. 

I  confess  no  particular  case  is  sufficient  to 
prove  a  general,  but  I  could  name  several 


people  within  the  knowledge  of  some  of  their 
neighbours  and  families  yet  living  who 
shewed  the  contrary  to  an  extreme.  One 
man,  a  master  of  a  family  in  my  neighbour- 
hood, having  had  the  distemper,  he  thought 
he  had  it  given  him  by  a  poor  workman 
whom  he  employed,  and  whom  he  went  to 
his  house  to  see,  or  went  for  some  work  that 
he  wanted  to  have  finished,  and  he  had  some 
apprehensions  even  while  he  was  at  the  po:>r 
workman's  door,  but  did  not  discover  it  fully, 
but  the  next  day  it  discovered  itself,  and  lie 
was  taken  very  ill ;  upon  which  he  imme- 
diately caused  himself  to  be  carried  infr>  an 
outbuilding  which  he  had  in  his  yard,  and 
where  there  was  a  chamber  over  a  work- 
house, the  man  being  a  brazier ;  here  he  lay, 
and  here  he  died,  and  would  be  tended  by 
none  of  his  neighbours,  but  by  a  nurse  from 
abroad,  and  would  not  suffer  his  wife,  nor 
children,  nor  servants  to  come  up  into  the 
room,  lest  they  should  be  infected,  but  sent 
them  his  blessing  and  prayers  for  them  by 
the  nurse,  who  spoke  it  to  them  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  all  this  for  fear  of  giving  them 
the  distemper,  and  without  which,  he  knew 
as  they  were  kept  up,  they  could  not  have  it. 

And  here  I  must  observe  also,  that  the 
Plague,  as  I  suppose  all  distempers  do,  oper- 
ated in  a  different  manner  on  different  con- 
stitutions: some  were  immediately  over- 
whelmed with  it,  and  it  came  to  violent 
fevers,  vomitings,  insufferable  headaches, 
pains  in  the  back,  and  so  up  to  ravings  and 
ragings  with  those  pains  ;  others  with  swell- 
ings and  tumours  in  the  neck  or  groin,  or 
armpits,  which,  till  they  could  be  broke, 
put  them  into  insufferable  agonies  and  tor- 
ment ;  while  others,  as  I  have  observed,  were 
silently  infected,  the  fever  preying  upon 
their  spirits  insensibly,  and  they  seeing  little 
of  it,  till  they  fell  into  swooning,  and  faint- 
ings  and  death,  without  pain. 

A  Journal  of  the  1'layue  year. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT,  D.D., 

famous  alike  for  his  wit,  his  genius,  his  love 
affairs  with  Varina,  Stella,  and  Vanessa,  and 
his  political  warfare,  was  born  in  Dublin, 
1G67,  and  died  in  a  state  of  mental  imbe- 
cility, 1745.  Among  his  best-known  works 
are  Tale  of  a  Tub,  with  an  Account  of  a 
Battle  between  the  Ancient  and  Modern 
Books  in  St.  James's  Library,  Lond.,  1704, 
8vo;  The  Conduct  of  the  Allies,  etc.,  Lond., 
1712,  8vo;  Law  is  a  Bottomless  Pit,  Lond., 
1712,  8vo;  Drapier's  Letters,  1724,  with 
Prometheus,  etc.,  Dubl.,  1725,  8vo,  Lond., 
1730,  8vo;  Gulliver's  Travels,  Lond.,  1726- 
27,  2  vols.  8vo,  2d.  ed.,  Lond.,  1727,  2  vols. 


126 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


8vo.  There  were  collective  editions  of  his 
Works,  Lond.,  1755-1779,  etc.,  25  vols.  8vo, 
nnd  18mo;  Lond.,  by  John  Nichols,  1801,  19 
vols.  8vo,  and  royal  8vo  ;  again,  1803  (some 
1804),  24  vols.  i8niO;  again,  1808,  19  vols. 
8vo;  New  York,  1812-13,  24  vols.  12rno  ; 
Edin.,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with  Life,  1814 
(some  1815),  1250  copies,  19  vols.  8vo,  and 
royal  8vo  ;  2d  ed.,  1250  copies,  19  vols.  8vo; 
Lond.,  with  Memoir  by  Thomas  Roscoe, 
1841,  also  1848,  1851, 1853,  1858, 1868,  each 
in  2  vols.  demy  8vo;  New  York  ("  first  com- 
plete American  edition"),  1859,  6  vols> 
12mo;  again,  Dec.  1862,  6  vols.  12mo.  A 
new  edition  of  Swift's  Works,  prefaced  by 
a  Life,  Journal,  and  Letters,  has  been  an- 
nounced by  Mr.  John  Murray,  of  London. 
Of  his  Select  Works  there  have  been  a 
number  of  editions. 

"In  his  works  he  has  given  very  different  speci- 
mens both  of  sentiments  and  expressions.  His 
'  Tale  of  a  Tub'  has  little  resembhince  to  his  other 
pieces.  It  exhibits  a  vehemence  and  rnpidity  of 
mind,  a  copiousness  of  images,  and  vivacity  of 
diction  such  as  he  afterwards  never  possessed  or 
never  exerted.  It  is  of  amode  so  distinct  and  pecu- 
liar that  it  must  be  considered  by  itself;  what  is 
true  of  that  is  not  true  of  anything  else  which  he 
has  written.  ...[''  What  a  genius  1  had  when 
I  wrote  that  book  !" — Swift,  in  old  age.]  In  his 
other  works  is  found  an  equable  tenour  of  easy 
language,  which  rather  trickles  than  flows.  His 
delight  was  in  simplicity.  That  he  has  in  his 
works  no  mc'taphor,  as  has  been  said,  is  not  true; 
but  his  few  metaphors  seem  to  be  received  rather 
by  necessity  than  choice.  .  .  .  His  style  was  well 
suiU-d  to  his  thoughts,  which  are  never  subtleised 
by  nice  disquisitions,  decorated  by  sparkling  con- 
ceits, elevated  by  ambitious  sentences,  or  varie- 
gatod  by  I'ar-sought  learning.  ...  In  the  poetical 
works  of  Dr.  Swift  there  is  not  much  upon  which 
the  critic  can  exercise  his  powers.  They  are  often 
humorous,  almost  always  light,  and  have  the 
qualities  which  recommend  such  compositions, — 
easiness  and  gnyety.  They  are,  for  the  most  part, 
what  their  author  intended.  The  diction  is  cor- 
rect, the  numbers  are  smooth,  and  the  rhymes 
exact.  There  seldom  occurs  a  hard-laboured  ex- 
pression, or  a  redundant  epithet;  all  his  verses 
exemplify  his  own  definition  of  good  style, — they 
consist  of  proper  words  in  proper  places." — DR. 
JOHNSON:  Life  of  Swift,  in  Cunningham's  ed.  of 
Johnson's  Lives  of  the  English  Poets,  1854,  iii. 
190,  191,  199:  q.  v.  (Index)  for  the  editor's  illus- 
trative Notes.  See  also  Croker's  Boswell's  John- 
son. Index. 

"  His  style  is,  in  its  kind,  one  of  the  models  of 
English  composition:  it  is  proper,  pure,  precise, 
perspicuous,  significant,  nervous,  deriving  a  cer- 
tain dignity  from  a  masterly  contempt  of  puerile 
ornaments,  in  which  every  word  seems  to  convey 
the  intended  meaning  with  the  decision  of  tho 
writer's  character ;  not  adapted,  indeed,  to  ex- 
press nice  distinctions  of  thought  or  shades  of 
feeling,  or  to  convey  those  new  and  large  ideas 
which  must  be  illustrated  by  imagery  but  qualified 
beyond  any  other  to  discuss  the  common  business 
of  life  in  such  a  manner  as  to  convince  and  per- 
suade the  generality  of  men,  and,  where  occasion 


allows  it,  meriting  in  its  vehement  plainness  the 
praise  of  the  most  genuine  eloquence.  His  verse 
is  only,  apparently,  distinguished  by  the  accident 
of  measure  ;  it  has  no  quality  of  poetry,  nnd,  like 
his  prose,  is  remarkable  for  sense  and  wit." — SIR 
JAMES  MACKINTOSH  :  Life,  ii.,  ch.  iii.  See  chaps. 
i.,  ii.,  vii. 

REMARKS  ON  A  PROPOSED  ABOLITION  OF 

CHRISTIANITY. 

I  am  very  sensible  how  much  the  gentle- 
men of  wit  and  pleasure  are  apt  to  murmur 
and  be  shocked  at  the  sight  of  so  many 
daggle-tail  parsons,  who  happen  to  fall  in 
their  way,  and  offend  their  eyes  ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  those  wise  reformers  do  not  con- 
sider what  an  advantage  and  felicity  it  is 
for  great  wits  to  be  always  provided  with 
objects  of  scorn  and  contempt,  in  order  to 
exercise  and  improve  their  talents,  and 
divert  their  spleen  from  falling  on  each 
other,  or  on  themselves;  especially  when 
all  this  may  be  done  without  the  least  im- 
aginable danger  to  their  persons.  And  to 
urge  another  argument  of  a  parallel  nature  : 
if  Christianity  were  once  abolished,  how 
could  the  free-thinkers,  the  strong  reason- 
ers,  and  the  men  of  profound  learning,  be 
able  to  find  another  subject  so  calculated  in 
all  points  whereon  to  display  their  abilities? 
What  wonderful  productions  of  wit  should 
we  be  deprived  of  from  those  whose  genius, 
by  continual  practice,  hath  been  wholly 
turned  upon  raillery  and  invectives  against 
religion,  and  would,  therefore,  be  never 
able  to  shine  or  distinguish  themselves  on 
any  other  subject?  We  are  daily  complain- 
ing of  the  great  decline  of  wit  among  us,  and 
would  we  take  away  the  greatest,  perhaps 
the  only,  topic  we  have  left?  Who  would 
ever  have  suspected  Asgill  for  a  wit,  or 
Toland  for  a  philosopher,  if  the  inexhaust- 
ible stock  of  Christianity  had  not  been  at 
hand  to  provide  them  with  materials  ?  What 
other  subject  through  all  art  or  nature 
could  have  produced  Tindal  for  a  profound 
author,  or  furnished  him  with  readers?  It 
is  the  wise  choice  of  the  subject  that  alone 
adorneth  and  distinguished  the  writer.  For 
had  a  hundred  such  pens  as  these  been  em- 
ployed on  the  side  of  religion,  they  would 
immediately  have  sunk  into  silence  and  ob- 
livion. 

Nor  do  I  think  it  wholly  groundless,  or 
my  fears  altogether  imaginary,  that  the 
abolishing  of  Christianity  may,  perhaps, 
bring  the  church  in  danger,  or  at  least  put 
the  senate  to  the  trouble  of  another  securing 
vote.  I  desire  I  may  not  be  misunderstood  : 
I  am  far  from  presuming  to  affirm  or  think 
that  the  church  is  in  danger  at  present,  or 
as  things  now  stand,  but  we  know  not  how 
soon  it  may  be  so,  when  the  Christian  reli- 
gion is  repealed.  As  plausible  as  this  pro- 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


127 


ject  seems,  there  may  a  dangerous  design 
lurk  under  it.  Nothing  can  be  more  notori- 
ous than  that  the  atheists,  deists,  socinians, 
anti-trinitarians,  and  other  subdivisions  of 
free-thinkers,  are  persons  of  little  zeal  for  the 
present  ecclesiastical  establishment.  Their 
declared  opinion  is  for  repealing  the  sacra- 
mental test;  they  are  very  indifferent  with 
regard  to  ceremonies  ;  nor  do  they  hold  the 
jus  divinum  of  episcopacy.  Therefore  this 
may  be  intended  as  one  politic  step  towards 
altering  the  constitution  of  the  church  estab- 
lished, and  setting  up  presbytery  in  its  stead  ; 
which  I  leave  to  be  farther  considered  by  those 
at  the  helm. 

And  therefore  if,  notwithstanding  all  I 
have  said,  it  shall  still  be  thought  necessary 
to  have  a  bill  brought  in  for  repealing  Chris- 
tianity, I  would  humbly  offer  an  amendment, 
that,  instead  of  the  word  Christianity,  may 
be  put  religion  in  general ;  which  I  conceive 
will  much  better  answer  all  the  good  ends 
proposed  by  the  projectors  of  it.  For  as 
lung  as  we  leave  in  being  a  God  and  his 
Providence,  with  all  the  necessary  conse- 
quences which  curious  and  inquisitive  men 
will  be  apt  to  draw  from  such  premises,  we 
do  not  strike  at  the  root  of  the  evil,  although 
we  should  ever  so  effectually  annihilate  the 
present  scheme  of  the  Gospel.  For  of  what 
use  is  freedom  of  thought  if  it  will  not  pro- 
duce freedom  of  action,  which  is  the  sole 
end,  how  remote  soever  in  appearance,  of 
all  objections  against  Christianity?  And 
therefore  the  free-thinkers  consider  it  a  sort 
of  edifice,  wherein  all  the  parts  have  such  a 
mutual  dependence  on  each  other,  that  if 
you  happen  to  pull  out  one  single  nail  the 
whole  fabric  must  fall  to  the  ground. 

THOUGHTS  AXD  APHORISMS. 

If  the  men  of  wit  and  genius  would  re- 
solve never  to  complain  in  their  works  of 
critics  and  detractors,  the  next  age  would 
not  know  that  they  ever  had  any. 

Imaginary  evils  soon  become  real  ones  by 
indulging  our  reflections  on  them,  as  he  who 
in  a  melancholy  fancy  sees  something  like  a 
face  on  the  wall  or  the  wainscoat  can,  by 
two  or  three  touches  with  a  lead  pencil, 
make  it  look  visible  and  greeing  with  what 
he  fancied. 

Men  of  great  parts  are  often  unfortunate 
in  the  management  of  public  business,  be- 
cause they  arc  apt  to  go  out  of  the  common 
road  by  the  quickness  of  their  imagination. 
This  I  once  said  to  my  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
and  desired  he  would  observe  that  the  clerks 
in  his  office  used  a  sort  of  ivory  knife  with 
a  blunt  edge  to  divide  a  sheet  of  paper, 
which  never  failed  to  cut  it  even,  only  re- 
quiring a  steady  hand  ;  whereas  if  they 


should  make  use  of  a  sharp  penknife,  the 
sharpness  would  make  it  often  go  out  of  the 
crease  and  disfigure  the  paper. 

"  He  who  does  not  provide  for  his  own 
house,"  St.  Paul  says,  "is  worse  than  an 
infidel  ;"  and  I  think  he  who  provides  only 
for  his  own  house  is  just  equal  with  an 
infidel. 

I  never  yet  knew  a  wag  (as  the  term  is) 
who  was  not  a  dunce. 

When  we  desire  or  solicit  anything,  our 
minds  run  wholly  on  the  good  side"  or  cir- 
cumstances of  it;  when  it  is  obtained,  our 
minds  run  wholly  on  the  bad  ones. 

The  latter  part  of  a  wise  man's  life  is 
taken  up  in  curing  the  follies,  prejudices, 
and  false  opinions  he  had  contracted  in  the 
former. 

Would  a  writer  know  how  to  behave  him- 
self with  relation  to  posterity,  let  him  con- 
sider in  old  books  what  he  finds  that  he  is 
glad  to  know,  and  what  omissions  he  most 
laments. 

One  argument  to  prove  that  the  common 
relations  of  ghosts  and  spectres  are  generally 
false,  may  be  drawn  from  the  opinion  held 
that  spirits  are  never  seen  by  more  than  one 
person  at  a  time  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  seldom 
happens  to  above  one  person  in  a  company 
to  be  possessed  with  any  high  degree  of 
spleen  or  melancholy. 

It  is  pleasant  to  observe  how  free  the 
present  age  is  in  laving  taxes  on  the  next: 
"Future  ages  shall"  talk  of  this;"  "This 
shall  be  famous  to  all  posterity :"  whereas 
their  time  and  thoughts  will  be  taken  up 
about  present  things,  as  ours  are  now. 

I  never  heard  a  finer  piece  of  satire  against 
lawyers  than  that  of  astrologers,  when  they 
pretend  by  rules  of  art  to  tell  when  a  suit 
will  end,  and  whether  to  the  advantage  of 
the  plaintiff  or  defendant ;  thus  making  the 
matter  depend  entirely  upon  the  influence 
of  the  stars,  without  the  least  regard  to  the 
merits  of  the  cause. 

I  have  known  some  men  possessed  of  good 
qualities,  which  were  very  serviceable  to 
others  but  useless  to  themselves  :  like  a  sun- 
dial on  the  front  of  a  house,  to  inform  the 
neighbours  and  passengers,  but  not  the 
owner  within. 

If  a  man  would  register  all  his  opinions 
upon  love,  politics,  religion,  learning,  &c., 
beginning  from  his  youth,  and  so  go  on  to 
old  age,  what  a  bundle  of  inconsistencies 
and  contradictions  would  appear  at  last! 

The  stoical  scheme  of  supplying  our  wants 
by  lopping  off  our  desires,  is  like  cutting  off 
our  feet  when  we  want  shoes. 

The  reason  why  so  few  marriages  are 
happy  is,  because  young  ladies  spend  their 
time  in  making  nets,  not  in  making  cnges. 

The  power  of  fortune  is  confessed  only  by 


128 


WILLIAM   WHISTON. 


the  miserable,  for  the  happy  impute  all  their 
success  to  prudence  or  merit.  Complaint  is 
the  largest  tribute  heaven  receives,  and  the 
sincerest  part  of  our  devotion. 

The  common  fluency  of  speech  in  many 
men,  and  most  women,  is  owing  to  a  scarcity 
of  matter,  and  a  scarcity  of  words  :  for  who- 
ever is  a  master  of  language,  and  hath  a 
mind  full  of  ideas,  will  be  apt  in  speaking 
to  hesitate  upon  the  choice  of  both  ;  whereas 
common  speakers  have  only  one  set  of  ideas, 
and  one  set  of  words  to  clothe  them  in  ;  and 
these  are  always  ready  at  the  mouth  :  so 
people  come  faster  out  of  church  when  it  is 
almost  empty  than  when  a  crowd  is  at  the 
door. 


WILLIAM   WHISTON, 

born  1G67,  died  1752,  was  author  of  many 
mathematical  and  theological  works  (some 
of  them  opposed  to  trinitarian  views),  and 
published  a  Translation  of  Josephus,  Lond., 
1737,  etc.,  which  has  been,  or  ought  to  be, 
superseded  by  the  translation  of  Rev.  Dr. 
Robert  Traill,  Lond.,  1846-51,  3  vote,  super- 
royal  8vo.  Among  his  works  were :  New 
Theory  of  the  Earth,  Lond.,  1696,  8vo;  Vin- 
dication of  the  New  Theory,  Lond.,  1698, 
8vo ;  Short  View  of  the  Chronology  of  the 
Old  Testament,  and  of  the  Harmony  of  the 
Four  Evangelists,  Camb.,  1702,  4to,  1707, 
4to  ;  Essay  on  the  Revelation  of  St.  John, 
Camb.,  1706,  4to,  some  large  paper,  2d  ed., 
Lond.,  1744,  4to ;  The  Accomplishment  of 
Scripture  Prophecies:  Boyle  Lecture, Camb., 
1708,  8vo ;  Primitive  Christianity  Revived, 
Lond.,  1711-12,  5  vola.  8vo ;  Sir  Isaac 
Newton's  Mathematical  Philosophy  Demon- 
strated, Lond.,  1716,  8vo ;  Memoirs  of  the 
Life  and  Writings  of  Mr.  William  Winston, 
Lond.,  1749-50,  3  vols.  Svo. 

"  The  Memoirs  of  this  singular  man,  published 
by  himself,  contain  some  curious  information  re- 
specting his  times,  and  afford  a  view  of  great 
honesty  and  disinterestedness,  combined  with  an 
extraordinary  degree  of  superstition  and  love  of 
the  marvellous." — Ornie'*  Bill.  Jiib.,  467. 

"The  honest,  pious,  visionary  Winston." — GIB- 
BON: Decline  and  Fa/I,  ch.  xliii.,  n. 

"  Poor  Whiston,  who  believed  in  everything  but 
the  Trinity.'1 — LOUD  MACAULAY  :  Hint,  of  En<j., 
viii.,  ch.  xiv.,  n. 

Ox  THE  EVIDENCES  OF  DIVINE  REVELATION. 

I  cannot  but  heartily  wish,  for  the  com- 
mon good  of  all  the  sceptics  and  unbelievers 
of  this  age,  that  I  could  imprint  in  their 
minds  all  that  real  evidence  for  natural  and 
for  revealed  religion  that  now  is,  or  during 
my  past  inquiries  has  been,  upon  my  own 
mind  thereto  relating  ;  and  that  their  temper 
of  mind  were  such  as  that  this  evidence 


might  afford  them  as  great  satisfaction  as  it 
has  myself.  But  though  this  entire  com- 
munication of  the  evidence  that  is  or  has 
been  in  my  own  mind,  for  the  certainty  of 
natural  religion,  and  of  the  Jewish  and 
Christian  institutions,  be,  in  its  own  nature, 
impossible,  yet  I  hope  I  may  have  leave  to 
address  myself  to  all,  especially  to  the  scep- 
tics and  unbelievers  of  our  age;  to  do  what 
I  am  able  for  them  in  this  momentous  con- 
cern ;  and  to  lay  before  them,  as  briefly  and 
seriously  as  I  can,  a  considerable  number  of 
those  arguments  which  have  the  greatest 
weight  with  me,  as  to  the  hardest  part  of 
what  is  here  desired  and  expected  from  them. 
I  mean  the  belief  of  revealed  religion,  or  of 
the  Jewish  and  Christian  institutions,  as 
contained  in  the  books  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament.  But  to  waive  farther  prelimi- 
naries, some  of  the  principal  reasons  which 
make  me  believe  the  Bible  to  be  true  are  the 
following: 

1.  The  Bible  lays  the  law  of  nature  for 
its  foundation  ;  and  all  along  supports  and 
assists  natural  religion  ;  as  every  true  rev- 
elation ought  to  do. 

2.  Astronomy  and  the  rest  of  our  certain 
mathematic  sciences  do  confirm  the  accounts 
of  Scripture,  so  far  as  they  are  concerned. 

3.  The  most  ancient  and  best  historical 
accounts  now  known  do,  generally  speaking, 
confirm  the  accounts  of  Scripture,  so  far  as 
they  are  concerned. 

4.  The  more  learning  has  increased  the 
more  certain   in   general  do  the  Scripture 
accounts  appear,  and  its  more  difficult  places 
are  more  cleared  thereby. 

5.  There   are,   or   have  been    generally, 
standing  memorials  preserved  of  the  certain 
truths  of  the  principal  historical  facts,  which 
were  constant  evidences  for  the  certainty  of 
them. 

6.  Neither  the  Mosaical  law,  nor  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  could  possibly  have  been  re- 
ceived and  established  without  such  miracles 
as  the  sacred  history  contains. 

7.  Although  the  Jews  all  along  hated  nnd 
persecuted  the  prophets  of  God,  yet  were  they 
forced  to  believe  they  were  true  prophets,  and 
their  writings  of  divine  inspiration. 

8.  The  ancient  and  present  state  of  the 
Jewish  nation  are  strong  arguments  for  the 
truth  of  their  law,  and  of  the   Scripture 
prophecy  relating  to  them. 

9.  The  ancient  and  present  state  of  the 
Christian  church  are  also  strong  arguments 
for  the  truth  of  their  law,  and  of  the  Scrip- 
ture prophecies  relating  thereto. 

10.  The  miracles  whereon  the  Jewish  and 
Christian  religion   are  founded  were  of  old 
owned  to  be  true  by  their  very  enemies. 

11.  The  sacred  writers,  who  lived  in  times 
and  places  so  remote  from  one  another,  do 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


129 


yet  all  carry  on  one  and  the  same  grand  de- 
sign, viz.,  that  of  the  salvation  of  mankind 
by  the  worship  of  and  obedience  to  the  one 
true  God,  in  and  through  the  King  Messiah, 
which  without  a  divine  conduct  could  never 
have  been  done. 

12.  The  principal  doctrines  of  the  Jewish 
and  Christian  religion  are  agreeable  to  the 
most  ancient  traditions  of  all  other  nations. 

13.  The  difficulties  relating  to  this  religion 
are  not  such  as  affect  the  truth  of  the  facts, 
but  the  conduct  of  Providence,  the  reasons 
of  which  the  sacred  writers  never  pretended 
fully  to  know,  or  to  reveal  to  mankind. 

14.  Natural  religion,  which  is  yet  so  cer- 
tain in  itself,  is  not  without  such  difficulties 
as  to  the  conduct  of  Providence  as  are  ob- 
jected to  revelation. 

15.  The  sacred   history  has  the  greatest 
marks  of  truth,  honesty,  and  impartiality 
of  all  other  histories  whatsoever  :  and  withal 
has  none  of  the  known  marks  of  knavery 
and  imposture. 

16.  The  predictions  of  Scripture  have  been 
still  fulfilled  in  the  several  ages  of  the  world 
whereto  they  belong. 

17.  No  opposite  systems  of  the  universe, 
or  schemes  of  divine  revelation,  have  any 
tolerable  pretences  to  be  true  but  those  of 
the  Jews  and  Christians. 

These  are  the  plain  and  obvious  argu- 
ments which  persuade  me  of  the  truth  of 
the  Jewish  and  Christian  revelations. 


SIR  RICHARD   STEELE, 

the  friend  of  Addison,  born  in  Dublin.  1671, 
died  1729,  was  the  author  of  The  Christian 
Hero,  Lond.,  1701,  8vo,  of  plays,  political 
and  other  treatises,  and  of  many  papers  in 
The  Tatler,  The  Spectator,  and  The  Guardian. 

"  Steele  seems  to  have  gone  into  his  closet  chiefly 
to  set  down  what  he  observed  out  of  doors.  Addi- 
son seems  to  have  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his  study, 
and  to  have  spun  out  and  wire-drawn  the  hints 
which  he  borrowed  from  Steele  or  took  from  na- 
ture, to  the  utmost.  I  am  far  from  wishing  to 
depreciate  Addison's  talents,  but  I  am  anxious  to 
do  justice  to  Steele,  who  was,  I  think,  upon  the 
whole,  a  less  artificial  and  more  original  writer. 
The  humorous  descriptions  of  Steele  resemble 
loose  sketches,  or  fragments  of  a  comedy;  those 
of  Addison  are  rather  comments,  or  ingenious  par- 
aphrases, on  the  original  text." — HAZLITT:  Lect*. 
ou  the  EwjUxk  Comic,  Lect.  V.  See  also  Lect.  VIII. 

"  The  great,  the  appropriate  praise  of  Steele  is, 
to  have  been  the  first  who,  after  the  licentious  age 
of  Charles  the  Second,  endeavoured  to  introduce 
the  Virtues  on  the  stage." — DR.  DRAKE  :  Essays 
Illustrative  of  The  Tatler,  etc.,  2d  ed.,  1814,  i.  58. 

ON  TEARS. 

"  What  I  would  have  you  treat  of,  is  the 
cause  of  shedding  tears.     I  desire  you  would 
y 


discuss  it  a  little,  with  observations  upon  the 
various  occasions  which  provoke  us  to  that 
expression  of  our  concern,  &c." 

To  obey  this  complaisant  gentleman,  I 
know  no  way  so  short  as  examining  the  va- 
rious touches  of  my  own  bosom,  on  several 
occurrences  in  a  long  life,  to  the  evening  of 
which  I  am  arrived,  .after  as  many  various 
incidents  as  anybody  has  met  with.  I  have 
often  reflected  that  there  is  a  great  simili- 
tude in  the  motions  of  the  heart  in  mirth  and 
in  sorrow;  and  I  think  the  usual  occasion 
of  the  latter,  as  well  as  the  former,  is  some- 
thing which  is  sudden  and  unexpected.  The 
mind  has  not  a  sufficient  time  to  recollect  its 
force,  and  immediately  gushes  into  tears 
before  we  can  utter  ourselves  by  speech  or 
complaint.  The  most  notorious  causes  of 
these  drops  from  our  eyes  are  pity,  sorrow, 
joy,  and  reconciliation. 

The  fair  sex,  who  are  made  of  man  and 
not  of  earth,  have  a  more  delicate  humanity 
than  we  have  ;  and  pity  is  the  most  common 
cause  of  their  tears  ;  for  as  we  are  inwardly 
composed  of  an  aptitude  to  every  circum- 
stance of  life,  and  everything  that  befalls 
any  one  person  might  have  happened  to  any 
other  of  the  human  race,  self-love,  and  a  sense 
of  the  pain  we  ourselves  should  suffer  in  the 
circumstances  of  any  whom  we  pity,  is  the 
cause  of  that  compassion.  Such  a  reflection 
in  the  breast  of  a  woman  immediately  in- 
clines her  to  tears;  but  in  a  man,  it  makes 
him  think  how  such  a  one  ought  to  act  on 
that  occasion  suitably  to  the  dignity  of  his 
nature.  Thus  a  woman  is  ever  moved  for 
those  whom  she  hears  lament,  and  a  man 
for  those  whom  he  observes  to  suffer  in 
silence.  It  is  a  man's  own  behaviour  in  the 
circumstances  he  is  under  which  procures 
him  the  esteem  of  others,  and  not  merely 
the  affliction  itself,  which  demands  our  pity: 
for  we  never  give  a  man  that  passion  which 
he  falls  into  for  himself.  He  that  commends 
himself  never  purchases  our  applause;  nor 
he  that  bewails  himself  our  pity.  ...  In 
the  tragedy  of  "  Macbeth"  where  Wilks  acts 
the  part  of  a  man  whose  family  has  been 
murdered  in  his  absence,  the  wildness  of 
his  passion,  which  is  run  over  in  a  torrent 
of  calamitous  circumstances,  does  but  raise 
my  spirits,  and  give  me  the  alarm  ;  but 
when  he  skilfully  seems  to  be  out  of  breath, 
and  is  brought  too  low  to  say  more  ;  and 
upon  a  second  reflection  cries  only,  wiping 
his  eyes,  "What, both  children  1  Both, both 
my  children  gone!7'  there  is  no  resisting 
a  sorrow  which  seems  to  have  cast  about 
for  all  the  reasons  possible  for  its  consola- 
tion, but  has  no  resource.  "  There  is  not 
one  left ;  but  both,  both  are  murdered  !'' 
such  sudden  starts  from  the  thread  of  the 
discourse,  and  a  plain  sentiment  expressed 


130 


SIR  RICHARD  STEELE. 


in  an  artless  way,  are  the  irresistible  strokes 
of  eloquence  and  poetry.  The  same  great 
master,  Shakspeare,  can  afford  us  instances 
of  all  the  places  where  our  souls  are  ac- 
cessible ;  and  ever  commands  our  tears.  But 
it  is  to  be  observed  that  he  draws  them 
from  some  unexpected  source,  which  seems 
not  wholly  of  a  piece  with  the  discourse. 
Thus,  when  Brutus  and  Cassius  had  a  de- 
bate in  the  tragedy  of  "  Caesar,"  and  rose 
to  warm  language  against  each  other,  inso- 
much that  it  had  almost  come  to  something 
that  might  be  fatal,  until  they  recollected 
themselves,  Brutus  does  more  than  make  an 
apology  for  the  heat  he  had  been  in,  by  say- 
ing, "  Portia  is  dead."  Here  Cassius  is  all 
tenderness,  and  ready  to  dissolve,  when  he 
considers  that  the  mind  of  his  friend  had 
been  employed  on  the  greatest  affliction 
imaginable,  when  he  had  been  adding  to 
it  by  a  debate  on  trifles ;  which  makes  him, 
in  the  anguish  of  his  heart,  cry  out,  "  How 
'scaped  I  killing,  when  I  thus  provoked 
you?"  This  is  an  incident  which  moves 
the  soul  in  all  its  sentiments ;  and  Cassius's 
heart  was  at  once  touched  with  all  the  soft 
pangs  of  pity,  and  remorse,  and  reconcilia- 
tion. It  is  said,  indeed,  by  Horace,  "  If  you 
would  have  me  weep,  you  must  first  weep 
yourself."  This  is  not  literally  true  ;  for  it 
would  have  been  as  rightly  said,  if  we  ob- 
serve nature,  "  That  I  shall  certainly  weep, 
if  you  do  not ;"  but  what  is  intended  by 
that  expression  is,  that  it  is  not  possible  to 
give  passion  except  you  shew  that  you  suf- 
fer yourself.  Therefore  the  true  art  seems 
to  be,  that  when  you  would  have  the  person 
you  represent  pitied,  you  must  shew  him  at 
once  in  the  highest  grief;  and  struggling  to 
bear  it  with  decency  and  patience.  In  this 
case,  we  sigh  for  him,  and  give  him  every 
groan  he  suppresses. 

The  Taller,  No.  08,  September  15,  1709. 

Ox  POETRY. 

An  ingenious  and  worthy  gentleman,  my 
ancient  friend,  fell  into  discourse  with  me 
this  evening  upon  the  force  and  efficacy 
which  the  writings  of  good  poets  have  on 
the  minds  of  their  intelligent  readers:  and 
recommended  to  me  his  sense  of  the  matter, 
thrown  together  in  the  following  manner, 
which  he  desired  me  to  communicate  to  the 
youth  of  Great  Britain  in  my  Essays.  I 
choose  to  do  it  in  his  own  words : 

"I  have  always  been  of  opinion,"  says 
he,  "  that  virtue  sinks  deepest  into  the  heart 
of  man  when  it  comes  recommended  by  the 
powerful  charms  of  poetry.  The  most  active 
principle  in  our  mind  is  the  imagination;  to 
it  a  good  poet  makes  his  court  perpetually, 
and  by  this  faculty  takes  care  to  gain  it 
first.  Our  passions  and  inclinations  come 


over  next;  and  our  reason  surrenders  itself 
with  pleasure  in  the  end.  Thus  the  whole 
soul  is  insensibly  betrayed  into  morality  by 
bribing  the  fancy  with  beautiful  and  agree- 
able images  of  those  very  things  that  in  the 
books  of  the  philosophers  appear  austere, 
and  have  at  the  best  but  a  forbidding  aspect. 
In  a  word,  the  poets  do,  as  it  were,  strew 
the  rough  paths  of  virtue  so  full  of  flowers, 
that  we  are  not  sensible  of  the  uneasiness 
of  them ;  and  imagine  ourselves  in  the 
midst  of  pleasures,  and  the  most  bewitching 
allurements,  at  the  time  we  are  making 
progress  in  the  severest  duties  of  life.  All 
men  agree  that  licentious  poems  do,  of  all 
writings,  soonest  corrupt  the  heart.  And 
why  should  we  not  be  as  universally  per- 
suaded that  the  grave  and  serious  perform- 
ances of  such  as  write  in  the  most  engaging 
manner,  by  a  kind  of  divine  impulse,  must 
be  the  most  effectual  persuasives  to  good- 
ness? If,  therefore,  I  were  blessed  with  a 
son,  in  order  to  the  forming  of  his  man- 
ners, which  is  making  him  truly  my  son,  I 
should  be  continually  putting  into  his  hand 
some  fine  poet.  The  graceful  sentences,  and 
the  manly  sentiments,  so  frequently  to  be 
met  with  in  every  great  and  sublime  writer, 
are,  in  my  judgment,  the  most  ornamental 
and  valuable  furniture  that  can  he  for  a 
young  gentleman's  head;  methinks  they 
shew  like  so  much  rich  embroidery  upon 
the  brain.  Let  me  add  to  this,  that  human- 
ity and  tenderness,  without  which  there 
can  be  no  true  greatness  in  the  mind,  are 
inspired  by  the  Muses  in  such  pathetic 
language,  that  all  we  find  in  prose  authors 
towards  the  raising  and  improving  of  these 
passions  is,  in  comparison,  but  cold  or  luke- 
warm at  the  best.  There  is  besides  a  certain 
elevation  of  soul,  a  sedate  magnanimity,  and 
a  noble  turn  of  virtue,  that  distinguishes  the 
hero  from  the  plain,  honest  man,  to  which 
verse  only  can  raise  us.  The  bold  metaphors, 
and  sounding  numbers,  peculiar  to  the  poets, 
rouse  up  all  our  sleeping  faculties,  and 
alarm  the  whole  powers  of  the  soul,  much 
like  that  excellent  trumpeter  mentioned  by 
Virgil : 

Quo  non  prsestantior  alter 

iere  viros,  Martemque  accendcre  can  hi. 
Virg.  jKn.,  vi.  164. 


None  so  renown'd 


With  breathing  brass  to  kindle  fierce  alarms. 

DRYDEN." 

The  Tatter,  No.  98,  November  24,  1709. 
ON  CASTLE-BUILDING. 

September  6,  1711. 
MR.  SPECTATOR, 

I  am  a  fellow  of  a  very  odd  frame  of  mind, 
as  you  will  find  by  the  sequel ;  and  think 
myself  fool  enough  to  deserve  a  place  in 


ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER. 


131 


your  paper.  I  am  unhappily  far  gone  in 
building,  and  am  one  of  that  species  of  men 
who  are  properly  denominated  castle-build- 
ers, who  scorn  to  be  beholden  to  the  earth 
for  a  foundation,  or  dig  in  the  bowels  of  it 
for  materials  ;  but  erect  their  structures  in 
the  most  unstable  of  elements,  the  air  ;  fancy 
alone  laying  the  line,  marking  the  extent, 
and  shaping  the  model.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  enumerate  what  august  palaces  and 
stately  porticos  have  grown  under  my  form- 
ing imagination,  or  what  verdant  meadows 
and  shady  groves  have  started  into  being  by 
the  powerful  heat  of  a  warm  fancy.  A  cas- 
tle-builder is  even  just  what  he  pleases,  and 
as  such  I  have  grasped  imaginary  sceptres, 
and  delivered  uncontrollable  edicts,  from  a 
throne  to  which  conquered  nations  yielded 
obeisance.  I  have  made  I  know  not  how 
many  inroads  into  France,  and  ravaged  the 
very  heart  of  that  kingdom  ;  I  have  dined 
in  the  Louvre  and  drank  champagne  at  Ver- 
sailles ;  and  I  would  have  you  take  notice,  I 
am  not  only  able  to  vanquish  a  people  al- 
ready cowed  and  accustomed  to  flight,  but  I 
could,  Almanzor-like  [see  Dryden's  Conquest 
of  Granada],  drive  the  British  general  from 
the  field,  were  I  less  a  Protestant,  or  had 
ever  been  affronted  by  the  confederates. 
There  is  no  art  or  profession  whose  most 
celebrated  masters  I  have  not  eclipsed. 
Wherever  I  have  afforded  my  salutary  pres- 
ence fevers  have  ceased  to  burn  and  agues 
to  shake  the  human  fabric.  When  an  elo- 
quent fit  has  been  upon  me,  an  apt  gesture 
and  proper  cadence  have  animated  each  sen- 
tence, and  gazing  crowds  have  found  their 
passions  worked  up  into  rage,  or  soothed 
into  a  calm.  I  am  short,  and  not  very  well 
made ;  yet  upon  sight  of  a  fine  woman  I 
have  stretched  into  proper  stature,  and 
killed  with  a  good  air  and  mien.  These  are 
the  gay  phantoms  that  dance  before  my 
waking  eyes,  and  compose  my  day-dreams. 
I  should  be  the  most  contented  man  alive 
were  the  chimerical  happiness  which  springs 
from  the  paintings  of  fancy  less  fleeting  and 
transitory.  But  alas!  it  is  with  grief  of 
mind  I  tell  you,  the  least  breath  of  wind 
has  often  demolished  my  magnificent  edi- 
fices, swept  away  my  groves,  and  left  no 
more  trace  of  them  than  if  they  had  never 
been.  My  exchequer  has  sunk  and  vanished 
by  a  rap  on  my  door;  the  salutation  of  a 
friend  has  cost  me  a  whole  continent;  and 
in  the  same  moment  I  have  been  pulled  by 
the  sleeve,  my  crown  has  fallen  from  my 
head.  The  ill  consequences  of  these  reve- 
ries is  inconceivably  great,  seeing  the  loss 
of  imaginary  possessions  makes  impressions 
of  real  woe.  Besides,  bad  economy  is  visi- 
ble and  apparent  in  builders  of  invisible 
mansions.  My  tenants'  advertisements  of 


ruins  and  dilapidations  often  cast  a  damp 
on  my  spirits,  even  in  the  instant  when  the 
sun,  in  all  his  splendour,  gilds  my  eastern 
palaces.  Add  to  this,  the  pensive  drudgery 
in  building,  and  constant  grasping  aerial 
trowels,  distracts  and  shatters  the  mind,  and 
the  fond  builder  of  Babels  is  often  cursed 
with  an  incoherent  diversity  and  confusion 
of  thoughts.  I  do  not  know  to  whom  I  can 
more  properly  apply  myself  for  relief  from 
this  fantastical  evil  than  to  yourself;  whom 
I  earnestly  implore  to  accommodate  me  with 
a  method  how  to  settle  my  head  and  cool 
my  brain-pan.  A  dissertation  on  castle- 
building  may  not  only  be  serviceable  to  my- 
self, but  all  architects  who  display  their  skill 
in  the  thin  element. 

Such  a  favour  would  oblige  me  to  make 
my  next  soliloquy  not  contain  the  praises 
of  my  dear  self,  but  of  the  Spectator,  who 
shall,  by  complying  with  this,  make  me 
His  obliged  humble  servant, 

VITRUVIUS. 
The  Spectator,  No.  167,  September  11,  1711. 


ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER, 

third  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  born  1671,  died 
1713,  was  the  author  of  a  famous  work  en- 
titled Characteristics  of  Men,  Manners,  Opin- 
ions, and  Times,  Lond.,  1711,  etc..  3  vols. 
8vo,  5th  and  first  complete  edition,  1732,  3 
vols.  8vo. 

"  I  much  question  whether  several  of  the  rhap- 
sodies called  The  Chor<ictei-istic»  would  ever  have 
survived  the  first  edition  if  they  had  not  discov- 
ered so  strong  a  tincture  of  infidelity,  and  now  and 
then  cast  out  a  profane  sneer  at  our  holy  religion. 
I  have  sometimes  indeed  been  ready  to  wonder 
how  a  book  in  the  main  so  loosely  written  should 
ever  obtain  so  many  readers  amongst  men  of  sense. 
Surely  they  must  be  conscious  in  the  perusal  that 
sometimes  a  patrician  may  write  as  idly  as  a  man 
of  plebeian  rank,  and  trifle  as  much  as  an  old 
school-man,  though  it  is  ia  another  form.  I  am 
forced  to  say,  there  are  few  books  that  ever  I  read 
which  made  any  pretence  to  a  great  genius  from 
which  I  derived  so  little  valuable  knowledge  as 
from  these  treatises.  There  is  indeed  amongst 
them  a  lively  pertness-,  a  parade  of  literature,  and 
much  of  what  some  folks  now-a-days  call  polite- 
ness; but  it  is  hard  that  we  should  be  bound  to 
admire  all  the  reveries  of  this  author  under  the 
penalty  of  being  unfashionable." — DR.  ISAAC 
WATTS:  Improvement  of  the  Mind,  Part  I.  ch.  5. 

"  Mr.  Pope  told  me  that  to  his  knowledge  the 
Characteristics  had  done  more  harm  to  Revealed 
Religion  in  England  than  all  the  works  on  Infi- 
delity put  together." — BISHOP  WARBUUTON. 

"  Grace  belongs  only  to  natural  movements  ;  and 
Lord  Shaftesbury,  notwithstanding  the  frequent 
beauty  of  his  thoughts  and  language,  has  rarely 
attained  it.  ...  lie  had  great  power  of  thought 
and  command  over  words.  But  he  had  no  talent 
for  inventing  character  and  bestowing  life  on  it. 


132 


ANTHONY  ASHLEY  COOPER. 


The  Inquiry  concerning  Virtue  is  nearly  exempt 
from  the  faulty  peculiarities  of  the  author;  the 
method  is  perfect,  the  reasoning  just,  the  style  pre- 
cise and  clear." — SIR  .1  A  \i  i:s  MACKINTOSH  :  Prelim. 
JJiisei-t.  to  Encyc.  Hi-it. 

Sir  James  remarks  of  the  quotation  which  fol- 
lows, "  that  there  is  scarcely  any  composition  in  our 
language  more  lofty  in  its  moral  and  religious  sen- 
timents, or  more  exquisitely  elegant  and  musical 
in  its  diction." 

PLATONIC  REPRESENTATION  OF  THE  SCALE  OF 
BEAUTY  AND  LOVE. 

I  have  now  a  better  idea  of  that  melan- 
choly you  discovered  ;  and  notwithstanding 
the  humorous  turn  you  were  pleased  to  give 
it,  I  am  persuaded  it  has  a  different  founda- 
tion from  any  of  those  fantastical  causes  I 
then  assigned  to  it.  Love,  doubtless,  is  at 
the  bottom,  but  a  nobler  love  than  such  as 
common  beauties  inspire. 

Here,  in  my  turn,  I  began  to  raise  my 
voice,  and  imitate  the  solemn  way  you  have 
been  teaching  me.  Knowing  as  you  are 
(continued  I),  well  knowing  and  experi- 
enced in  all  the  degrees  and  orders  of  beauty, 
in  all  the  mysterious  charms  of  the  particu- 
lar forms,  you  rise  to  what  is  more  general ; 
and  with  a  larger  heart,  and  mind  more  com- 
prehensive, you  generously  seek  that  which 
is  highest  in  the  kind.  Not  captivated  by 
the  lineaments  of  a  fair  face,  or  the  well- 
drawn  proportions  of  a  human  body,  you 
view  the  life  itself,  arid  embrace  rather  the 
mind  which  adds  the  lustre,  and  renders 
chietlv  amiable. 

Nor  is  the  enjoyment  of  such  a  single 
beauty  sufficient  to  satisfy  such  an  aspiring 
soul.  It  seeks  how  to  combine  more  beau- 
ties, and  by  what  coalition  of  these  to  form 
a  beautiful  society.  It  views  communities, 
friendships,  relations,  duties;  and  considers 
by  what  harmony  of  particular  minds  the 
general  harmony  is  composed,  and  common 
weal  established.  Not  satisfied  even  with 
public  good  in  one  community  of  men,  it 
frames  itself  a  nobler  object,  and  with  en- 
larged affection  seeks  the  good  of  mankind. 
It  dwells  with  pleasure  amidst  that  reason 
and  those  orders  on  which  this  fair  corre- 
spondence and  goodly  interest  is  established. 
Laws,  constitutions,  civil  and  religious  rites  ; 
whatever  civilizes  or  polishes  rude  mankind  ; 
the  sciences  and  arts,  philosophy,  morals, 
virtue  ;  the  flourishing  state  of  human  af- 
fairs, and  the  perfection  of  human  nature: 
these  are  its  delightful  prospects,  and  this 
the  charm  of  beauty  which  attracts  it. 

Still  ardent  in  this  pursuit  (such  is  its  love 
of  order  and  perfection),  it  rests  not  here, 
nor  satisfies  itself  with  the  beauty  of  a  part, 
but  extending  further  its  communicative 
bounty,  seeks  the  good  of  all,  and  affects  the 
interest  and  prosperity  of  the  whole.  True 


to  its  native  world  and  higher  country,  'tis 
here  it  seeks  order  and  perfection,  wishing 
the  best,  and  hoping  still  to  find  a  wise  and 
just  administration.  And  since  all  hope  of 
this  were  vain  and  idle,  if  no  Universal 
Mind  presided  ;  since,  without  such  a  su- 
preme intelligence  and  providential  care, 
the  distracted  universe  must  be  condemned 
to  suffer  infinite  calamities,  'tis  here  the  gen- 
erous mind  labours  to  discover  that  healing 
cause  by  which  the  interest  of  the  whole  is 
securely  established,  the  beauty  of  things, 
and  the  universal  order,  happily  sustained. 

This,  Palemon,  is  the  labour  of  your  soul ; 
and  this  its  melancholy :  when  unsuccessfully 
pursuing  the  supreme  beauty,  it  meets  with 
darkening  clouds  which  intercept  the  sight. 
Monsters  arise,  not  those  from  Libyan 
deserts,  but  from  the  heart  of  man  more 
fertile,  and  with  their  horrid  aspect  cast  an 
unseemly  reflection  upon  nature.  She,  help- 
less as  she  is  thought,  and  working  thus  ab- 
surdly, is  contemned,  the  government  of  the 
world  arraigned,  and  Deity  made  void.  Much 
is  alleged  in  answer  to  show  why  nature  errs  ; 
and  when  she  seems  most  ignorant  or  perverse 
in  her  productions,  I  assert  her  even  then  as 
wise  and  provident  as  in  her  goodliest  works. 
For  'tis  not  then  that  men  complain  of  the 
world's  order,  or  abhor  the  face  of  things, 
when  they  see  various  interests  mixed  and 
interfering;  natures  subordinate,  of  differ- 
ent kinds,  opposed  one  to  another,  and  in 
their  different  operations  submitted,  the 
higher  to  the  lower.  'Tis,  on  the  contrary, 
from  this  order  of  inferior  and  superior 
things  that  we  admire  the  world's  beauty, 
founded  thus  on  contrarieties:  whilst  from 
such  various  and  disagreeing  principles  a 
universal  concord  is  established. 

Thus  in  the  several  orders  of  terrestrial 
forms  a  resignation  is  required, — a  sacri- 
fice and  mutual  yielding  of  natures  one  to 
another.  The  vegetables  by  their  death 
sustain  the  animals,  and  animal  bodies  dis- 
solved enrich  the  earth,  and  raise  again  the 
vegetable  world.  The  numerous  insects  are 
reduced  by  the  superior  kinds  of  birds  and 
beasts;  and  these  again  are  checked  by  man, 
who  in  his  turn  submits  to  other  natures, 
and  resigns  his  form,  a  sacrifice  in  common 
to  the  rest  of  things.  And  if  in  natures 
so  little  exalted  or  pre-eminent  above  each 
other  the  sacrifice  of  interests  can  appear  so 
just,  how  much  more  reasonably  may  all 
inferior  natures  be  subjected  to  the  superior 
nature  of  the  world  ! — that  world,  Palemon, 
which  even  now  transported  you,  when  the 
sun's  fainting  light  gave  way  to  those  bright 
constellations,  and  left  you  this  wide  system 
to  contemplate. 

Here  are  those  laws  which  ought  not  nor 
can  submit  to  anything  below.  The  central 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


powers  which  hold  the  lasting  orbs  in  their 
just  poise  and  movement,  must  not  be  con- 
trolled to  save  a  fleeting  form,  and  rescue 
from  the  precipice  a  puny  animal,  whose 
brittle  frams,  however  protected,  must  of 
itself  so  soon  dissolve.  The  ambient  air, 
the  inward  vapours,  the  impending  meteors, 
or  whatever  else  is  nutrimental  or  preserva- 
tive of  this  earth,  must  operate  in  a  natural 
course  ;  and  other  good  constitutions  must 
submit  to  the  good  habit  and  constitution 
of  the  all-sustaining  globe.  Let  us  not 
wonder,  therefore,  if  by  earthquakes,  storms, 
pestilential  blasts,  nether  or  upper  fires,  or 
floods,  the  animal  kinds  are  oft  afflicted,  and 
whole  species  perhaps  involved  at  once  in 
common  ruin.  Nor  need  we  wonder  if  the 
interior  form,  the  soul  and  temper,  partakes 
of  this  occasional  deformity,  and  sympathises 
often  with  its  close  partner.  Who  is  there 
that  can  wonder  either  at  the  sicknesses  of 
sense  or  the  depravity  of  minds  enclosed  in 
such  frail  bodies,  and  dependent  on  such 
pervertible  organs? 

Here,  then,  is  that  solution  you  require, 
and  hence  those  seeming  blemishes  cast 
upon  nature.  Nor  is  there  ought  in  this 
beside  what  is  natural  and  good.  'Tis  good 
which  is  predominant ;  and  every  corruptible 
and  mortal  nature,  by  its  mortality  and  cor- 
ruption, yields  only  to  some  better,  and  all 
in  common  to  that  best  and  highest  nature 
which  is  incorruptible  and  immortal. 

The  Moralists. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON, 

born  1672,  acquired  a  high  reputation  for 
Latin  poetry  at  King's  College,  Oxford,  and 
for  English  poetry  by  his  poem  on  the  battle 
of  Blenheim  ;  but  will  always  be  best  known 
by  his  admirable  papers  in  The  Spectator 
(he  also  contributed  to  The  Tatler,  The 
Whig  Examiner.  The  Guardian,  and  The 
Freeholder,  1709-15,  which  range  from 
No.  1,  March  1,  1710-11,  to  No.  600.  Sep- 
tember 29,  1714);  married  the  dowager 
Countess  of  Warwick,  1716;  died  June  17, 
1719.  From  his  essays  in  The  Spectator, 
which  may  known  by  the  letters  C,  L,  I,  or 
0  (CLIO),  we  give  some  specimens. 

"  Mr.  Addison  wrote  very  fluently  ;  but  he  was 
sometimes  very  slow  and  scrupulous  in  correcting. 
lie  would  show  his  verses  to  several  friends;  and 
would  alter  almost  everything  that  any  of  them 
hinted  as  wrong,  lie  seemed  to  be  too  diffident 
of  himself;  and  too  much  concerned  about  his 
character  as  a  poet ;  or  (as  he  worded  it)  too  solici- 
tous for  that  kind  of  praise  which  is  but  a  very 
little  matter  after  all !  Many  of  his  Spectators  he 
wrote  very  fast,  and  sent  them  to  the  press  as  soon 
as  they  were  written.  It  seems  to  have  been  best 


for  him  not  to  have  had  too  much  time  to  correct. 
Addison  was  perfectly  good  company  with  inti- 
mates; and  had  something  more  charming  in  his 
conversation  than  I  ever  knew  in  any  other  man; 
but  with  any  mixture  of  strangers,  and  sometimes 
only  with  one,  he  seemed  to  preserve  his  dignity 
much,  with  a  stiff  sort  of  silence." — POPE  :  Spence's 
Anecdotes, 

"  His  sentences  have  neither  studied  amplitude 
nor  affected  brevity ;  his  periods,  though  not  dili- 
gently rounded,  are  voluble  and  easy.  Whoever 
wishes  to  obtain  an  English  style,  familiar,  but  not 
coarse,  and  elegant,  but  not  ostentatious,  must 
give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  study  of  Addison." 
— DR.  JOHNSON. 

"  Never,  not  even  by  Dryden,  not  even  by 
Temple,  had  the  English  language  been  written 
with  such  sweetness,  grace,  and  facility.  But  this 
was  the  smallest  part  of  Addison's  praise.  .  .  . 
As  a  moral  satirist  he  stands  unrivalled.  If  ever 
the  best  Tatlers  and  Spectators  were  equalled  in 
their  own  kind,  we  should  be  inclined  to  guess 
that  it  must  have  been  by  the  lost  comedies  of 
Menander.  In  wit,  properly  so  called,  Addison 
was  not  inferior  to  Cowley  or  Butler.  .  .  .  But 
what  shall  we  say  of  Addison's  humour  ?  .  .  . 
We  own  that  the  humour  of  Addison  is,  in  our 
opinion,  of  a  more  delicious  flavour  than  the 
humour  of  either  Swift  or  Voltaire." — LOUD  MA- 
CAULAY:  Edix.  Review,  July,  1843,  and  in  his 
Essays,  and  Works. 

DIVINITY,  LAW,  AXD  PHYSIC. 

I  am  sometimes  very  much  troubled  when 
I  reflect  upon  the  three  great  professions  of 
divinity,  law,  and  physic ;  how  they  are 
each  of  them  overburdened  with  practi- 
tioners, and  filled  with  multitudes  of  inge- 
nious gentlemen  that  starve  one  another. 

We  may  divide  the  clergy  into  generals, 
field-officers,  and  subalterns.  Among  the 
first  we  may  reckon  bishops,  deans,  and 
archdeacons.  Among  the  second  are  doc- 
tors of  divinity,  prebendaries,  and  all  that 
wear  scarfs.  The  rest  are  comprehended 
under  the  subalterns.  As  for  the  first  class, 
our  constitution  preserves  it  from  any  re- 
dundancy of  incumbents,  notwithstanding 
competitors  are  numberless.  .  .  .  The  body 
of  the  law  is  no  less  encumbered  with  su- 
perfluous members,  that  are  like  Virgil's 
army,  which  he  tells  us  was  so  crowded 
that  many  of  them  had  not  room  to  use 
their  weapons.  This  prodigious  society  of 
men  may  be  divided  into  the  litigious  and 
peaceable.  Under  the  first  are  comprehended 
all  those  who  are  carried  down  in  coach-fulls 
to  Westminster-hall  every  morning  in  term 
time.  Martial's  description  of  this  species 
of  lawyers  is  full  of  humour : 

Iras  et  verba  locant. 

"  Men  that  hire  out  their  words  and 
anger;"  that  are  more  or  less  passionate 
according  as  they  are  paid  for  it,  and  allow 
their  client  a  quantity  of  wrath  proportion- 
able to  the  fee  which  they  receive  from  him. 


134 


JOSEPH  ADDISOK 


I  must,  however,  observe  to  the  reader, 
that  above  three  parts  of  those  whom  I 
reckon  among  the  litigious  are  such  as  are 
only  quarrelsome  in  their  hearts,  and  have 
no  opportunity  of  shewing  their  passion  at 
the  bar.  Nevertheless,  as  they  do  not  know 
•what  strifes  may  arise,  they  appear  at  the 
hall  every  day,  that  they  may  shew  them- 
selves in  readiness  to  enter  the  lists  when- 
ever there  shall  be  occasion  for  them. 

The  peaceable  lawyers  are,  in  the  first 
place,  many  of  the  benchers  of  the  several 
inns  of  court,  who  seem  to  be  the  dignita- 
ries of  the  law,  and  are  endowed  with  those 
qualifications  of  mind  that  accomplish  a  man 
rather  for  a  ruler  than  a  pleader.  These 
men  live  peaceably  in  their  habitations, 
eating  once  a  day,  and  dancing  once  a  year, 
for  the  honour  of  their  respective  societies. 

Another  numberless  branch  of  peaceable 
lawyers  are  those  young  men  who,  being 
placed  at  the  inns  of  court  in  order  to  study 
the  laws  of  their  country,  frequent  the  play- 
house more  than  Westminster-hall,  and  are 
seen  in  all  public  assemblies  except  in  a 
court  of  justice.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  those 
silent  and  busy  multitudes  that  are  employed 
within-doors  in  the  drawing  up  of  writings 
and  conveyances  ;  nor  of  those  greater  num- 
bers that  palliate  their  want  of  business 
with  a  pretence  to  such  chamber  practice. 

If,  in  the  third  place,  we  look  into  the  pro- 
fession of  physic,  we  shall  find  a  most  for- 
midable body  of  men.  The  sight  of  them  is 
enough  to  make  a  man  serious,  for  we  may 
lay  it  down  as  a  maxim,  that  when  a  nation 
abounds  in  physicians  it  grows  thin  of 
people.  Sir  William  Temple  is  very  much 
puzzled  to  find  out  a  reason  why  the  North- 
ern Hive,  as  he  calls  it,  does  not  send  out 
such  prodigious  swarms,  .and  overrun  the 
world  with  Goths  and  Vandals  as  it  did  for- 
merly ;  but  had  that  excellent  author  ob- 
served that  there  were  no  students  in  physic 
among  the  subjects  of  Thor  and  Woden,  and 
that  this  science  very  much  flourishes  in  the 
north  at  present,  he  might  have  found  a 
better  solution  for  this  difficulty  than  any 
of  those  he  has  made  use  of.  This  body  of 
men  in  our  own  country  may  be  described 
like  the  British  army  in  Caesars  time. 
Some  of  them  slay  in  chariots,  and  some  on 
foot.  If  the  infantry  do  less  execution  than 
the  charioteers,  it  is  because  they  cannot  be 
carried  so  soon  into  all  quarters  of  the  town, 
and  despatch  so  much  business  in  so  short  a 
time.  Besides  this  body  of  regular  troops, 
there  are  stragglers  who,  without  being  duly 
listed  and  enrolled,  do  infinite  mischief  to 
those  who  are  so  unlucky  as  to  fall  into 
their  hands. 

The  Spectator,  No.  21,  Saturday,  March 
^4  1710-11. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humour  I  very 
often  walk  by  myself  in  Westminster-abbey; 
where  the  gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the 
use  to  which  it  is  applied,  with  the  solemn- 
ity of  the  building,  and  the  condition  of  the 
people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the  mind 
with  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather  thought- 
fulness,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yester- 
day passed  a  whole  afternoon  in  the  church- 
yard, the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amusing 
myself  with  the  tombstones  and  inscriptions 
that  I  met  with  in  those  several  regions  of 
the  dead.  Most  of  them  recorded  nothing 
else  of  the  buried  person  but  that  he  was 
born  upon  one  day,  and  died  upon  another; 
the  whole  history  of  his  life  being  com- 
prehended in  those  two  circumstances  that 
are  common  to  all  mankind.  I  could  not 
but  look  upon  these  registers  of  existence, 
whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of 
satire  upon  the  departed  persons ;  who  had 
left  no  other  memorial  of  them  but  that  they 
were  born  and  that  they  died.  They  put  me 
in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned  in  the 
battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding 
names  given  them,  for  no  other  reason  but 
that  they  may  be  killed,  and  are  celebrated 
for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 
.  .  .  The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described 
in  holy  writ  by  "  the  path  of  an  arrow," 
which  is  immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church  I  enter- 
tained myself  with  the  digging  of  a  grave; 
and  saw  in  every  shovel-full  of  it  that  was 
thrown  up,  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or  skull 
intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering 
earth  that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place 
in  the  composition  of  a  human  body.  Upon 
this  I  began  to  consider  with  myself  what 
innumerable  multitudes  of  people  lay  con- 
fused together  under  the  pavement  of  that 
ancient  cathedral:  how  men  and  women, 
friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  soldiers, 
monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled 
amongst  one  another,  and  blend  together 
in  the  same  common  mass ;  how  beauty, 
strength,  and  youth,  with  old  age,  weak- 
ness, and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished 
in  the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 
After  having  thus  surveyed  the  great  maga- 
zine of  mortality,  as  it  were  in  the  lump,  I 
examined  it  more  particularly  by  the  ac- 
counts which  I  found  on  several  of  the  mon- 
uments which  are  raised  in  every  quarter 
of  that  ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them  were 
covered  with  such  extravagant  epitaphs, 
that  if  it  were  possible  for  the  dead  person 
to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he  would  blush 
at  the  praises  which  his  friends  have  be- 
stowed upon  him.  There  are  others  so  ex- 
cessively modest,  that  they  deliver  the  char- 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


135 


acter  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or 
Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  under- 
stood once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the  poeti- 
cal quarter  I  found  there  were  poets  who 
had  no  monuments,  and  monuments  which 
had  no  poets.  I  observed,  indeed,  that  the 
present  war  had  filled  the  church  with  many 
of  these  uninhabited  monuments,  which 
had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  persons 
whose  bodies  were  perhaps  buried  in  the 
plains  of  Blenheim,  or  iu  the  bosom  of  the 
ocean.  .  .  . 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left 
the  repository  of  our  English  kings  for  the 
contemplation  of  another  day,  when  I  shall 
find  my  mind  disposed  for  so  serious  an 
amusement.  I  know  that  entertainments  of 
this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal 
thoughts  in  timorous  minds  and  gloomy 
imaginations;  but  for  my  own  part,  though 
I  am  always  serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it 
is  to  be  melancholy  ;  and  can,  therefore,  take 
a  view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
scenes  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her 
most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this 
means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those 
objects  which  others  consider  with  terror. 
When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great, 
every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me;  when  I 
read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every  in- 
ordinate desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet  with 
the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my 
heart  melts  with  compassion  ;  when  I  see 
the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves,  I  con- 
sider the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom 
•we  must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings 
ly'no  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when  I 
consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side,  or 
the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with 
their  contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect  with 
sorrow  and  astonishment  on  the  little  com- 
petitions, factions,  and  debates  of  mankind. 
When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs, 
of  some  f that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six 
hundred  years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day 
when  we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries, 
and  make  our  appearance  together. 

The  Spectator,  No.  26,  Friday,  March  30, 
1711. 

THE  CREATOR  AND  HIS  WORKS. 

I  was  yesterday  about  sunset  walking  in 
the  open  fields,  until  the  night  insensibly 
fell  upon  me.  I  at  firstamused  myself  with 
all  the  richness  and  variety  of  colours  which 
appeared  in  the  western  parts  of  heaven  ; 
in  proportion  as  they  faded  away  and  went 
out,  several  stars  and  planets  appeared  one 
after  another,  until  the  whole  firmament  was 
in  a  glow.  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was 
exceedingly  heightened  and  enlivened  by 
the  season  of  the  year,  and  by  the  rays  of 
all  those  luminaries  that  passed  through  it. 


The  galaxy  appeared  in  its  most  beautiful 
white.  To  complete  the  scene,  the  full  moon 
rose  at  length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which 
Milton  takes  notice  of,  and  opened  to  the 
eye  a  new  picture  of  nature,  which  was 
more  finely  shaded  and  disposed  among 
softer  lights  than  that  which  the  sun  had 
before  discovered  to  us. 

As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in 
her  brightness,  and  taking  her  progress 
among  the  constellations,  a  thought  rose  in 
me  which  I  believe  very  often  perplexes  anil 
disturbs  men  of  serious  and  contemplative 
natures.  David  himself  fell  into  it  in  that 
reflection,  "  When  I  consider  the  heavens 
the  work  of  thy  fingers,  the  moon  and  the 
stars  which  thou  hast  ordained;  what  is 
man  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  and  the 
son  of  man  that  thou  regardest  him  !"  In 
the  same  manner  when  I  considered  that 
infinite  host  of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more  phil- 
osophically, of  suns  which  were  then  shining 
upon  me,  with  those  innumerable  sets  of 
planets  or  worlds  which  were  moving  round 
their  respective  suns  ;  when  I  still  enlarged 
the  idea,  and  supposed  another  heaven  of 
suns  and  worlds  rising  still  above  this  which 
we  discovered,  and  these  still  enlightened  by 
a  superior  firmament  of  luminaries, whicli  are 
planted  at  so  great  a  distance,  that  they  may 
appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  former  as 
the  stars  do  to  us;  in  short,  whilst  I  pursued 
this  thought,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  that 
little  insignificant  figure  which  I  mvself 
bore  amidst  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 

Were  the  sun,  which  enlightens  this  part 
of  the  creation,  with  all  the  host  of  planet- 
ary worlds  that  move  about  him,  utterly  ex- 
tinguished and  annihilated,  they  would  not 
be  missed  more  than  a  grain  of  sand  upon 
the  sea-shore.  The  space  they  possess  is  so 
exceedingly  little  in  comparison  of  the  whole, 
that  it  would  scarce  make  a  blank  in  the  cre- 
ation. The  chasm  would  be  imperceptible 
to  an  eye  that  could  take  in  the  whole  com- 
pass of  nature,  and  pass  from  one  end  of  the 
creation  to  the  other :  as  it  is  possible  there 
may  be  such  a  sense  in  ourselves  hereafter, 
or  in  creatures  which  are  at  present  more 
exalted  than  ourselves.  We  see  many  stars 
by  the  help  of  glasses,  which  we  do  not  dis- 
cover with  our  naked  eyes;  and  the  finer  our 
telescopes  are,  the  more  still  are  our  discov- 
eries. Huygenius  carries  this  thought  so  far, 
that  he  does  not  think  it  impossible  there 
may  be  stars  whose  light  is  not  yet  travelled 
down  to  us  since  their  first  creation.  There 
is  no  question  but  the  universe  has  certain 
bounds  set  to  it :  but  when  we  consider  that 
it  is  the  work  of  an  infinite  power,  prompted 
by  infinite  goodness,  with  an  infinite  spsico 
to  exert  itself  in,  how  can  our  imagination 
set  any  bounds  to  it? 


136 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


To  return,  therefore,  to  my  first  thought. 
I  could  not  but  look  upon  myself  with  secret 
horror,  as  a  being  that  was  not  worth  the 
smallest  regard  of  One  who  had  so  great  a 
work  under  his  care  and  superintendency. 
I  was  afraid  of  being  overlooked  amidst  the 
immensity  of  nature,  and  lost  among  that 
infinite  variety  of  creatures  which  in  all 
probability  swarm  through  all  these  im- 
measurable regions  of  matter. 

In  order  to  recover  myself  from  this  mor- 
tifying thought,  I  considered  that  it  took  its 
rise  from  those  narrow  conceptions  which 
we  are  apt  to  entertain  of  the  divine  nature. 
We  ourselves  cannot  attend  to  many  differ- 
ent objects  at  the  same  time.  If  we  are 
careful  to  inspect  some  things,  we  must  of 
course  neglect  others.  This  imperfection 
which  we  observe  in  ourselves,  is  an  imper- 
fection that  cleaves  in  some  degree  to  crea- 
tures of  the  highest  capacities,  as  they  are 
creatures,  that  is.  beings  of  finite  and  lim- 
ited natures.  The  presence  of  every  created 
being  is  confined  to  a  certain  measure  of 
space,  and  consequently  his  observation  is 
stinted  to  a  certain  number  of  objects.  The 
sphere  in  which  we  move,  and  act,  and  un- 
derstand, is  a  wider  circumference  to  one 
creature  than  another,  according  as  we  rise 
one  above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence. 
But  the  widest  of  these  our  spheres  has  its 
circumference.  When,  therefore,  we  reflect 
on  the  divine  nature,  we  are  so  used  and 
accustomed  to  this  imperfection  in  ourselves, 
that  we  cannot  forbear  in  some  measure  as- 
cribing it  to  him  in  whom  there  is  no  shadow 
of  imperfection.  Our  reason  indeed  assures 
us  that  his  attributes  are  infinite;  but  the 
poorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such  that  it 
cannot  forbear  setting  bounds  to  everything 
it  contemplates,  until  our  reason  comes  again 
to  our  succour,  and  throws  down  all  those 
little  prejudices  which  rise  in  us  unawares, 
and  are  natural  to  the  mind  of  man. 

We  shall,  therefore,  utterly  extinguish 
this  melancholy  thought  of  our  being  over- 
looked by  our  Maker  in  the  multiplicity  of 
his  works,  and  the  infinity  of  those  objects 
among  which  he  seems  to  be  incessantly 
employed,  if  we  consider  in  the  first  place, 
that  he  is  omnipresent;  and,  in  the  second, 
that  lie  is  omniscient. 

If  we  consider  him  in  his  omnipresence, 
his  being  passes  through,  actuates,  and  sup- 
ports the  whole  frame  of  nature.  His  crea- 
tion, and  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of  him. 
There  is  nothing  he  has  made  that  is  either 
so  distant,  so  little,  or  so  inconsiderable, 
which  he  does  not  essentially  inhabit.  His 
substance  is  within  the  substance  of  every 
being,  whether  material  or  immaterial,  and 
as  intimately  present  to  it  as  that  being  is 
to  itself.  It  would  be  an  imperfection  in 


him  were  he  able  to  remove  out  of  one 
place  into  another,  or  to  withdraw  himself 
from  any  tiling  he  has  created,  or  from  any 
part  of  that  space  which  is  diffused  and 
spread  abroad  to  infinity.  In  short,  to  speak 
of  him  in  the  language  of  the  old  philosopher, 
he  is  a  being  whose  centre  is  every  where,  and 
his  circumference  no  where. 

In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as 
well  as  omnipresent.  This  omniscience  in- 
deed necessarily  and  naturally  flows  from  his 
omnipresence  :  he  cannot  but  be  conscious 
of  every  motion  that  arises  in  the  whole 
material  world,  which  he  thus  essentially 
pervades,  and  of  every  thought  that  is  stir- 
ring in  the  intellectual  world,  to  every  part 
of  which  he  is  thus  intimately  united. 
Several  moralists  have  considered  the  crea- 
tion as  the  temple  of  God,  which  he  has 
built  with  his  own  hands,  and  which  is 
filled  with  his  presence.  Others  have  con- 
sidered infinite  space  as  the  receptacle,  or 
rather  the  habitation,  of  the  Almighty  ;  but 
the  most  noble  and  exalted  way  of  consider- 
ing this  infinite  space  is  that  of  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  who  calls  it  the  sensorium  of  the 
Godhead.  Brutes  and  men  have  their  sen- 
soriola,  or  little  sensoriums,  by  which  they 
apprehend  the  presence  and  perceive  the 
actions  of  a  few  objects  that  lie  contiguous 
to  them.  Their  knowledge  and  observation 
turn  within  a  very  narrow  circle.  But  as 
God  Almighty  cannot  but  perceive  and  know 
every  thing  in  which  he  resides,  infinite 
space  gives  room  to  infinite  knowledge,  and 
is,  as  it  were,  an  organ  to  omniscience. 

Were  the  soul  separate  from  the  body,  and 
with  one  glance  of  thought  should  start 
beyond  the  bounds  of  the  creation,  should  it 
for  millions  of  years  continue  its  progress 
through  infinite  space  with  the  same  activity, 
it  would  still  find  itself  within  the  embrace 
of  its  Creator,  and  encompassed  round  with 
the  immensity  of  the  Godhead.  Whilst  we 
are  in  the  body  he  is  not  the  less  present 
with  us  because  he  is  concealed  from  us. 
"Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him  !" 
says  Job.  "Behold  I  go  forward,  but  he  is 
not  there;  and  backward,  but  I  cannot  per- 
ceive him  :  on  the  left  hand  where  he  does 
work,  but  I  cannot  behold  him  :  ho  hideth 
himself  on  the  right  hand  that  1  cannot  see 
him."  In  short,  reason  as  well  as  revelation 
assures  us  that  he  cannot  be  absent  from  us, 
notwithstanding  he  is  undiscovered  by  us. 
In  this  consideration  of  God  Almighty's 
omnipresence  and  omniscience  every  un- 
comfortable thought  vanishes.  He  can- 
not but  regard  every  thing  that  has  being, 
especially  such  of  his  creatures  who  fear 
they  are  not  regarded  by  him.  He  is  privy 
to  all  their  thoughts,  and  to  that  anxiety  of 
heart  in  particular  which  is  apt  to  trouble 


ANTHONY  BLACK  WALL. 


137 


them  on  this  occasion  ;  for,  as  it  is  impossible 
he  should  overlook  any  of  his  creatures,  so 
we  may  be  confident  that  he  regards  with  an 
eye  of  mercy  those  who  endeavour  to  recom- 
mend themselves  to  his  notice,  and  in  an 
unfeigned  humility  of  heart  think  them- 
selves unworthy  that  he  should  be  mindful 
of  them. 

The  Spectator,  No.  565,  Friday,  July  0, 
1714. 


ANTHONY  BLACKWALL, 

of  Emmanuel  College,  Cambridge,  and  Lec- 
turer of  All  Hallows,  Derby,  born  1674,  died 
1730,  was  the  author  of  The  Sacred  Classics 
Defended  and  Illustrated,  or,  An  Essay 
Humbly  Offered  towards  Proving  the  Purity, 
Propriety,  and  true  Eloquence  of  the  Writers 
of  the  New  Testament,  Lond.,  1725-27-31, 
3  vols.  8vo;  2d  edit.,  1737.  2  vols.  8vo  ;  in 
Latin,  by  AVollius,  Lips.,  1736,  4to ;  and  of 
an  Introduction  to  the  Classics,  Lond.,  1740, 
12mo. 

"  Blackwall  was  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the 
purity  of  the  Greek  style  of  the  New  Testament, 
which  he  vindicates  in  his  first  volume." — T.  JI. 

li.OU.NE. 

HOMER. 

'Tis  no  romantic  commendation  of  Homer 
to  say,  that  no  man  understood  persons  and 
things  better  than  he;  or  had  a  deeper  in- 
sight into  the  humours  and  passions  of  hu- 
man nature.  He  represents  great  things 
with  such  sublimity,  and  little  ones  with 
such  propriety,  that  he  always  makes  the 
one  admirable  and  the  other  pleasant. 

lie  is  a  perfect  master  of  all  the  lofty 
graces  of  the  figurative  style  and  all  the 
purity  and  easiness  of  the  plain.  Strabo, 
the  excellent  geographer  and  historian,  as- 
sures us  that  Homer  has  described  the  places 
and  countries  of  which  he  gives  account 
with  that  accuracy  that  no  man  can  imagine 
who  has  not  seen  them  ;  and  no  man  but 
must  admire  and  be  astonished  who  has. 
II is  poems  may  justly  be  compared  with  that 
bhield  of  divine  workmanship  so  inimitably 
represented  in  the  eighteenth  book  of  the 
Iliad.  You  have  there  exact  images  of  all 
the  actions  of  war,  and  employments  of 
peace  ;  and  are  entertained  with  the  delight- 
ful view  of  the  universe. 

Homer  has  all  the  beauties  of  every  dia- 
lect and  style  scattered  through  his  writings: 
he  is  scarce  inferior  to  any  other  poet  in  the 
poet's  own  way  and  excellency,  but  excels 
all  others  in  force  and  comprehension  of 
genius,  elevation  of  fancy,  and  immense 
copiousness  of  invention.  Such  a  sover- 
eignty of  genius  reigns  over  all  his  works 


that  the  ancients  esteemed  and  admired  him 
as  the  great  High  Priest  of  nature,  who  was 
admitted  into  her  inmost  choir,  and  ac- 
quainted with  her  most  solemn  mysteries. 

The  great  men  of  former  ages,  with  one 
voice,  celebrate  the  praises  of  Homer ;  and 
old  Zoilus  has  only  a  few  followers  in  these 
later  times  who  detract  from  him  either  for 
want  of  Greek,  or  from  a  spirit  of  conceit 
and  contradiction. 

These  gentlemen  tell  us  that  the  divine 
Plato  himself  banished  him  out  of  his  com- 
monwealth ;  which,  say  they,  must  be  granted 
to  be  a  blemish  upon  the  poet's  reputation. 
The  reason  why  Plato  would  not  let  Homer's 
poems  be  in  the  hands  of  the  subjects  of  that 
government,  was  because  he  did  not  esteem 
ordinary  men  capable  readers  of  them.  They 
would  be  apt  to  pervert  his  meaning,  and 
have  wrong  notions  of  God  and  religion,  by 
taking  his  bold  and  beautiful  Jillegories  in 
too  literal  a  sense.  Plato  frequently  de- 
clares that  he  loves  and  admires  him  as  the 
best,  the  most  pleasant,  and  the  divinest  of 
all  the  poets ;  and  studiously  imitates  his 
figurative  and  mystical  way  of  writing. 
Though  he  forbad  his  works  to  be  read  m 
public,  yet  he  would  never  be  without  them 
in  his  own  closet.  Though  the  philosopher 
pretends  that  for  reasons  of  state  he  must 
remove  him  out  of  his  city,  yet  he  declares 
he  would  treat  him  with  all  possible  respect 
while  he  staid  ;  and  dismiss  Kim  laden  with 
presents,  and  adorned  with  garlands  (as  the 
priests  and  supplicants  of  their  gods  used  to 
be)  ;  by  which  marks  of  honour  all  people 
wherever  he  came  might  be  warned  and  in- 
duced to  esteem  his  person  sacred,  and  re- 
ceive him  with  due  veneration. 
-  Introduction  to  the  Classics. 

THE  GREEK.  AXD  ROMAX  AUTHORS. 

It  was  among  the  advantages  which  the 
chief  classics  enjoyed  that  most  of  them  were 
placed  in  prosperous  and  plentiful  circum- 
stances of  life,  raised  above  anxious  cares, 
want,  and  abject  dependence.  They  were 
persons  of  quality  and  fortune,  courtiers 
and  statesmen,  great  travellers,  and  gen- 
erals of  armies,  possessed  of  the  highest 
dignities  and  posts  of  peace  and  war.  Their 
riches  and  plenty  furnished  them  with  lei- 
sure and  means  of  study  ;  and  their  employ- 
ments improved  them  in  knowledge  and 
experience.  How  lively  must  they  describe 
those  countries  and  remarkable  places  which 
they  had  attentively  viewed  with  their  own 
eyes  1  What  faithful  and  emphatical  rela- 
tions were  they  enabled  to  make  of  those 
councils  in  which  they  presided  ;  of  those 
actions  in  which  they  were  present  and  com- 
manded 1 


133 


ANTHONY  SLACK  WALL. 


Herodotus,  the  father  of  history,  besides 
the  advantage  of  his  travels  and  general 
knowledge,  was  so  considerable  in  power 
and  interest  that  he  bore  a  chief  part  in 
expelling  the  tyrant  Lygdamis,  who  had 
usurped  upon  the  liberties  of  his  native 
country. 

Thucydides  and  Xenophon  were  of  distin- 
guished eminence  and  abilities  botli  in  civil 
and  military  affairs;  were  rich  and  noble; 
had  strong  parts,  and  a  careful  education  in 
their  youth,  completed  by  severe  study  in 
their  advanced  years:  in  short,  they  had  all 
the  advantages  and  accomplishments  both 
of  the  retired  and  active  life. 

Sophocles  bore  great  offices  in  Athens ; 
led  their  armies,  and  in  strength  of  parts, 
and  nobleness  of  thought  and  expression, 
was  not  unequal  to  his  colleague  Pericles, 
who,  by  his  commanding  wisdom  and  elo- 
quence, influenced  all  Greece,  and  was  said 
to  thunder  and  lighten  in  his  harangues. 

Euripides,  famous  for  the  purity  of  the 
Attic  style,  and  his  power  in  moving  the 
passions,  especially  the  softer  ones  of  grief 
and  pity,  was  invited  to,  and  generously  en- 
tertained in,  the  court  of  Archelaus,  king 
of  Macedon.  The  smoothness  of  his  com- 
position, his  excellency  in  dramatic  poetry, 
the  soundness  of  his  morals,  conveyed  in 
the  sweetest  numbers,  were  so  universally 
admired,  and  his  glory  so  far  spread,  that 
the  Athenians,  who  were  taken  prisoners  in 
the  fatal  overthrow  under  Nicias,  were  pre- 
served from  perpetual  exile  and  ruin  by  the 
astonishing  respect  that  the  Sicilians,  ene- 
mies and  strangers,  paid  to  the  wit  and 
fame  of  their  illustrious  countryman.  As 
many  as  could  repeat  any  of  Euripides's 
verses  were  rewarded  with  their  liberty, 
and  generously  sent  home  with  marks  of 
honour. 

Plato,  by  his  fathers  side,  sprung  from 
Codrus,  the  celebrated  king  of  Athens  ;  and 
by  his  mother's  from  Solon,  the  no  less 
celebrated  law-giver.  To  gain  experience 
and  enlarge  his  knowledge,  he  travelled  into 
Italy,  Sicily,  and  Egypt.  He  was  courted 
and  honoured  by  the  greatest  men  of  the  age 
wherein  he  lived  ;  and  will  be  studied  and 
admired  by  men  of  taste  and  judgment  in 
all  succeeding  ages.  In  his  works  are  in- 
estimable treasures  of  the  best  learning. 
In  short,  as  a  learned  gentleman  says,  he 
writ  with  all  the  strength  of  human  reason 
and  all  the  charm  of  human  eloquence. 

Anacreon  lived  familiarly  with  Polycrates, 
king  of  Samos :  and  his  sprightly  muse,  na- 
turally flowing  with  innumerable  pleasures 
and  graces,  must  improve  in  delicacy  and 
sweetness  by  the  gaiety  and  refined  conver- 
sation of  that  flourishing  court. 

The  bold  and  exalted  genius  of  Pindar  was 


encouraged  and  heightened  by  the  honours 
he  received  from  the  champions  and  princes 
of  his  age;  and  his  conversation  with  the 
heroes  qualified  him  to  sing  their  praises 
with  more  advantage.  The  conquerors  at 
the  Olympic  games  scarce  valued  their  gar- 
lands of  honour,  and  wreaths  of  victory,  if 
they  were  not  crowned  with  his  never-fading 
laurels,  and  immortalized  by  his  celestial 
song.  The  noble  lliero  of  Syracuse  was 
his  generous  friend  and  patron  ;  and  the 
most  powerful  and  polite  state  of  all  Greece 
esteemed  a  line  of  his  in  praise  of  their 
glorious  city  worth  public  acknowledgments 
and  a  statue.  Most  of  the  genuine  and  val- 
uable Latin  Classics  had  the  same  advantages 
of  fortune,  and  improving  conversation,  the 
same  encouragements  with  these  and  the 
other  celebrated  Grecians. 

Terence  gained  such  a  wonderful  insight 
into  the  characters  and  manners  of  man- 
kind, such  ah  elegant  choice  of  words,  and 
fluency  of  style,  such  judgment  in  the  con- 
duct of  his  plot,  and  such  delicate  and 
charming  terms,  chiefly  by  the  conversation 
of  Scipio  and  Laelius,  the  greatest  men,  and 
most  refined  wits,  of  their  age.  So  much 
does  this  judicious  writer  and  clean  scholar 
improve  by  his  diligent  application  to  study, 
and  their  genteel  and  learned  conversation, 
that  it  was  charged  upon  him  by  those  who 
envied  his  superior  excellency,  that  he 
published  their  compositions  under  his  own 
name.  His  enemies  had  a  mind  that  the 
world  should  believe  those  noblemen  wrote 
his  plays,  but  scarce  believed  it  themselves; 
and  the  poet  very  prudently  and  genteelly 
slighted  their  malice,  and  made  his  great 
patrons  the  finest  compliment  in  the  world, 
by  esteeming  the  accusation  as  an  honour, 
rather  than  making  any  formal  defence 
against  it. 

Sallust,  so  famous  for  his  neat  expressive 
brevity,  and  quick  turns,  for  truth  of  fact 
and  clearness  of  style,  for  the  accuracy  of 
his  characters,  and  his  piercing  view  into 
the  mysteries  of  policy  and  motives  of  ac- 
tion, cultivated  his  rich  abilities,  and  m:i<lo 
his  acquired  learning  so  useful  to  the  world, 
and  so  honourable  to  himself,  by  bearing 
the  chief  offices  in  the  Roman  government, 
and  sharing  in  the  important  councils  and 
debates  of  the  senate. 

Caesar  had  a  prodigious  wit  and  universal 
learning:  was  noble  by  birth,  a  consummate 
statesman,  a  brave  and  wise  general,  and  a 
most  heroic  prince.  His  prudence  and  mod- 
esty in  speaking  of  himself,  the  truth  and 
clearness  of  his  descriptions,  the  inimitable 
purity  and  perspicuity  of  his  style,  distin- 
guish him  with  advantage  from  all  other 
writers.  None  bears  a  nearer  resemblance 
to  him  in  more  instances  than  the  admirable 


ISAAC   WATTS. 


139 


Xenophon.  What  useful  and  entertaining 
accounts  might  reasonably  be  expected  from 
such  a  writer,  who  gives  you  the  geography 
and  history  of  those  countries  and  nations 
which  he  himself  conquered,  and  the  de- 
scription of  those  military  engines,  bridges, 
and  encampments  which  he  himself  con- 
trived and  marked  out! 

The  best  authors  in  the  reign  of  Augustus, 
as  Horace,  Virgil,  Tibullus,  Propertius,  &c., 
enjoyed  happy  times  and  plentiful  circum- 
stances. This  was  the  golden  age  of  learn- 
ing. They  flourished  under  the  favours  and 
bounty  of  the  richest  and  most  generous 
court  of  the  world ;  and  the  beams  of  majesty 
shone  bright  and  propitious  on  them. 

AV^hat  could  be  too  great  to  expect  from 
such  poets  as  Horace  and  Virgil,  beloved  and 
munificently  rewarded  by  such  patrons  as 
Maecenas  and  Augustus? 

A  chief  reason  why  Tacitus  writes  with 
such  skill  and  authority,  that  he  makes  such 
deep  searches  into  the  nature  of  things  and 
designs  of  men,  that  he  so  exquisitely  under- 
stands the  secrets  and  intrigues  of  courts, 
was  that  he  himself  was  admitted  into  the 
highest  places  of  trust,  and  employed  in 
the  most  public  and  important  affairs.  The 
statesman  brightens  the  scholar,  and  the 
consul  improves  and  elevates  the  historian. 

Introduction  to  the  Classics. 


ISAAC  WATTS,  D.D., 

horn  1674,  became  assistant  to  Dr.  Isaac 
Chauncy,  pastor  of  the  Independent  Con- 
gregation then  meeting  in  Mark  Lane, 
London,  1698,  and  was  minister  of  the 
same  from  1702  until  his  death,  1748.  For 
the  last  thirty-six  years  of  his  life  he  was 
paying  a  visit  to  the  family  of  Sir  Thomas 
Abney.  lie  was  the  author  of  some  theo- 
logical and  metaphysical  works,  but  is  best 
known  by  Divine  and  Moral  Songs  for  Chil- 
dren, Hymns,  and  other  poetical  productions. 
Works.  Lond.,  1753,  6  vols.  4to,  1810,  6  vols. 
4to,  1824,  6  vols.  4to,  and  other  editions. 

"  Dr.  Watts's  style  is  harmonious,  florid,  poetical, 
nnd  p;ithetic  ;  yet  too  diffuse,  too  many  words,  espe- 
cially in  his  latter  works:  and  his  former  ones  are 
too  much  loaded  with  epithets;  yet  on  the  whole 
excellent.  .  .  .  All  that  he  has  written  is  well 
worth  reading." — DR.  DonnuinGE. 

"  Few  books  have  been  perused  by  me  with 
greater  pleasure  than  his  '  Improvement  of  the 
Mind.'  .  .  .  Whoever  has  the  care  of  instructing 
others,  may  be  charged  with  deiicienee  in  his  duty 
if  this  book  is  not  commended." — DR.  JOHNSON  : 
Life  of  Watts. 

OF  IMPROVING  THE  MEMORY. 

When  you  would  remember  new  things  or 
words,  endeavour  to  associate  and  connect 


them  with  some  words  or  things  which  you 
have  well  known  before,  and  which  are  fixed 
and  established  in  your  memory.  This  associ- 
ation of  ideas  is  of  great  importance  and  force, 
and  may  be  of  excellent  use  in  many  instances 
of  human  life.  One  idea  which  is  familiar 
to  the  mind,  and  connected  with  others  which 
are  new  and  strange,  will  bring  those  new 
ideas  into  easy  remembrance.  Maronides 
had  got  the  first  hundred  lines  of  Virgil's 
^neid  printed  upon  his  memory  so  perfectly, 
that  he  knew  not  only  the  order  and  number 
of  every  verse  from  one  to  a  hundred  in 
perfection,  but  the  order  and  number  of 
every  word  in  each  verse  also  ;  and  by  this 
means  he  would  undertake  to  remember 
two  or  three  hundred  names  of  persons  or 
things  by  some  rational  or  fantastic  connec- 
tion between  some  word  in  the  verse  and 
some  letter,  syllable,  property,  or  accident 
of  the  name  or  thing  to  be  remembered, 
even  though  they  had  been  repeated  but 
once  or  twice  at  most  in  his  hearing.  Ani- 
manto  practised  much  the  same  art  of 
memory  by  getting  the  Latin  names  of 
twenty-two  animals  into  his  head  according 
to  the  alphabet,  viz.,  asinus,  basiliscus,  canis, 
draco,  elephas,  felis,  gryphus,  hircus,  juven- 
ctis,  leo,  mulus,  noctua,  ovis,  panthera,  quad- 
rupes.  rhinoceros,  simia,  taurus,  ursus, 
xiphias,  hyaena,  or  ycena,  zibetta.  Most  of 
these  he  divided  also  into  four  parts,  viz., 
head  and  body,  feet,  fins,  or  wings,  and  tail, 
and  by  some  arbitrary  or  chimerical  attach- 
ment of  each  of  these  to  a  word  or  thing 
which  he  desired  to  remember,  he  committed 
them  to  the  care  of  his  memory,  and  that 
with  good  success. 

It  is  also  by  this  association  of  ideas  that 
we  may  better  imprint  any  new  idea  upon 
the  memory  by  joining  with  it  some  circum- 
stance of  the  time,  place,  company,  &c., 
wherein  we  first  observed,  heard,  or  learned 
it.  If  we  would  recover  an  absent  idea,  it 
is  useful  to  recollect  those  circumstances  of 
time,  place,  &c.  The  substance  will  many 
times  be  recovered  and  brought  to  the 
thoughts  by  recollecting  the  shadow:  a  man 
recurs  to  our  fancy  by  remembering  his 
garment,  his  size  or  stature,  his  office,  or 
employment.  &c.  A  beast,  bird,  or  fish  by 
its  colour,  figure,  or  motion,  by  the  cage, 
or  court-yard,  or  cistern,  wherein  it  waa 
kept,  &c. 

To  this  head  also  we  may  refer  that  re- 
membrance of  names  and  things  which  may 
be  derived  from  our  recollection  of  their 
likeness  to  other  things  which  we  know  ; 
either  their  resemblance  in  name,  character, 
form,  accident,  or  any  thing  that  belongs  to 
them.  An  idea  or  word  which  has  been  lost 
or  forgotten  has  been  often  recovered  by 
hitting  upon  some  other  kindred  word  or 


140 


JOHN  ARBUTHNOT. 


idea  which  has  the  nearest  resemblance  to 
it,  and  that  in  the  letters,  syllables,  or  sound 
of  the  name,  as  well  as  properties  of  the 
thing. 

If  we  would  remember  Hippocrates,  or 
Galen,  or  Paracelsus,  think  of  a  physician's 
name  beginning  with  II,  G,  or  P.  If  we 
will  remember  Ovidius  Naso,  we  may  repre- 
sent a  man  with  a  great  nose:  if  Plato,  we 
may  think  upon  a  person  with  large  shoul- 
ders ;  if  Crispus,  we  shall  fancy  another 
with  curled  hair;  and  so  of  other  things. 
And  sometimes  a  new  or  strange  idea  may 
be  fixed  in  the  memory  by  considering  its 
contrary  or  opposite.  So  if  we  cannot  hit 
on  the  word  Goliath,  the  remembrance  of 
David  may  recover  it:  Or  the  name  of  a 
Trojan  may  be  recovered  by  thinking  of  a 
Gre<:k,  &c. 

On  Improving  the  Mind,  Part.  I.  ch.  17. 

BOOKS  AND  READING. 

Enter  into  the  sense  and  argument  of  the 
authors  you  read,  examine  all  their  proofs, 
and  then  judge  of  the  truth  or  falsehood 
of  their  opinions ;  and  thereby  you  shall 
not  only  gain  a  rich  increase  of  your  under- 
standings by  those  truths  which  the  author 
teaches,  when  you  see  them  well  supported, 
but  you  shall  acquire  also  by  degrees  a  habit 
of  judging  justly  and  reason  ing  well,  in  imi- 
tation of  the  good  author  whose  works  you 
peruse. 

This  is  laborious  indeed,  and  the  mind  is 
backward  to  undergo  the  fatigue  of  weigh- 
ing every  argument  and  tracing  every  thing 
to  its  original.  It  is  much  less  labour  to 
take  all  things  upon  trust ;  believing  is  much 
easier  than  arguing.  But  when  Studentio 
had  once  persuaded  his  mind  to  tie  itself 
down  to  this  method  which  I  have  prescribed, 
he  sensibly  gained  an  admirable  facility  to 
read,  and  judge  of  what  he  read,  by  his  daily 
practice  of  it,  and  made  large  advances  in 
the  pursuit  of  truth  ;  while  Plumbinvs  and 
Plumeo  made  less  progress  in  knowledge, 
though  they  had  read  over  more  folios. 
Phimeo  skimmed  over  the  pages  like  a  swal- 
low over  the  flowery  meads  in  May.  J'lum- 
limis  read  every  line  and  syllable,  but  did 
not  give  himself  the  trouble  of  thinking  and 
judging  about  them.  They  both  could  boast 
in  company  of  their  great  reading,  for  they 
knew  more  titles  and  pages  than  Stiidentio, 
but  were  far  less  acquainted  with  science. 

I  confess,  those  whose  reading  is  designed 
only  to  fit  them  for  much  talk  and  little 
knowledge  may  content  themselves  to  run 
over  their  authors  in  such  a  sudden  and 
trifling  way;  they  may  devour  libraries  in 
this  manner  yet  be  poor  reasoners  at  last, 
and  have  no  solid  wisdom  or  true  learning. 
The  traveller  who  walks  on  fair  and  softly 


in  a  course  that  points  right,  and  examines 
every  turning  before  he  ventures  upon  it, 
will  come  sooner  and  safer  to  his  journey's 
end  than  he  who  runs  through  every  lane 
he  meets,  though  he  gallop  full  speed 
through  the  day.  The  man  of  much  read- 
ing and  a  large  retentive  memory,  but  with- 
out meditation,  may  become,  in  the  sense  of 
the  world,  a  knowing  man  ;  and  if  he  con- 
verses much  with  the  ancients  he  may  atta;n 
the  fame  of  learning  too  :  But  he  spends 
his  days  afar  off  from  wisdom  and  true  judg- 
ment, and  possesses  very  little  of  the  sub- 
stantial riches  of  the  mind. 

Never  apply  yourselves  to  read  any  human 
author  with  a  determination  beforehand 
either  for  him  or  against  him,  or  with  a 
settled  resolution  to  believe  or  disbelieve,  to 
confirm  or  oppose,  whatsoever  he  saith  ;  but 
always  read  it  with  a  design  to  lay  your 
mind  open  to  truth,  and  to  embrace  it 
wheresoever  you  find  it,  as  well  as  to  reject 
every  falsehood,  though  it  appear  under 
never  so  fair  a  disguise.  How  unhappy  are 
those  men  who  seldom  take  an  author  into 
their  hands  but  they  have  determined  before 
they  begin  whether  they  will  like  or  dislike 
him  !  They  have  got  some  notion  of  his 
name,  his  character,  his  party,  or  his  prin- 
ciples, by  general  conversation,  or  perhaps 
by  some  slight  view  of  a  few  pages:  And 
having  all  their  own  opinions  adjusted  be- 
forehand, they  read  all  that  he  writes  with 
a  prepossession  either  for  or  against  him. 
Unhappy  those  who  hunt  and  purvey  for  a 
party,  and  scrape  together,  out  of  every 
author  all  those  things,  and  those  only, 
which  favour  their  own  tenets,  while  they 
despise  and  neglect  all  the  rest !  Yet  take 
this  caution,  I  would  not  be  understood  here 
as  though  I  persuaded  a  person  to  live  with- 
out any  settled  principles  at  all  by  which  to 
judge  of  men  and  books  and  things  ;  or  that 
I  would  keep  a  man  always  doubting  about 
his  foundations. 

On  Improving  the  Mind,  Part  I.  chap.  4> 


JOHN  ARBUT-HNOT,  M.D., 

born  1G75,  died  1735,  was  associated  with 
Pope,  Gray,  Swift,  Harley,  Atterbury,  and 
Congreve,  in  the  Scriblerus  Club,  and  was 
sole  or  joint  author  of  Memoirs  of  the  Ex- 
traordinary Life,  Works,  and  Discoveries 
of  Martinus  Scriblerus,  which  were  pnl>- 
lished  in  Pope's  Works.  Among  his  other 
productions  were  a  treatise  on  the  Useful- 
ness of  Mathematical  Learning,  1700,  The 
History  of  John  Bull,  1712,  and  Tables  of 
Ancient  Coins,  Weights,  and  Measures, 
Lond.,  1727,  4to. 


JOHN  ARBUTHNOT. 


141 


"  He  has  more  wit  than  we  all  have,  and  his 
humiinity  is  equal  to  his  wit." — SWIFT. 

"  His  good  morals  were  equal  to  any  man's,  but 
his  wit  and  humour  superior  to  all  mankind.'' — 
POPE. 

"  I  think  Dr.  Arbuthnot  the  first  man  among 
them  [the  eminent  writers  in  Queen  Anne's  reign]. 
He  was  the  most  universal  genius,  being  an  excel- 
lent physician,  a  man  of  deep  learning,  and  a  man 
of  much  humour." — Du.  JOHNSON. 

USEFULNESS  OF   MATHEMATICAL   LEARNING. 

The  advantages  which  accrue  to  the  mind 
by  mathematical  studies  consist  chiefly  in 
these  things  :  1st,  In  accustoming  it  to  at- 
tention. 2d,  In  giving  it  a  habit oi'  close  and 
demonstrative  reasoning.  3d,  In  freeing  it 
from  prejudice,  credulity,  and  superstition. 

First,  the  mathematics  make  the  mind 
attentive  to  the  objects  which  it  considers. 
This  the}7  do  by  entertaining  it  with  a  great 
variety  of  truths,  which  are  delightful  and 
evident,  but  not  obvious.  Truth  is  the  same 
thing  to  the  understanding  as  music  to  the 
ear  and  beauty  to  the  eye.  The  pursuit  of 
it  does  really  as  much  gratify  a  natural  fac- 
ulty implanted  in  us  by  our  wise  Creator 
as  the  pleasing  of  our  senses:  only  in  the 
former  case,  as  the  object  and  faculty  are 
more  spiritual,  the  delight  is  more  pure,  free 
from  the  regret,  turpitude,  lassitude,  and  in- 
temperance that  commonly  attend  sensual 
pleasures.  The  most  part  of  other  sciences 
consisting  only  of  probable  reasonings,  the 
mind  has  not  where  to  fix.  and  wanting  suf- 
ficient principles  to  pursue  its  searches  upon, 
gives  them  over  as  impossible.  Again,  as 
in  mathematical  investigations  truth  may 
be  found,  so  it  is  not  always  obvious.  This 
spurs  the  mind,  and  makes  it  diligent  and 
attentive.  .  .  . 

The  second  advantage  which  the  mind 
reaps  from  mathematical  knowledge  is  a 
habit  of  clear,  demonstrative,  and  method- 
ical reasoning.  We  are  contrived  by  nature 
to  learn  by  imitation  more  than  by  precept; 
and  I  believe  in  that  respect  reasoning  is 
much  like  other  inferior  arts  (as  dancing, 
singing,  &c.),  acquired  by  practice.  By  ac- 
customing ourselves  to  reason  closely  about 
quantity,  we  acquire  a  habit  of  doing  so  in 
other  things.  It  is  surprising  to  see  what 
superficial  inconsequential  reasonings  sat- 
isfy the  most  part  of  mankind.  A  piece  of 
wit.  a  jest,  n  simile,  or  a  quotation  of  an 
author,  passes  for  a  mighty  argument :  with 
such  things  as  these  are  the  most  part  of 
authors  stuffed ;  and  from  these  weighty 
premises  they  infer  thoir  conclusions.  This 
weakness  and  effeminacy  of  mankind,  in 
being  persuaded  where  they  are  delighted, 
have  made  them  the  sport  of  orators,  poets, 
and  men  of  wit.  Those  Inmina  rationis  are 
indeed  very  good  diversion  for  the  fancy, 


but  are  not  the  proper  business  of  the  un- 
derstanding ;  and  where  a  man  pretends  to 
write  on  abstract  subjects  in  a  scientific 
method,  he  ought  not  to  debauch  in  them. 
Logical  precepts  are  more  useful,  nay,  they 
are  absolutely  necessary,  for  a  rule  of  for- 
mal arguing  in  public  disputations,  and 
confounding  an  obstinate  and  perverse  ad- 
versary, and  exposing  him  to  the  audience 
or  readers.  But,  in  the  search  of  truth,  an 
imitation  of  the  method  of  the  geometers  will 
carry  a  man  farther  than  all  the  dialectical 
rules.  Their  analysis  is  the  proper  model  we 
ought  to  form  ourselves  upon,  and  imitate 
in  the  regular  disposition  and  progress  of 
our  inquiries  ;  and  even  he  who  is  ignorant 
of  the  nature  of  mathematical  analysis  uses 
a  method  somewhat  analogous  to  it.  The 
composition  of  the  geometers,  or  their  method 
of  demonstrating  truths  already  found  out, 
namely,  by  definition  of  words  agreed  upon, 
by  self-evident  truths,  and  propositions  that 
have  been  already  demonstrated,  is  practica- 
ble in  other  subjects,  though  not  to  the  same 
perfection,  the  natural  want  of  evidence  in 
the  things  themselves  not  allowing  it ;  but 
it  is  imitable  to  a  considerable  degree.  I 
dare  appeal  to  some  writings  of  our  own  age 
and  nation,  the  authors  of  which  have  been 
mathematically  inclined.  I  shall  add  no 
more  on  this  head,  but  that  one  who  is  ac- 
customed to  the  methodical  systems  of  truth 
which  the  geometers  have  reared  up  in  the 
several  branches  of  those  sciences  which  they 
have  cultivated,  will  hardly  bear  with  the 
confusion  and  disorder  of  other  sciences, 
but  endeavour,  as  far  as  he  can,  to  reform 
them. 

Thirdly,  mathematical  knowledge  adds 
vigour  to  the  mind,  frees  it  from  prejudice, 
credulity,  and  superstition.  This  it  does  in 
two  ways:  1st,  By  accustoming  us  to  exam- 
ine, and  not  to  take  things  upon  trust.  2d, 
By  giving  us  a  clear  and  extensive  knowl- 
edge of  the  system  of  the  world,  which,  as  it 
creates  in  us  the  most  profound  reverence 
of  the  Almighty  and  wise  Creator,  so  it  frees 
us  from  the  mean  and  narrow  thoughts 
which  ignorance  and  superstition  are  apt  to 
beget.  .  .  .  The  mathematics  are  friends  to 
religion,  inasmuch  as  they  charm  the  pas- 
sions, restrain  the  impetuosity  of  imagina- 
tion, and-  purge  the  mind  from  error  and 
Erejudice.  Vice  is  error,  confusion,  and 
ilse  reasoning;  and  all  truth  is  more  or 
less  opposite  to  it.  Besides,  mathematical 
studies  may  serve  for  a  pleasant  entertain- 
ment for  those  hours  which  young  men  are 
apt  to  throw  away  upon  their  vices  ;  the  de- 
lightfulness  of  them  being  such  as  to  make 
solitude  not  only  easy  but  desirable. 

Essay  on  the  Usefulness  of  Mathematical 
Learning. 


142 


SAMUEL    CLARKE. 


SAMUEL  CLARKE,    D.D., 

one  of  the  most  famous  of  English  philoso- 
phers and  divines,  born  1675,  entered  Caius 
College,  Cambridge,  1691 ;  at  twenty,  by  his 
notes  to  his  new  translation  of  Rohault's 
Physics  substituted  at  Cambridge  the  New- 
tonian for  the  Cartesian  philosophy  ;  became 
Hector  of  St.  Bennet's,  Paul's  Wharf,  Lon- 
don, 1706,  and  of  St.  James's,  Westminster, 
1709;  published  his  Demonstration  of  the 
Being  and  Attributes  of  God,  etc..  Lond., 
1705-6,  2  vols.  8vo,  The  Scripture  Doctrine 
of  the  Trinity,  Lond.,  1712,  8vo  (an  Arian 
treatise),  and  other  works ;  died  1729.  Works, 
with  Account,  by  Benjamin  [IloadlyJ  Bishop 
of  Winchester,  Lond.,  1738,  4  vols.  8vo.  In 
vol.  iii.  will  be  found  his  Paraphrase  on  the 
Four  Evangelists,  which  has  been  frequently 
reprinted,  and  generally  accompanies  Pyle 
on  the  Epistles. 

"Dr.  Clarke's  paraphrase  on  the  Evangelists 
deserves  an  attentive  reading ;  he  narrates  a  story 
in  handsome  language,  and  connects  the  parts  well 
together;  but  fails  much  in  emphasis,  and  seems 
to  mistake  the  order  of  the  histories." — DR.  DOD- 
DRIPGE. 

"  He  rarely  reaches  the  sublime  or  aims  at  the 
pathetic  ;  but  in  a  clear  manly  flowing  style  he 
delivers  the  most  important  doctrines,  confirmed 
on  every  occasion  by  well-applied  passages  from 
Scripture.  He  was  not  perfectly  orthodox  in  his 
opinions;  a  circumstance  which  has  lowered  his 
character  among  many." — DR.  KNOX. 

"  I  should  recommend  Dr.  Clarke's  Sermons  were 
he  orthodox ;  however,  it  is  very  well  known  where 
he  was  not  orthodox,  which  was  upon  the  doctrine 
of  the  Trinity,  as  to  which  he  is  a  condemned  her- 
etic: so  one  is  aware  of  it." — DR.  JOHNSON:  Jios- 
tcell'ii  Life  of  Johnson. 

"  Eminent  at  once  as  a  divine,  a  mathematician, 
a  metaphysical  philosopher,  and  a  philologer;  and 
as  the  interpreter  of  Homer  and  Caesar,  the  scholar 
of  Newton,  and  the  antagonist  of  Leibnitz,  ap- 
proved himself  not  unworthy  of  correspondence 
with  the  highest  order  of  human  spirits." — SIR  J. 
MACKINTOSH. 

NATURAL  AND  ESSENTIAL  DIFFERENCE  OF 
RIGHT  AND  WRONG. 

The  principal  thing  that  can,  Avith  any 
colour  of  reason  seem  to  countenance  the 
opinion  of  those  who  deny  the  natural  and 
eternal  difference  of  good  and  evil,  is  the 
difficulty  there  may  sometimes  be  to  define 
exactly  the  bounds  of  right  and  wrong;  the 
variety  of  opinions  that  have  obtained  even 
among  understanding  and  learned  men,  con- 
cerning certain  questions  of  just  and  unjust, 
especially  in  political  matters  ;  and  the  many 
contrary  laws  that  have  been  made  in  divers 
ages  and  in  different  countries  concerning 
these  matters. 

But  as,  in  painting,  two  very  different 
colours,  by  diluting  each  other  very  slowly 
and  gradually,  may,  from  the  highest  in- 


tenseness  in  either  extreme,  terminate  in 
the  midst  insensibly,  and  so  run  one  into  the 
other  that  it  shall  not  be  possible  even  for  si 
skilful  eye  to  determine  exactly  where  the 
one  ends  and  the  other  begins ;  and  yet  the 
colours  may  really  differ  as  much  as  can  be, 
not  in  degree  only,  but  entirely  in  kind,  as 
red  and  blue,  or  white  and  black :  so,  though  it 
may  perhaps  be  very  difficult  in  some  nice  and 
perplexed  cases  (which  yet  are  very  far  from 
occurring  frequently)  to  define  exactly  the 
bounds  of  right  and  wrong,  just  and  unjust 
(and  there  may  be  some  latitude  in  the  judg- 
ment of  different  men,  and  the  laws  of  divers 
nations),  yet  right  and  wrong  are  neverthe- 
less in  themselves  totally  and  essentially 
different;  even  altogether  as  much  as  white 
and  black,  light  and  darkness.  The  Spartan 
law,  perhaps,  which  permitted  their  youth 
to  steal,  may,  as  absurd  as  it  was,  bear  much 
dispute  whether  it  was  absolutely  unjust  or 
no:  because  every  man  having  an  absolute 
right  in  his  own  goods,  it  may  seem  that  the 
members  of  any  society  may  agree  to  trans- 
fer or  alter  their  own  properties  upon  what 
conditions  they  shall  think  n't.  But  if  it 
could  be  supposed  that  a  law  had  been  made 
at  Sparta,  or  at  Rome,  or  in  India,  or  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world,  whereby  it  had  been 
commanded  or  allowed  that  every  man  might 
rob  by  violence,  and  murder,  whomsoever 
he  met  with,  or  that  no  faith  should  be  kept 
with  any  man,  nor  any  equitable  compacts 
performed,  no  man  with  any  tolerable  use  of 
his  reason,  whatever  diversity  of  judgment 
might  be  among  them  in  other  matters,  would 
have  thought  that  such  a  law  could  have  au- 
thorized or  excused,  much  less  have  justified, 
such  actions,  and  have  made  them  become 
good :  because  'tis  plainly  not  in  men's  power 
to  make  falsehood  be  truth,  though  they  may 
alter  the  property  of  their  goods  as  they 
please,  ftow  if  in  flagrant  cases  the  natural 
and  essential  difference  between  good  and 
evil,  right  and  wrong,  cannot  but  be  con- 
fessed to  be  plainly  and  undeniably  evident, 
the  difference  between  them  must  be  also 
essential  and  unalterable  in  all,  even  the 
smallest,  and  nicest  and  most  intricate  cases, 
though  it  be  not  so  easy  to  be  discerned  and 
accurately  distinguished.  For  if,  from  the 
difficulty  of  determining  exactly  the  bounds 
of  right  and  wrong  in  many  perplexed  cases, 
it  could  truly  be  concluded  that  just  and  un- 
just were  not  essentially  different  by  nature, 
but  only  by  positive  constitution  and  custom, 
it  would  follow  equally  that  they  were  not 
really,  essentially,  and  unalterably  different, 
even  in  the  most  flagrant  cases  that  can  be 
supposed  ;  which  is  an  assertion  so  very  ab- 
surd that  Mr.  Hobbes  himself  could  hardly 
vent  it  without  blushing,  and  discovering 
plainly,  by  his  shifting  expressions,  his  secret 


BENJAMIN  HOADLY. 


143 


Belf-condemnation.  There  are  therefore  cer- 
tain necessary  and  eternal  differences  of 
things,  and  certain  fitnesses  or  unfitnesses 
of  the  application  of  different  things,  or  dif- 
ferent relations  one  to  another,  not  depend- 
ing on  any  positive  constitutions,  but  founded 
unchangeably  in  the  nature  and  reason  of 
things,  and  unavoidably  arising  from  the 
differences  of  the  things  themselves. 


BENJAMIN    HOADLY,    D.D., 

born  1676,  Bishop  of  Bangor,  1713,  Bishop 
of  Salisbury,  17^3,  Bishop  of  Winchester, 
1734,  died  1761,  was  the  author  of  a  num- 
ber of  theological  treatises,  of  which  A 
Plain  Account  of  the  Nature  and  End  of  the 
Lord's  Supper,  1735,  8vo  (A  Defence  of 
the  same,  1735,  1748,  8vo),  and  a  sermon, 
entitled  My  Kingdom  is  not  of  this  AVorld, 
1717  (which  gave  rise  to  the  famous  Bango- 
rian  Controversy,  comprised  in  forty  to  fifty 
tracts),  are  the  best  known.  A  collection  of 
his  Sermons  was  published,  1754-55,  2  vols. 
8vo  (Discourses,  4th  edit.,  1734,  8vo),  and 
his  Works,  with  an  Index  and  an  Introduc- 
tory Account  of  the  Author,  appeared, 
Lond.,  1773,  3  vols.  fol. 

"  A  long  and  celebrated  war  of  pens  instantly 
commenced,  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bangorian 
Controversy;  managed,  perhaps  on  both  sides, 
with  all  the  chicanery  of  polemical  writers,  and 
disgusting  both  from  its  tediousness,  imd  from  the 
manifest  unwillingness  of  the  disputants  to  speak 
ingenuously  what  they  meant." — HALLAM  :  Constit. 
Hist,  of  England,  edit.  1854,  iii.  243-214. 

Mr.  Hallam  appends  this  note : 

"These  qualities  are  so  apparent,  that,  after 
turning  over  some  forty  or  fifty  tracts,  and  con- 
suming a  good  many  hours  on  the  Bangorian  Con- 
troversy, I  should  find  some  difficulty  in  stating 
with  decision  the  propositions  in  dispute." 

PROTESTANT  INFALLIBILITY. 

Your  holiness  is  not  perhaps  aware  how 
near  the  churches  of  us  Protestants  have 
at  length  come  to  those  privileges  and  per- 
fections which  you  boast  of  as  peculiar  to 
your  own  :  so  near  that  many  of  the  most 
quick-sighted  and  sagacious  persons  have 
not  been  able  to  discover  any  other  differ- 
ence between  us,  as  to  the  main  principle 
of  all  doctrine,  government,  worship,  and 
discipline,  but  this  one,  namely,  that  you 
cannot  err  in  anything  you  determine,  and 
we  never  do :  that  is,  in  other  words,  that 
you  are  infallible,  and  we  always  in  the 
right.  We  cannot  but  esteem  the  advantage 
to  be  exceedingly  on  our  side  in  this  case ; 
because  we  have  all  the  benefits  of  infalli- 
bility without  the  absurdity  of  pretending 


to  it,  and  without  the  uneasy  task  of  main- 
taining a  point  so  shocking  to  the  under- 
standing of  mankind.  And  you  must  par- 
don us  if  we  cannot  help  thinking  it  to  be 
as  great  and  as  glorious  a  privilege  in  us  to 
be  always  in  the  right,  without  the  pretence 
of  infallibility,  as  it  can  be  in  you  to  be 
always  in  the  wrong,  with  it. 

Thus,  the  synod  of  Dort  (for  whose  un- 
erring decisions  public  thanks  to  Almighty 
God  are  every  three  years  offered  up  with 
the  greatest  solemnity  by  the  magistrates  in 
that  country),  the  councils  of  the  reformed 
in  France,  the  assembly  of  the  kirk  of  Scot- 
land, and  (if  I  may  presume  to  name  it) 
the  convocation  of  England,  have  been  all 
found  to  have  the  very  same  unquestionable 
authority  which  your  church  claims,  solely 
upon  the  infallibility  which  resides  in  it, 
and  the  people  to  be  under  the  very  same 
strict  obligation  of  obedience  to  their  de- 
terminations, which  with  you  is  the  con- 
sequence only  of  an  .absolute  infallibility. 
The  reason,  therefore,  why  we  do  not  openly 
set  up  an  infallibility  is,  because  we  can  do 
without  it.  Authority  results  as  well  from 
power  as  from  right,  and  a  majority  of  votes 
is  as  strong  a  foundation  for  it  as  infallibility 
itself.  Councils  that  may  err,  never  do  :  and 
besides,  being  composed  of  men  whose  pecu- 
liar business  it  is  to  be  in  the  right,  it  is 
very  immodest  for  any  private  person  to 
think  them  not  so  ;  because  this  is  to  set  up 
a  private  corrupted  understanding  above  a 
public  uncorrupted  judgment. 

Thus  it  is  in  the  north,  as  well  as  the 
south,  abroad  as  well  as  at  home.  All 
maintain  the  exercise  of  the  same  authority 
in  themselves  which  yet  they  know  not  how 
so  much  as  to  speak  of  without  ridicule  in 
others. 

In  England  it  stands  thus:  The  synod  of 
Dort  is  of  no  weight;  it  determined  many 
doctrines  wrong.  The  assembly  of  Scotland 
hath  nothing  of  a  true  authority  :  and  is 
very  much  out  in  its  scheme  of  doctrines, 
worship,  and  government.  But  the  church 
of  England  is  vested  with  all  authority,  and 
justly  challengeth  all  obedience. 

If  one  crosses  a  river  in  the  north,  there 
it  stands  thus :  The  church  of  England  is 
not  enough  reformed ;  its  doctrines,  Avor- 
ship,  and  government  have  too  much  of 
antichristian  Rome  in  them.  But  the  kirk 
of  Scotland  hath  a  divine  right  from  its 
only  head,  Jesus  Christ,  to  meet  and  to 
enact  what  to  it  shall  seem  fit  for  the  good 
of  his  church. 

Thus,  we  left  you  for  your  enormous  un- 
justifiable claim  to  an  unerring  spirit,  and 
have  found  out  a  way,  unknown  to  your 
holiness  .and  your  predecessors,  of  claiming 
all  the  rights  that  belong  to  infallibility  j 


144 


JOHN  HUGHES. 


even  whilst  we  disclaim  and  abjure  the  thing 
itself. 

As  for  us  of  the  church  of  England,  if  we 
will  believe  many  of  its  greatest  advocates, 
we  have  bishops  in  a  succession  as  certainly 
uninterrupted  from  the  apostles  as  your 
church  could  communicate  it  to  us.  And 
upon  this  bottom,  which  makes  us  a  true 
church,  we  have  a  right  to  separate  from 
you;  but  no  persons  living  have  a  right  to 
differ  or  separate  from  us.  And  they  again, 
who  differ  from  us,  value  themselves  upon 
something  or  other  in  which  we  are  sup- 
posed defective,  or  upon  being  free  from 
some  superfluities  which  we  enjoy ;  and 
think  it  hard  that  any  will  be  still  going 
further,  and  refine  upon  their  scheme  of 
worship  and  discipline. 

Thus  we  have  indeed  left  you;  but  we 
have  fixed  ourselves  in  your  seat,  and  make 
no  scruple  to  resemble  you  in  our  defences 
of  ourselves  and  censurers  of  others  when- 
ever we  think  it  proper. 

From  the  Dedication  to  Pope  Clement  XL 
prefixed  to  Sir  R.  Steele's  Account  of  the 
State  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Religion 
throughout  the  World. 


JOHN  HUGHES, 

born  1677,  died  1720,  was  a  contributor  to 
The  Tatler,  the  Spectator,  and  the  Guardian  ; 
co-author  with  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  of  the 
Essays,  Discourses.  &c.,  of  the  Lay  Monk, 
(in  40  Numbers,  Nov.  10,  1713-Feb.  15, 
1714,  2d  edit.,  The  Lay  Monastery,  Lond., 
1714,  12mo)  ;  author  of  the  Siege  of  Damas- 
cus, 1720,  8vo,  and  of  other  productions, 
together  with  translations.  His  Poems  and 
Essays  in  Prose  were  published,  Lond., 
1735,  2  vols.  12ino,  and  his  Correspondence, 
with  Notes,  Lond.,  1772,  3  vols.  12mo,  2d 
edit.,  1773,  3  vols.  8vo.  His  poems  were 
included  in  Dr.  Johnson's  collection,  with 
a  meagre  sketch  without  any  estimate  of 
his  merits. 

"  He  [Hughes]  is  too  grave  a  poet  for  me,  and, 
I  think,  among  the  Mediocrists  in  prose  as  well  as 
verse." — SWIFT  TO  POPE. 

"  What  he  wanted  in  genius  he  made  up  as  an 
honest  man  ;  but  he  was  of  the  class  you  think 
him." — POPE  TO  SWIFT. 

"  Hughes  has  more  merit  as  a  translator  of 
poetry  than  as  an  original  poet.  .  .  .  On  the  prose 
of  Hughes  I  am  inclined  to  bestow  more  praise 
than  on  his  poetry.  .  .  .  All  the  periodical  essays 
of  Hughes  are  written  in  a  style  which  is,  in  gen- 
eral, easy,  correct,  and  elegant :  they  occasionally 
exhibit  wit  and  humour;  and  they  uniformly 
tend  to  inculcate  the  best  precepts,  moral,  pruden- 
tial, and  religious." — DR.  DRAKE  :  Ein«ys  Illustra- 
tive of  the  Tatler,  Spectator,  nnd  Guardian,  iii.  26— 
50,  q.  v.  for  an  account  of  Hughes's  share  in  these 


periodicals;  and  see  the  Prefaces  to  the  various 
editions  of  those  works. 

IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

To  THE  SPECTATOR. 

SIR, — I  am  fully  persuaded  that  one  of 
the  best  springs  of  generous  and  worthy 
actions  is  the  having  generous  and  worthy 
thoughts  of  ourselves.  Whoever  has  a  mean 
opinion  of  the  dignity  of  his  nature  will  act 
in  no  higher  a  rank  than  he  has  allotted 
himself  in  his  own  estimation.  If  he  con- 
siders his  being  as  circumscribed  by  the  un- 
certain term  of  a  few  years,  his  designs  will 
be  contracted  into  the  same  narrow  span  he 
imagines  is  to  bound  his  existence.  How 
can  he  exalt  his  thoughts  to  any  thing  great 
and  noble  who  only  believes  that,  after  a 
short  turn  on  the  stage  of  this  world,  he  is 
to  sink  into  oblivion,  and  to  lose  his  con- 
sciousness forever? 

For  this  reason  I  am  of  opinion  that  so 
useful  and  elevated  a  contemplation  as  that 
of  the  soul's  immortality  cannot  be  resumed 
too  often.  There  is  not  a  more  improving 
exercise  to  the  human  rnind  than  to  be  fre- 
quently reviewing  its  own  great  privileges 
and  endowments ;  nor  a  more  effectual 
means  to  awaken  in  us  an  ambition  raised 
above  low  objects  and  little  pursuits,  than  to 
value  ourselves  as  heirs  of  eternity. 

It  is  a  very  great  satisfaction  to  consider 
the  best  and  wisest  of  mankind  in  all  nations 
and  ages  asserting  as  with  one  voice  this 
their  birthright,  and  to  find  it  ratified  by 
an  express  revelation.  At  the  same  time  if 
we  turn  our  thoughts  inwards  upon  our- 
selves, we  may  mef;t  with  a  kind  of  secret 
sense  concurring  with  the  proofs  of  our  own 
immortality. 

You  have,  in  my  opinion,  raised  a  good 
presumptive  argument  from  the  increasing 
appetite  the  mind  has  to  knowledge,  and  to 
the  extending  its  own  faculties,  which  cannot 
be  accomplished,  as  the  more  restrained  per- 
fection of  lower  creatures  may,  in  the  limits 
of  a  short  life.  I  think  another  probable 
conjecture  may  be  raised  from  our  appetite 
to  duration  itself,  and  from  a  reflection  on 
our  progress  through  the  several  stages  of 
it.  ''  We  are  complaining,"  as  you  observed 
in  a  former  speculation,  "  of  the  shortness  of 
life,  and  yet  are  perpetually  hurrying  over 
the  parts  of  it,  to  arrive  at  certain  little  set- 
tlements or  imaginary  points  of  rest,  which 
are  dispersed  up  and  down  in  it." 

Now  let  us  consider  what  happens  to  113 
when  we  arrive  at  these  imaginary  points 
of  rest.  Do  we  stop  our  motion  and  sit  down 
satisfied  in  the  settlement  we  have  gained? 
or  are  we  not  removing  the  boundary,  and 
marking  out  new  points  of  rest,  to  which  we 
press  forward  with  the  like  eagerness,  and 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN. 


145 


•which  cease  to  be  such  as  fast  as  we  attain 
them  ?  Our  case  is  like  that  of  a  traveller 
upon  the  Alps,  who  should  fancy  that  the 
top  of  the  next  hill  must  end  his  journey, 
because  it  terminates  his  prospect ;  but  he 
no  sootier  arrives  at  it  than  he  sees  new 
ground  and  other  hills  beyond  it,  and  con- 
tinues to  travel  on  as  before. 

This  is  so  plainly  every  man's  condition  in 
life,  that  there  is  no  one  who  has  observed 
any  thing  but  may  observe  that  as  fast  as 
his  time  wears  away  his  appetite  to  some- 
thing future  remains.  The  use,  therefore,  I 
would  make  of  it  is,  that  since  Nature  (as 
some  love  to  express  it)  does  nothing  in 
vain,  or  to  speak  properly,  since  the  Author 
of  our  being  has  planted  no  wandering  pas- 
sion in  it,  no  desire  which  has  not  its  object, 
futurity  is  the  proper  object  of  the  passion 
so  constantly  exercised  about  it:  and  this 
restlessness  in  the  present,  this  assigning 
ourselves  over  to  farther  stages  of  duration, 
this  successive  grasping  at  somewhat  still  to 
come,  appears  to  me  (whatever  it  may  be  to 
others)  as  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  natural 
symptom,  which  the  mind  of  men  has  of  its 
own  immortality. 

I  take  it  at  the  same  time  for  granted  that 
the  immortality  of  the  soul  is  sufficiently  es- 
tablished by  other  arguments:  and  if  so, 
this  appetite,  which  otherwise  would  be 
very  unaccountable  and  absurd,  seems  very 
reasonable,  and  adds  strength  to  the  conclu- 
sion. But  I  am  amazed  when  I  consider 
there  are  creatures  capable  of  thought,  who, 
in  spite  of  every  argument,  can  form  to 
themselves  a  sullen  satisfaction  in  thinking 
otherwise.  There  is  something  so  pitifully 
mean  in  the  inverted  ambition  of  that  man 
who  can  hope  for  annihilation,  and  please 
himself  to  think  that  his  whole  fabric  shall 
one  day  crumble  into  dust,  and  mix  with 
the  mass  of  inanimate  beings,  that  it  equally 
deserves  our  admiration  and  pity.  The  mys- 
tery of  such  men's  unbelief  is  not  hard  to  be 
penetrated  ;  and  indeed  amounts  to  nothing 
more  than  a  sordid  hope  that  they  shall  not 
be  immortal,  because  they  dare  not  be  so. 

This  brings  me  hack  to  my  first  observa- 
tion, and  gives  me  occasion  to  say  farther, 
that  as  worthy  actions  spring  from  worthy 
thoughts,  so  worthy  thoughts  are  likewise 
the  consequence  of  worthy  actions.  But  the 
wretch  who  has  degraded  himself  below  the 
character  of  immortality  is  very  willing  to 
resign  his  pretensions  to  it,  and  to  substi- 
tute in  its  room  a  dark  negative  happiness 
in  the  extinction  of  his  being. 

The  Spectator,  No.  210,  Wednesday,  Octo- 
ber 31,  1711, 


10 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN,   VISCOUNT 
BOLINGBROKE, 

born  1678,  became  Secretary  of  War,  1704, 
Secretary  of  State,  1710,  fled  to  France  to 
avoid  impeachment,  1715,  and  was  absent 
until  17-3;  for  ten  years  was  in  political 
opposition  to  Sir  Robert  "\Valpole,  and  died 
1751.  He  was  a  man  of  profligate  prin- 
ciples and  great  intellectual  and  literary 
abilities.  The  Craftsman,  by  Caleb  D' Anvers 
(Dec.  5,  1725,  et  seq.,  Lond.,  14  vols.  12mo), 
was'the  vehicle  of  Wyndhanvs,  Pulteney'n, 
and  Bolingbroke's  fierce  attacks  upon  AVal- 
pole ;  and  in  the  same  paper  first  appeared 
Bolingbroke's  Dissertations  upon  Parties 
(in  a  volume,  Lond.,  1735,  4to).  His  Re- 
marks on  the  History  of  England  were 
published,  Lond.,  1743,  4to ;  his  Letters  on 
the  Spirit  of  Patriotism,  on  the  Idea  of  a 
Patriot  King,  and  on  the  State  of  Parties  at 
the  Accession  of  George  I.,  appeared  together 
in  a  volume,  Lond.,  1749,  8vo.  Pope  had 
previously  printed  and  circulated  more  copies 
of  The  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King  than  the  author 
intended.  A  collective  edition  of  Boling- 
broke's Works  was  published  by  David  Mal- 
let, Lond.,  1754,  5  vols.  4to  (again,  Lond., 
178G,  11  vols.  8vo,  Lond.,  1809,  8  vols.  8vo, 
Boston,  Mass.,  1844,  4  vols.  8vo),  and  his 
Letters,  Correspondence,  with  State  Papers, 
etc.,  were  published  by  the  Rev.  Gilbert 
Parke,  Lond.,  1798,  2  vols.  4to. 

"  I  really  think  there  is  something  in  that  great 
man  which  looks  as  if  he  was  placed  here  by  mis- 
take. When  the  comet  appeared  to  us  a  month  or 
two  ago,  I  had  sometimes  an  imagination  th.it  it 
might  possibly  be  come  to  our  world  to  carry  him 
home;  as  a  coach  comes  to  one's  door  for  other 
visitors." — POPE:  Spence's  Anecdotes. 

"  When  Tully  attempted  poetry  he  became  as- 
ridiculous  as  Bolingbroke  when  he  attempted  phi- 
losophy and  divinity  :  we  look  in  vain  for  that 
genius  which  produced  the  Dissertation  on  Parties 
in  the  tedious  philosophical  works,  of  which  it  is 
no  exaggerated  satire  to  say  that  the  reason  of 
them  is  sophistical  and  inconclusive,  the  style  dif- 
fuse and  verbose,  and  the  learning  seemingly  con- 
tained in  them  not  drawn  from  the  originals,  but 
picked  up  and  purloined  from  French  critics  and 
translations." — JOSEPH  WARTOS  :  Life  of  Pope. 

ON  USELESS  LEARNING. 

Some  [histories]  are  to  be  read,  some  are 
to  be  studied,  and  some  may  be  neglected 
entirely,  not  only  without  detriment,  but 
with  advantage.  Some  are  the  proper  ob- 
jects of  one  man's  curiosity,  some  of 
another's,  and  some  of  all  men's;  but  all 
history  is  not  an  object  of  curiosity  for  any 
man.  He  who  improperly,  wantonly,  and 
absurdly  makes  it  so,  indulges  a  sort  of 
canine  appetite;  the  curiosity  of  one,  like 
the  hunger  of  the  other,  devours  ravenously, 
and  without  distinction,  whatever  falls  in  its 


146 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN. 


•way,  but  neither  of  them  digests.  They 
heap  crudity  upon  crudity,  and  nourish  and 
improve  nothing  but  their  distemper.  Some 
such  characters  I  have  known,  though  it  is 
not  the  most  common  extreme  into  which 
men  are  apt  to  fall.  One  of  them  I  knew 
in  this  country  [Bishop  Warburton].  lie 
joined  to  a  most  athletic  strength  of  body 
a  prodigious  memory,  and  to  both  a  pro- 
digious industry.  He  had  read  almost  con- 
stantly fourteen  or  fifteen  hours  a  day  for 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  and  had  heaped 
together  as  much  learning  as  could  be 
crowded  into  a  head.  In  the  course  of  my 
acquaintance  witli  him  I  consulted  him  once 
or  twice — not  oftener,  for  I  found  this  mass 
of  learning  of  as  little  use  to  me  as  to  the 
owner.  The  man  was  communicative  enough, 
but  nothing  was  distinct  in  his  mind.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise?  he  had  never  spared 
time  to  think, — all  was  employed  in  read- 
ing. His  reason  had  not  the  merit  of  com- 
mon mechanism.  When  you  press  a  watch, 
or  pull  a  clock,  they  answer  your  question 
with  precision  ;  for  they  repeat  exactly  the 
hour  of  the  day,  and  tell  you  neither  more 
nor  less  than  you  desire  to  know.  But 
when  you  asked  this  man  a  question,  he 
overwhelmed  you  by  pouring  forth  all  that 
the  several  terms  or  words  of  your  question 
recalled  to  his  memory  ;  and  if  he  omitted 
anything,  it  was  the  very  thing  to  which 
the  sense  of  the  whole  question  should  have 
led  him  and  confined  him.  To  ask  him  a 
question  was  to  wind  up  a  spring  in  his 
memory,  that  rattled  on  with  vast  rapidity 
and  confused  noise,  till  the  force  of  it  was 
spent;  and  you  went  away  with  all  the 
noise  in  your  ears,  stunned  and  uninformed. 
I  never  left  him  that  I  was  not  ready  to  say 
to  him,  Dieu  vous  fasse  la  grace  de  devenir 
mains  savant! — a  wish  that  La  Mothe  le 
Vayer  mentions  upon  some  occasion  or 
other,  and  that  he  would  have  done  well  to 
have  applied  to  himself  upon  many. 

lie  who  reads  with  discernment  and  choice 
will  acquire  less  learning,  but  more  knowl- 
edge; and  as  this  knowledge  is  collected 
with  design,  and  cultivated  with  art  and 
method,  it  will  be  at  all  times  of  immediate 
and  ready  use  to  himself  and  others. 

Thus  useful  arms  in  magazines  we  place, 

All  ranged  in  order,  and  disposed  with  grace; 

Nor  thus  alone  the  curious  eye  to  please, 

But  to  be  found,  when  need  requires,  with  case. 

You  remember  the  verses,  my  lord,  in  our 
friend's  [Pope's]  Essay  on  Criticism,  which 
was  the  work  of  his  childhood  almost;  but 
is  such  a  monument  of  good  sense  and  poetry 
as  no  other,  that  I  know,  has  raised  in  his 
riper  years. 

He  who  reads  without  this  discernment 


and  choice,  and,  like  Bodin's  pupil,  resolves 
to  read  all,  will  not  have  time,  no,  nor  capa- 
city neither,  to  do  anything  else.  He  will 
not  be  able  to  think,  without  which  it  is 
impertinent  to  read ;  nor  to  act,  without 
which  it  is  impertinent  to  think.  He  will 
assemble  materials  with  much  pains,  and 
purchase  them  at  much  expense,  and  have 
neither  leisure  nor  skill  to  frame  them  into 
proper  scantlings,  or  to  prepare  them  for 
use.  To  what  purpose  should  he  husband 
his  time,  or  learn  architecture?  he  has  no 
design  to  build.  But  then,  to  what  purpose 
all  these  quarries  of  stone,  all  these  moun- 
tains of  sand  and  lime,  all  these  forests  of 
oak  and  deal  ? 

Essay  on  the  Study  of  History :   Boling- 
broke's  Works,  1754,  *'*'•  330. 

COMPLAINTS  OF  THE    SHORTNESS   OP  HUMAN 
LIFE. 

I  think  very  differently  from  most  men  of 
the  time  we  have  to  pass,  and  the  business 
we  have  to  do  in  this  world.  I  think  we 
have  more  of  one,  and  less  of  the  other,  than 
is  commonly  supposed.  Our  want  of  time, 
and  the  shortness  of  human  life,  are  some 
of  the  principal  commonplace  complaints 
which  we  prefer  against  the  established 
order  of  things  :  they  are  the  grumblings 
of  the  vulgar,  and  the  pathetic  lamrnta- 
tions  of  the  philosopher;  but  they  are  im- 
pertinent and  impious  in  both.  The  man  of 
business  despises  the  man  of  pleasure  for 
squandering  the  time  away  ;  the  man  of 
pleasure  pities  or  laughs  at  the  man  of  busi- 
ness for  the  same  thing;  and  yet  both  con- 
cur superciliously  and  absurdly  to  find  fault 
with  the  Supreme  Being  for  having  given 
them  so  little  time.  The  philosopher,  who 
misspends  it  very  often  as  much  as  the 
others,  joins  in  the  same  cry,  and  authorizes 
this  im'piety.  Theophrastus  thought  it  ex- 
tremely hard  to  die  at  ninety,  and  to  go  out 
of  the  world  when  he  had  just  learned  how 
to  live  in  it.  His  master,  Aristotle,  found 
fault  with  nature  for  treating  man  in  this 
respect  worse  than  several  other  animals  : 
both  very  nnphilosophically  !  and  I  love 
Seneca  the  better  for  his  quarrel  with  the 
Stagirite  on  this  head.  We  see,  in  so  many 
instances,  a  just  proportion  of  things,  ac- 
cording to  their  several  relations  to  one 
another,  that  philosophy  should  lead  us  to 
conclude  this  proportion  preserved,  even 
when  we  cannot  discern  it ;  instead  of  lead- 
ing us  to  conclude  that  it  is  not  preserved 
where  we  do  not  discern  it,  or  where  we 
think  that  we  see  the  contrary.  To  conclude 
otherwise  is  shocking  presumption.  It  is  to 
presume  that  the  system  of  the  universe 
would  have  been  more  wisely  contrived,  if 


HENRY  ST.  JOHN. 


creatures  of  our  low  rank  among  intellectual 
natures  had  been  called  to  the  councils  of 
the  Most  High  ;  or  that  the  Creator  ought  to 
mend  his  work  by  the  advice  of  the  creature. 
That  life  which  seems  to  our  self-love  so 
short,  when  Ave  compare  it  with  the  ideas 
we  frame  of  eternity,  or  even  with  the  dura- 
tion of  some  other  beings,  will  appear  suf- 
ficient, upon  a  less  partial  view,  to  all  the 
ends  of  our  creation,  and  of  a  just  propor- 
tion in  the  successive  course  of  generations. 
The  term  itself  is  long  ;  we  render  it  short; 
and  the  want  we  complain  of  flows  from  our 
profusion,  not  from  our  poverty.  We  are 
all  arrant  spendthrifts:  some  of  us  dis- 
sipate our  estates  on  the  trifles,  some  on 
the  superfluities,  and  then  we  all  complain 
that  we  want  the  necessaries,  of  life.  The 
much  greatest  part  never  reclaim,  but  die 
bankrupts  to  God  and  man.  Others  reclaim 
late,  and  they  are  apt  to  imagine,  when 
they  make  up  their  accounts,  and  see  how 
their  fund  is  diminished,  that  they  have 
not  enough  remaining  to  live  upon,  because 
they  have  not  the  whole.  But  they  deceive 
themselves :  they  were  richer  than  they 
thought,  and  they  are  not  yet  poor.  If  they 
husband  well  the  remainder,  it  will  be  found 
sufficient  for  all  the  necessaries,  and  for  some 
of  the  superfluities,  and  trifles  too,  perhaps, 
of  life  ;  but  then  the  former  order  of  expense 
must  be  inverted,  and  the  necessaries  of  life 
must  be  provided  before  they  put  themselves 
to  any  cost  for  the  trifles  or  superfluities. 

Let  us  leave  the  men  of  pleasure  and  of 
business,  who  are  often  candid  enough  to 
own  that  they  throw  away  their  time,  and 
thereby  to  confess  that  they  complain  of  the 
Supreme  Being  for  no  other  reason  than 
this,  that  he  has  not  proportioned  his 
bounty  to  their  extravagance.  Let  us  con- 
sider the  scholar  and  philosopher,  who,  far 
from  owning  that  he  throws  any  time  away, 
reproves  others  for  doing  it;  that  solemn 
mortal  who  abstains  from  the  pleasures,  and 
declines  the  business,  of  the  world,  that  he 
may  dedicate  his  whole  time  to  the  search 
of  truth  and  the  improvement  of  knowledge. 
When  such  a  one  complains  of  the  short- 
ness of  human  life  in  general,  or  of  his  re- 
maining share  in  particular,  might  not  a 
man,  more  reasonable,  though  less  solemn, 
expostulate  thus  with  him:  "Your  com- 
plaint is,  indeed,  consistent  with  your  prac- 
tice; but  you  would  not  possibly  renew 
your  complaint  if  you  reviewed  your  prac- 
tice. Though  reading  makes  a  scholar,  yet 
every  scholar  is  not  a  philosopher  nor  every 
philosopher  a  wise  man.  It  cost  you  twentv 
years  to  devour  all  the  volumes  on  one  side 
of  your  library  ;  you  came  out  a  great  critic 
in  Latin  and  Greek,  in  the  oriental  tongues, 
in  history  and  chronology  ;  but  you  were 


not  satisfied.  You  confessed  that  these  were 
the  literal  nihil  sanantes,  and  you  wanted 
more  time  to  acquire  other  knowledge.  You 
have  had  this  time  :  you  have  passed  twenty 
years  more  on  the  other  side  of  your  library, 
among  philosophers,  rabbis,  commentators, 
schoolmen,  and  whole  legions  of  modern  doc- 
tors. You  are  extremely  well  versed  in  all 
that  has  been  written  concerning  the  nature 
of  God,  and  of  the  soul  of  man,  about  matter 
and  form,  body  and  spirit,  and  space  and  eter- 
nal essences,  and  incorporeal  substances,  and 
the  rest  of  those  profound  speculations.  You 
are  a  master  of  the  controversies  that  have 
arisen  about  nature  and  grace,  about  pre- 
destination and  free  will,  and  all  the  other 
abstruse  questions  that  have  made  so  much 
noise  in  the  schools  and  so  much  hurt  in 
the  world.  You  are  going  on,  as  fast  as  the 
infirmities  you  have  contracted  will  permit, 
in  the  same  course  of  study ;  but  you  begin 
to  foresee  that  you  shall  want  time,  and  you 
make  grievous  complaints  of  the  shortness 
of  human  life.  Give  me  leave  now  to  ask 
you  how  many  thousand  years  God  must 
prolong  your  life  in  order  to  reconcile  you 
to  his  wisdom  and  goodness?  It  is  plain,  at 
least  highly  probable,  that  a  life  as  long 
as  that  of  the  most  aged  of  the  patriarchs 
would  be  too  short  to  answer  your  purposes  •, 
since  the  researches  and  disputes  in  which 
you  are  engaged  have  been  already  for  a 
much  longer  time  the  objects  of  learned 
inquiries,  and  remain  still  as  imperfect  and 
undetermined  as  they  were  at  first.  But  let 
me  ask  you  again,  and  deceive  neither  your- 
self nor  me,  have  you,  in  the  course  of  these 
forty  years,  once  examined  the  first  prin- 
ciples and  the  fundamental  facts  on  which 
all  those  questions  depend,  with  an  absolute 
indifference  of  judgment,  and  with  a  scrup- 
ulous exactness?  with  the  same  that  you 
have  employed  in  examining  the  various 
consequences  drawn  from  them,  and  the 
heterodox  opinions  about  them?  Have  you 
not  taken  them  for  granted  in  the  whole 
course  of  your  studies?  Or,  if  you  have 
looked  now  and  then  on  the  state  of  the 
proofs  brought  to  maintain  them,  have  you 
not  done  it  as  a  mathematician  looks  over  a 
demonstration  formerly  made  to  refresh  his 
memory,  not  to  satisfy  any  doubt?  If  you 
have  thus  examined,  it  may  appear  marvel- 
lous to  some  that  you  have  spent  so  much 
time  in  many  parts  of  those  studies,  which 
have,  reduced  you  to  this  hectic  condition  of 
so  much  heat  and  weakness.  But  if  you 
have  not  thus  examined,  it  must  be  evident 
to  all,  nay,  to  yourself,  on  the  least  reflec- 
tion, that  you  are  still,  notwithstanding  all 
your  learning,  in  a  state  of  ignorance.  For 
knowledge  can  alone  produce  knowledge  : 
and  without  such  an  examination  of  axioms 


148 


THOMAS  SHERLOCK. 


and  facts,  you  can  have  none  about  infer- 
ences !" 

In  this  manner  one  might  expostulate 
very  reasonably  with  many  a  great  scholar, 
many  a  profound  philosopher,  many  a  dog- 
matical casuist.  And  it  serves  to  set  the 
complaints  about  want  of  time,  and  the 
shortness  of  human  life,  in  a  very  ridiculous 
but  a  true  light. 


THOMAS   SHERLOCK,    D.D., 

son  of  William  Sherlock,  D.D.,  born  1678, 
Master  of  the  Temple,  1704,  Prebendary  of 
London,  1713,  and  of  Norwich,  1719,  Bishop 
of  Bangor,  Feb.  4,  1727-28,  Bishop  of  Salis- 
bury, 1734,  Bishop  of  London,  1748,  de- 
clined the  archbishopric  of  Canterbury,  1747, 
died  1761,  published  a  collective  edition  of 
his  Discourses  at  the  Temple  Church,  Lond., 
1754-58.  4  vols.  8vo,  8th  edit.  1775,  3  vols. 
12mo;  vol.  v.,  Oxf.,  1797,  8vo ;  first  com- 
plete edition  of  .Sherlock's  Works,  by  Rev. 
T.  S.  Hughes,  Lond.,  1830,  5  vols.  8vo.  His 
best-known  works  are  The  Use  and  Intent 
of  Prophecy,  etc.,  Lond.,  1725,  8vo,  4th  edit., 
Lond.,  1744.  8vo ;  1755,  Svo  (usually  added 
as  a  5th  volume  to  the  early  editions  of  the 
Discourses)  ;  and  The  Trial  of  the  Witnesses 
of  the  Resurrection  of  Jesus,  Lond.,  1729, 
8vo,  16th  edit.,  Lond.,  1807,  8vo ;  with  the 
Sequel  of  the  Trial,  Lond.,  II.  G.  Bohn, 
1848,  Svo  (In  the  series  entitled  "Christian 
Literature"). 

"They  [Shorlosk's  Sermons]  contain  admirable 
defences  of  the  truths  of  religion,  and  powerful 
incitements  to  the  practice  of  it.  They  rouse  the 
virtues  of  Christians  l>y  proper  motive?,  and  put 
to  silence  the  doubts  and  cavils  of  Infidels  by  most 
convincing  arguments." — Du.  HUGH  BLAIR. 

"Still  break  the  benches,  Henley  !  with  thy  strain. 
While  Sherlock,  ILire,  and  Gibson  preach  in  vain." 
POPE  :  Dunciud,  Book  iii.,  203. 

"  Sherlock's  style  is  very  elegant,  though  he  has 
not  made  it  his  principal  study." — DR.  JOHNSON: 
lioswell's  Life,  year  1778. 

RELIGION. 

Religion  is  founded  in  the  principles  of 
sense  and  nature ;  and,  without  supposing 
this  foundation,  it  would  be  as  rational  an 
act  to  preach  to  horses  as  to  men.  A  man 
who  has  the  use  of  reason  cannot  consider 
his  condition  and  circumstances  in  this  world, 
or  reflect  on  his  notions  of  good  and  evil, 
and  the  sense  he  feels  in  himself  that  he  is 
an  accountable  creature  for  the  good  or  evil 
he  does,  without  asking  himself  how  he 
came  into  this  world,  and  for  what  purpose, 
and  to  whom  it  is  that  he  is,  or  possibly  may 
be,  accountable.  When,  by  tracing  his  own 
being  to  the  original,  he  finds  that  there  is 


one  supreme  all-wise  cause  of  all  things; 
when  by  experience  lie  sees  that  this  world 
neither  is  nor  can  be  the  place  for  taking  a 
just  and  adequate  account  of  the  actions  of 
men  ;  the  presumption  that  there  is  another 
state  after  this,  in  which  men  shall  live, 
grows  strong  and  almost  irresistible  ;  when 
he  considers  further  the  fears  and  hopes  of 
nature  with  respect  to  futurity,  the  fear  of 
death  common  to  all,  the  desire  of  continu- 
ing in  being,  which  never  forsakes  us  ;  and 
reflects  for  what  use  and  purpose  these  strong 
impressions  were  given  us  by  the  Author  of 
nature;  he  cannot  help  concluding  that  man 
was  made  not  merely  to  act  a  short  part  upon 
the  stage  of  this  world,  but  that  there  is 
another  and  more  lasting  state  to  which  he 
bears  relation.  And  from  hence  it  must 
necessarily  follow  that  his  religion  must  be 
formed  on  a  view  of  securing  a  future  hap- 
piness. 

Since,  then,  the  end  that  men  propose  to 
themselves  by  religion  is  such,  it  will  teach 
us  wherein  the  true  excellency  of  religion 
consists.  If  eternal  life  and  future  happi- 
ness are  what  we  aim  at.  that  will  be  the 
best  religion  which  will  most  certainly  lead 
us  to  eternal  life  and  future  happiness:  and 
it  will  be  to  no  purpose  to  compare  religions 
together  in  any  other  respects  which  have 
no  relation  to  this  end. 

Let  us,  then,  by  this  rule  examine  the  pre- 
tensions of  revelation,  and,  as  we  go  along, 
compare  it  with  the  present  state  of  natural 
religion,  that  we  may  be  able  to  judge  ''to 
whom  we  ought  to  go." 

Eternal  life  and  happiness  are  out  of  our 
power  to  give  ourselves,  or  to  obtain  by  any 
strength  and  force,  or  any  policy  or  wisdom. 
Could  our  own  arm  rescue  us  from  the  jaws 
of  death,  and  the  powers  of  the  kingdom  of 
darkness  ;  could  we  set  open  the  gates  of 
heaven  for  ourselves,  and  enter  in  to  take 
possession  of  life  and  glory,  we  should  want 
no  instructions  or  assistances  from  religion  ; 
since  what  St.  Peter  said  of  Christ  every 
man  might  apply  to  himself,  and  say,  "I 
have  the  words,  or  means,  of  eternal  life." 

But  since  we  have  not  this  power  of  life 
and  death,  and  since  there  is  One  who  has, 
whogovernethall  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
who  is  over  all  God  blessed  for  evermore,  it 
necessarily  follows  that  either  we  must  have 
no  share  or  lot  in  the  glories  of  futurity,  or 
else  that  we  must  obtain  them  from  God, 
and  receive  them  as  his  gift  .and  favour; 
and  consequently  if  eternal  life  be  the  end 
of  religion,  and  likewise  the  gift  of  God, 
religion  can  be  nothing  else  but  the  means 
proper  to  be  made  use  of  by  us  to  obtain  of 
God  this  most  excellent  and  perfect  gift  of 
eternal  life  :  for  if  eternal  life  be  the  end  of 
religion,  religion  must  be  the  means  of  ol> 


HENRY  PEL  TON. 


149 


taining  eternal  life:  and  if  eternal  life  can 
only  be  had  from  the  gift  of  God,  religion 
must  be  the  means  of  obtaining  this  gift  of 
God. 

And  thus  far  all  religions  that  ever  have 
appeared  in  the  world  have  agreed :  the 
question  has  never  yet  been  made  by  any 
whether  God  is  to  be  applied  to  for  eternal 
happiness  or  no ;  but  every  sect  has  placed 
its  excellency  in  this,  that  it  teaches  the 
properest  and  most  effectual  way  of  making 
this  application.  Even  natural  religion  pre- 
tends to  no  more  than  this :  it  claims  not 
eternal  life  as  the  right  of  nature,  but  the 
right  of  obedience,  and  of  obedience  to  God, 
the  Lord  of  nature  :  and  the  dispute  between 
natural  and  revealed  religion  is  not,  whether 
God  is  to  be  applied  to  for  eternal  happiness  ; 
but  only  whether  nature  or  revelation  can 
best  teach  us  how  to  make  this  application. 

Prayers,  and  praises,  and  repentance  for 
sins  past  are  acts  of  devotion,  which  nature 
pretends  to  instruct  and  direct  us  in:  but 
why  does  she  teach  us  to  pray,  to  praise,  or 
to  repent,  but  that  she  esteems  one  to  be  the 
proper  method  of  expressing  our  wants,  the 
other  of  expressing  our  gratitude,  and  the 
third  of  making  atonement  for  iniquity  and 
offences  against  God?  In  all  these  acts 
reference  is  had  to  the  overruling  power  of 
the  Almighty;  and  they  amount  to  this  con- 
fession, that  the  upshot  of  all  religion  is,  to 
please  God  in  order  to  make  ourselves  happy. 

Several  Discourses  Preached  at  the  Temple 
C/iurch:  Discourse  I.,  Part  II. :  John  vi. 
67-60. 


HENRY  FELTON,  D.D., 

born  1679,  Principal  of  Edmund  Hall,  1722. 
died  1740,  was  author  of  A  Dissertation  on 
Reading  the  Classics,  and  Forming  a  Just 
Style,  1711;  4th  edit.,  Lond.,  1757,  12mo. 
A  good  book. 

Ox  THE  SUBLIME. 

We  have  no  instances  to  produce  of  any 
writers  that  rise  at  all  to  the  majesty  and 
dignity  of  the  Divine  Attributes  except  the 
sacred  penmen.  No  less  than  Divine  Inspi- 
ration could  enable  men  to  write  worthily 
of  God,  and  none  but  the  spirit  of  God 
knew  how  to  express  his  gi'eatness,  and  dis- 
play his  glory :  in  comparison  of  these  divine 
writers,  the  greatest  geniuses,  the  noblest 
wits,  of  the  Heathen  world,  are  low  and 
dull.  The  sublime  majesty  and  royal  mag- 
nificence of  the  Scripture  poems  are  above 
the  reach  and  beyond  the  power  of  all 
mortal  wit.  Take  the  best  and  liveliest 
poems  of  antiquity,  and  read  them  as  we 
do  the  Scriptures,  in  a  prose  translation, 


and  they  are  flat  and  poor.  Horace,  and 
Virgil,  and  Homer  lose  their  spirits  and 
their  strength  in  the  transfusion,  to  that 
degree  that  we  have  hardly  patience  to  read 
them.  But  the  sacred  writings,  even  in  our 
translation,  preserve  their  majesty  and  their 
glory,  and  very  far  surpass  the  brightest 
and  noblest  compositions  of  Greece  and 
Home.  And  this  is  not  owing  to  the  rich- 
ness and  solemnity  of  the  eastern  eloquence 
(for  it  holds  in  no  other  instance),  but  to 
the  divine  direction  and  assistance  of  the 
holy  writers.  For.  let  me  only  make  this 
remark,  that  the  most  literal  translation  of 
the  Scriptures,  in  the  most  natural  significa- 
tion of  the  words,  is  generally  the  best;  and 
the  same  punctualness  which  debases  other 
writings  preserves  the  spirit  and  majesty  of 
the  sacred  text:  it  can  suffer  no  improve- 
ment from  human  wit:  and  we  may  observe 
that  those  who  have  presumed  to  heighten 
the  expression  by  a  poetical  translation  or 
paraphrase  have  sunk  in  the  attempt:  and 
all  the  decorations  of  their  verse,  whether 
Greek  or  Latin,  have  not  been  able  to  reach 
the  dignity,  the  majesty,  and  solemnity  of 
our  prose:  so  that  the  prose  of  Scripture 
cannot  be  improved  by  verse,  and  even  the 
divine  poetry  is  most  like  itself  in  prose. 
One  observation  more  I  would  leave  with 
you  :  Milton  himself,  as  great  a  genius  as 
he  was,  owes  his  superiority  over  Homer 
and  Virgil,  in  majesty  of  thought  and  splen- 
dour of  expression,  to  the  Scriptures:  they 
are  the  fountain  from  which  he  derived  his 
light;  the  sacred  treasure  that  enriched  his 
fancy,  and  furnished  him  with  all  the  truth 
and  wonders  of  God  and  his  creation,  of 
angels  and  men.  which  no  mortal  brain  was 
able  either  to  .discover  or  conceive  :  and  in 
him,  of  all  human  writers,  you  will  meet  all 
his  sentiments  and  words  raised  and  suited 
to  the  greatness  and  dignity  of  the  Subject. 
I  have  detained  you  the  longer  on  this 
majesty  of  style,  being  perhaps  myself  car- 
ried away  with  the  greatness  and  pleasure 
of  the  contemplation.  What  I  have  dwelt 
so  much  on  with  respect  to  divine  subjects 
is  more  easily  to  be  observed  with  respect 
to  human  :  for  in  all  things  below  divinity 
we  are  rather  able  to  exceed  than  fall  short ; 
and  in  adorning  all  other  subjects  our  words 
and  sentiments  may  rise  in  a  just  propor- 
tion to  them  :  nothing  is  above  the  reach 
of  man  but  heaven  ;  and  the  same  wit  can 
raise  a  human  subject  that  only  debases  a 
divine. 

A  Dissertation  on  Reading  the  Classics. 

THE  FORMATION  OF  A  RIGHT  TASTE. 

A  perfect  mastery  and  elegance  of  style 
is  to  be  learned  from  the  common  rules,  but 


150 


GEORGE  BERKELEY. 


must  be  improved  by  reading  the  orators 
and  poets,  and  the  celebrated  masters  in 
every  kind :  this  will  give  you  a  right  taste 
and  a  true  relish  ;  and  when  you  can  dis- 
tinguish the  beauties  of  every  finished  piece, 
you  will  write  yourself  with  equal  commen- 
dation. 

I  do  not  assert  that  every  good  writer 
must  have  a  genius  for  poetry ;  I  know 
Tully  is  an  undeniable  exception :  but  I 
will  venture  to  affirm  that  a  soul  that  is 
not  moved  with  poetry,  and  has  no  taste 
that  way,  is  too  dull  and  lumpish  ever  to 
write  with  any  prospect  of  being  read.  It 
is  a  fatal  mistake,  and  simple  superstition 
to  discourage  youth  from  poetry,  and  en- 
deavour to  prejudice  them  against  it;  if 
they  are  of  a  poetical  genius,  there  is  no 
restraining  them :  Ovid,  you  know,  was 
deaf  to  his  father's  frequent  admonitions. 
But  if  they  are  not  quite  smitten  and  be- 
witched with  love  of  verse,  they  should  be 
trained  to  it,  to  make  them  masters  of  every 
kind  of  poetry,  that  by  learning  to  imitate 
the  originals  they  may  arrive  at  a  right 
conception  and  a  true  taste  of  their  authors  : 
and  being  able  to  write  in  verse  upon  occa- 
sion, I  can  assure  you,  is  no  disadvantage 
to  prose :  for  without  relishing  the  one,  a 
man  must  never  pretend  to  any  taste  for  the 
other. 

Taste  is  a  metaphor,  borrowed  from  the 
palate  by  which  we  approve  or  dislike  what 
we  eat  and  drink  from  the  agreeableness  or 
disagrecableness  of  the  relish  in  our  mouth. 
Nature  directs  us  in  the  common  use,  and 
every  body  can  tell  sweet  from  bitter,  what 
is  sharp,  or  sour,  or  vapid,  or  nauseous  ; 
but  it  requires  senses  more  refined  and  ex- 
ercised to  discover  every  taste  that  is  more 
perfect  in  its  kind  ;  every  palate  is  not  to 
judge  of  that,  and  yet  drinking  is  more 
used  than  reading.  All  that  I  pretend  to 
know  of  the  matter  is,  that  wine  should  be, 
like  a  style,  clear,  deep,  bright,  and  strong, 
sincere  and  pure,  sound  and  dry  (as  our 
advertisements  do  well  express  it),  which 
last  is  a  commendable  term,  that  contains 
the  juice  of  the  richest  spirits,  and  only 
keeps  out  all  cold  and  dampness. 

it  is  common  to  commend  a  man  for  an 
ear  to  music,  and  a  taste  for  painting ; 
which  are  nothing  but  a  just  discernment 
of  what  is  excellent  and  most  perfect  in 
them.  The  first  depends  entirely  on  the 
ear ;  a  man  can  never  expect  to  be  a  master 
that  has  not  an  ear  tuned  and  set  to  music ; 
and  you  can  no  more  sing  an  ode  without 
an  ear  than  without  a  genius  you  can  write 
one.  Painting,  we  should  think,  requires 
some  understanding  in  the  art,  and  exact 
knowledge  of  the  best  masters'  manner,  to 
be  a  judge  of  it;  but  this  faculty,  like  the 


rest,  is  founded  in  nature  :  knowledge  in  the 
art,  and  frequent  conversation  with  the  best 
originals,  will  certainly  perfect  a  man's  judg- 
ment;  but  if  there  is  not  a  natural  sagacity 
and  aptness,  experience  will  be  of  no  great 
service.  A  good  taste  is  an  argument  of  a 
great  soul,  as  well  as  a  lively  wit.  It  is  the 
infirmity  of  poor  spirits  to  be  taken  with 
every  appearance,  and  dazzled  by  every- 
thing that  sparkles:  but  to  pass  by  what 
the  generality  of  the  world  admires,  and  to 
be  detained  with  nothing  but  what  is  most 
perfect  and  excellent  in  its  kind,  speaks  a 
superior  genius,  and  a  true  discernment. 
A  Dissertation  on  Reading  the  Classics. 


GEORGE  BERKELEY,  D.D., 

born  in  the  county  of  Kilkenny,  Ireland, 
1684,  in  1709  published  An  Essay  towards 
a  New  Theory  of  Vision,  Dublin,  8vo  (and  a 
Vindication  of  this  Theory,  in  1733),  in  17 10 
The  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,  Dub- 
lin, 8vo,  in  1713  Three  Dialogues  between 
Hylas  and  Philolonous ;  made  Dean  of 
Derry,  1724  ;  in  1728  emigrated  to  Americfi 
to  carry  out  his  "  scheme  for  converting  the 
savage  Americans  to  Christianity  by  a  col- 
lege to  be  erected  in  the  Summer  Islands, 
otherwise  called  the  Isles  of  Bermudas" 
(Berkeley),  and  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island, 
awaited  for  a  long  time  in  vain  the  receipt 
of  a  parliamentary  grant  to  enable  him  to 
complete  his  project  ;  in  1732  published 
Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philosopher,  in 
seven  Dialogues,  containing  an  Apology  for 
the  Christian  Religion  against  Free-Think- 
ers, Lond.,  2  vols.  8vo ;  in  1734  was  made 
Bishop  of  Cloyne,  and  refused  to  exchange 
his  see  for  that  of  Clogher,  of  double  its 
value;  in  1747  published  Siris,  a  Chain  of 
Philosophical  Reflections  and  Inquiries  re- 
specting the  Virtues  of  Tar  Water  in  the 
Plague,  Lond.,  8vo,  and  in  1752  Farther 
Thoughts  on  Tar  Water,  Lond.,  8vo,  and 
died  in  the  next  year.  In  1776  was  pub- 
lished An  Account  of  his  Life,  with  Notes, 
containing  Strictures  upon  his  Works,  £vo: 
in  1784  his  Whole  Works,  with  an  Account 
of  his  Life,  and  several  of  his  Letters  to 
Thomas  Prior,  Esq..  Dean  Gervais.  and  Mr. 
Pope,  etc.,  by  T.  Prior,  Esq.,  2  vols.  4to, 
appeared.  There  have  been  two  recent  edi- 
tions of  his  Works,  one  in  3  vols.  8vo,  and 
another  by  Rev.  G.  N.  Wright,  in  2  vols. 
8vo,  1843.  Mr.  W.  gives  a  translation  of 
the  Latin  Essays  ( Arithmetica,  Miscellanea, 
Mathematica,  and  DeMotu)  ami  Notes  on  the 
Introduction  to  Human  Knowledge.  Among 
his  works  is  The  Querist :  containing  several 
Queries  proposed  to  the  Consideration  of  the 


GEORGE  BERKELEY. 


151 


Public,  1735.  He  was  also  the  author  of 
fourteen  of  The  Guardians. 

"  Possessing  a  mind  which,  however  inferior  to 
that  of  Locke  in  depth  of  reflection  and  in  sound- 
ness of  judgment,  was  fully  its  equal  in  logical 
acuteness  and  invention,  and  in  learning,  fancy, 
and  taste  far  its  superior,  Berkeley  was  singularly 
fitted  to  promote  that  reunion  of  Philosophy  and 
of  the  Fine  Arts  which  is  so  essential  to  the  pros- 
perity of  both.  .  .  .  With  these  intellectual  and 
moral  endowments,  admired  and  blazoned  as  they 
were  by  the  most  distinguished  wits  of  his  age,  it 
is  not  surprising  that  Berkeley  should  have  given 
a  popularity  and  fashion  to  metapbyaioa]  pursuits 
which  they  had  never  before  acquired  in  England." 
— DUGALD  STEWART  :  \xt  Prelim.  Dissert,  to  Eitcyc. 
Brit. 

"  Ancient  learning,  exact  science,  polished  so- 
ciety, modern  literature,  and  the  fine  arts  contrib- 
uted to  adorn  and  enrich  the  mind  of  this  accom- 
plished man.  All  his  contemporaries  agreed  with 
the  satirist  [Pope]  in  ascribing 

'  To  Berkeley  every  virtue  under  heaven.' 

Adverse  factions  and  hostile  wits  concurred  only 
in  loving,  admiring,  and  contributing  to  advance 
him.  The  severe  sense  of  Swift  endured  his  vis- 
ions ;  the  modest  Addison  endeavoured  to  reconcile 
Clarke  to  his  ambitious  speculations.  His  charac- 
ter converted  the  satire  of  Pope  into  fervid  praise. 
Even  the  discerning,  fastidious,  and  turbulent 
Attcrbury  said,  after  an  interview  with  him,  'So 
much  understanding,  so  much  knowledge,  so  much 
innocence,  and  such  humility,  I  did  not  think  had 
been  the  portion  of  any  but  angels,  till  I  saw  this 
gentleman.'  .  .  .  Of  the  exquisite  grace  and  beauty 
of  his  diction,  no  man  accustomed  to  English  com- 
position can  need  to  be  informed.  His  works  are, 
beyond  dispute,  the  finest  models  of  philosophical 
style  since  Cicero.  Perhaps  they  surpass  those  of 
the  orator,  in  the  wonderful  art  by  which  the  fullest 
light  is  thrown  on  the  most  remote  and  evanescent 
parts  of  the  most  subtile  of  human  conceptions. 
Perhaps  he  also  surpassed  Cicero  in  the  charm  of 
simplicity." — SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH  :  Id  Prelim. 
JJisfsert.  to  Encyc.  Brit. 

GROUNDS  TO  EXPECT  A  FUTURE  STATE 
PROVED. 

Let  the  most  steadfast  unbeliever  open  his 
eyes,  and  take  a  survey  of  the  sensible  world, 
and  then  say  if  there  be  not  a  connexion,  and 
adjustment,  and  exact  and  constant  order 
discoverable  in  all  the  parts  of  it.  Whatever 
be  the  cause,  the  thing  itself  is  evident  to  all 
our  faculties.  Look  into  the  animal  system, 
the  passions,  senses,  and  locomotive  powers  •, 
is  not  the  like  contrivance  and  propriety  ob- 
servable in  these  too?  Are  they  not  fitted 
to  certain  ends,  and  are  they  not  by  nature 
directed  to  proper  objects? 

Is  it  possible,  then,  that  the  smallest  bodies 
should,  by  a  management  superior  to  the  wit 
of  man,  be  disposed  in  the  most  excellent 
manner  agreeable  to  their  respective  natures, 
and  yet  the  spirits  or  souls  of  men  be  neg- 
lected, or  managed  by  such  rules  as  fall 


short  of  man's  understanding?  Shall  every 
other  passion  be  rightly  placed  by  nature, 
and  shall  that  appetite  of  immortality  nat- 
ural to  all  mankind  be  alone  misplaced,  or 
designed  to  be  frustrated?  Shall  the  in- 
dustrious application  of  the  inferior  animal 
powers  in  the  meanest  vocations  be  answered 
by  the  ends  we  proposed,  and  shall  not  the 
generous  efforts  of  a  virtuous  mind  be  re- 
warded ?  In  a  word,  Shall  the  corporeal 
world  be  order  and  harmony :  the  intellec- 
tual, discord  and  confusion  ?  He  who  is 
bigot  enough  to  believe  these  things  must 
bid  adieu  to  that  natural  rule,  "  of  reasoning 
from  analogy  ;"  must  run  counter  to  that 
maxim  of  common  sense,  "  that  men  ought 
to  form  their  judgments  of  things  unexperi- 
enced from  what  they  have  experienced." 

If  anything  looks  like  a  recompense  of 
calamitous  virtue  on  this  side  the  grave,  it 
is  either  an  assurance  that  thereby  we  ob- 
tain the  favour  and  protection  of  heaven, 
and  shall,  whatever  befalls  us  in  this,  in 
another  life  meet  with  a  just  return,  or 
else  that  applause  and  reputation  which  is 
thought  to  attend  virtuous  actions.  The 
former  of  these  our  free-thinkers,  out  of  their 
singular  wisdom  and  benevolence  to  man- 
kind, endeavour  to  erase  from  the  minds  of 
men.  The  latter  can  never  be  justly  dis- 
tributed in  this  life,  where  so  many  ill 
actions  are  reputable,  and  so  many  good 
actions  disesteemed  or  misinterpreted  ;  where 
subtle  hypocrisy  is  placed  in  the  most  en- 
gaging light,  and  modest  virtue  lies  con- 
cealed ;  where  the  heart  and  the  soul  are 
hid  from  the  eyes  of  men,  and  the  eyes  of 
men  are  dimmed  and  vitiated.  .  .  .  Let  us 
suppose  a  person  blind  and  deaf  from  his 
birth,  who,  being  grown  to  men's  estate,  is 
by  the  dead  palsy,  or  some  other  cause,  de- 
prived of  his  feeling,  tasting,  and  smelling, 
and  at  the  same  time  has  the  impediment 
of  his  hearing  removed,  and  the  film  taken 
from  his  eyes.  What  the  five  senses  are  to 
us,  that  the  touch,  taste,  and  smell  were  to 
him.  And  any  other  ways  of  perception  of 
a  more  refined  and  extensive  nature  were  to 
him  as  inconceivable,  as  to  us  those  are 
which  will  one  day  be  adapted  to  perceive 
those  things  which  "eye  hath  not  seen,  nor 
ear  heard,  neither  hath  it  entered  into  the 
heart  of  man  to  conceive."  And  it  would  be 
just  as  reasonable  in  him  to  conclude  that  the 
loss  of  those  three  senses  could  not  possibly 
be  succeeded  by  any  new  inlets  of  percep- 
tion, as  in  a  modern  free-thinker  to  imagine 
there  can  be  no  state  of  life  and  perception 
without  the  senses  he  enjoys  at  present. 
Let  us  farther  suppose  the  same  person's 
eyes,  at  their  first  opening,  to  be  struck 
with  a  great  variety  of  the  most  gay  and 
pleasing  objects,  and  his  ears  with  a  melodi- 


152 


GEORGE  BERKELEY. 


ous  concert  of  vocal  and  instrumental  music. 
Behold  him  amazed,  ravished,  transported  ; 
and  you  have  some  distant  representation, 
some  faint  and  glimmering  idea  of  the  ec- 
static state  of  the  soul  in  that  article  in  which 
she  emerges  from  this  sepulchre  of  flesh  into 
life  and  immortality. 

The  Guardian,  Ao.  27,  Saturday,  April  11, 
1713. 

ON  PLEASURES,  NATURAL  AND  FANTASTICAL. 

It  is  of  great  use  to  consider  the  pleasures 
which  constitute  human  happiness,  as  they 
are  distinguished  into  natural  and  fantasti- 
cal. Natural  pleasures  I  call  those  which, 
not  depending  on  the  fashion  and  caprice  of 
any  particular  age  or  nation,  are  suited  to 
human  nature  in  general,  and  Avere  intended 
by  Providence  as  rewards  for  the  using  our 
faculties  agreeably  to  the  ends  for  which 
they  were  given  us.  Fantastical  pleasures 
are  those  which  having  no  natural  fitness  to 
delight  our  minds,  presuppose  some  partic- 
ular whim  or  taste  accidentally  prevailing 
in  a  set  of  people,  to  which  it  is  owing  that 
they  please. 

Now  I  take  it  that  the  tranquillity  and 
cheerfulness  with  which  I  have  passed  my 
life,  are  the  effect  of  having,  ever  since  I 
came  to  years  of  discretion,  continued  my 
inclinations  to  the  former  sort  of  pleas- 
ures. .  .  . 

The  various  objects  that  compose  the  world 
were  by  nature  formed  to  delight  our  senses, 
and  as  it  is  this  alone  that  makes  them  de- 
sirable to  an  uncorrupted  taste,  a  man  may 
be  said  naturally  to  possess  them  when  he 
possesseth  those  enjoyments  which  they  are 
fitted  by  nature  to  yield. 

Hence  it  is  usual  with  me  to  consider  my- 
self as  having  a  natural  property  in  every 
object  that  administers  pleasure  to  me. 
When  I  am  in  the  country,  all  the  fine  seats 
near  the  place  of  my  residence,  and  to  which 
I  have  access,  I  regard  as  mine.  The  same 
I  think  of  the  groves  and  fields  where  I 
walk,  and  muse  on  the  folly  of  the  civil 
landlord  in  London,  who  has  the  fantastical 
pleasure  of  draining  dry  rent  into  his  cof- 
fers, but  is  a  stranger  to  fresh  air  and  rural 
enjoyment's.  By  these  principles  I  am  pos- 
sessed of  half  a  dozen  of  the  finest  seats  in 
England,  which  in  the  eye  of  the  law  belong 
to  certain  of  my  acquaintance,  who  being 
men  of  business  choose  to  live  near  the 
court.  .  .  . 

When  I  walk  the  streets  I  use  the  forego- 
ing natural  maxim  (viz.,  That  he  is  the  true 
possessor  of  a  thing  who  enjoys  it,  and  not 
he  that  owns  it  without  the  enjoyment  of 
it),  to  convince  myself  that  I  have  a  prop- 
erty in  the  gay  part  of  all  the  gilt  chariots 


that  I  meet,  which  I  regard  as  amusements 
designed  to  delight  my  eyes,  and  the  imagi- 
nation of  those  kind  people  who  sit  in  them 
gayly  attired  only  to  please  me.  I  have  a 
real,  and  they  only  an  imaginary,  pleasure 
from  their  exterior  embellishments.  Upon 
the  same  principle,  I  have  discovered  that  I 
am  the  natural  proprietor  of  all  the  dia- 
mond necklaces,  the  crosses,  stars,  brocades, 
and  embroidered  clothes,  which  I  see  at  a 
play  or  birth-night,  as  giving  more  natural 
delight  to  the  spectator  than  to  those  that 
wear  them.  And  I  look  on  the  beaux  and 
ladies  as  so  many  paroquets  in  an  aviary,  or 
tulips  in  a  garden,  designed  purely  for  my 
diversion.  A  gallery  of  pictures,  a  cabinet, 
or  library,  that  I  have  free  access  to,  I  think 
my  own.  In  a  word,  all  that  I  desire  is  the 
use  of  things,  let  who  will  have  the  keeping 
of  them.  By  which  maxim  I  am  grown  one 
of  the  richest  men  in  Great  Britain  ;  with 
this  difference,  that  I  am  not  a  prey  to  my 
own  cares,  or  the  envy  of  others.  .  .  . 

Every  day,  numberless  innocent  and  natu- 
ral gratifications  occur  to  me,  while  I  behold 
my  fellow-cre.atures  labouring  in  a  toilsome 
and  absurd  pursuit  of  trifles:  one,  that  he 
may  be  called  by  a  particular  appellation  ; 
.another,  that  he  may  wear  a  particular  orna- 
ment, which  I  regard  as  a  bit  of  riband  that 
has  an  jvgreeable  effect  on  my  sight,  but  is 
so  far  from  supplying  the  place  of  merit 
where  it  is  not,  that  it  serves  only  to  make 
the  want  of  it  more  conspicuous.  Fair 
weather  is  the  joy  of  my  soul:  about  noon 
I  behold  a  blue  sky  with  rapture,  and  re- 
ceive great  consolation  from  the  rosy  dashes 
of  light  which  adorn  the  clouds  of  the  morn- 
ing and  evening.  When  I  am  lost  among 
green  trees,  I  do  not  envy  a  great  man  with 
a  great  crowd  at  his  levee.  And  I  often  lay 
aside  thoughts  of  going  to  an  opera,  that  I 
may  enjoy  the  silent  pleasure  of  walking  by 
moonlight,  or  viewing  the  stars  sparkle  in 
their  azure  ground  ;  which  I  look  upon  as 
part  of  my  possessions,  not  without  a  secret 
indignation  at  the  tastelessness  of  mortal 
men,  who,  in  their  race  through  life,  over- 
look the  real  enjoyment  of  it. 

But  the  pleasure  which  naturally  affects 
a  human  mind  with  the  most  lively  and 
transporting  touches,  I  take  to  be  the.  sense 
that  we  act  in  the  eye  of  infinite  Wisdom, 
Power,  and  Goodness,  that  will  crown  our 
virtuous  endeavours  here,  with  a  happiness 
hereafter,  large  as  our  desires,  and  lasting 
as  our  immortal  souls.  This  is  a  perpetual 
spring  of  gladness  in  the  mind.  This  les- 
sens our  calamities  and  doubles  our  joys. 
Without  this  the  highest  state  of  life  is  in- 
sipid, and  with  it  the  lowest  is  a  paradise. 

The  Guardian,  No.  JjO,  Thursday,  May  7, 
1713. 


EUSTACE  BUDGELL. 


153 


THE  ATTRACTION'S  OF  FRIENDSHIP  AND  BE- 
NEVOLENCE. 

If  we  consider  the  whole  scope  of  the 
creation  that  lies  within  our  view,  the  moral 
and  intellectual,  as  well  as  the  natural  and 
corporeal,  we  shall  perceive  throughout  a 
certain  correspondence  of  the  parts,  a  simi- 
litude of  operation,  and  unity  of  design, 
which  plainly  demonstrate  the  universe  to 
be  the  work  of  one  infinitely  good  and  wise 
Being;  and  that  the  system  of  thinking 
beings  is  actuated  by  laws  derived  from  the 
same  divine  power  which  ordained  those  by 
which  the  corporeal  system  is  upheld.  .  .  . 
Now  if  we  carry  our  thoughts  from  the  cor- 
poreal to  the  moral  world,  we  may  observe 
in  the  spirits  or  minds  of  men  a  like  prin- 
ciple of  attraction,  whereby  they  are  drawn 
together  in  communities,  clubs,  families, 
friendships,  and  all  the  various  species  of 
society.  As  in  bodies  where  the  quantity 
is  the  same  the  attraction  is  strongest  be- 
tween those  which  are  placed  nearest  to  each 
other,  so  it  is  likewise  in  the  mind  of  men, 
cceteris  paribus,  between  those  which  are 
most  nearly  related.  .  .  . 

A  man  who  has  no  family  is  more  strongly 
attracted  towards  his  friends  and  neighbours ; 
and  if  absent  from  these,  he  naturally  falls 
jnto  an  acquaintance  with  those  of  his  own 
city  or  country,  who  chance  to  be  in  the  same 
place.  Two  Englishmen  meeting  at  Rome 
or  Constantinople  soon  run  into  a  famili- 
arity. And  in  China  or  Japan,  Europeans 
would  think  their  being  so  a  good  reason 
for  their  uniting  in  particular  converse. 
Farther,  in  case  we  suppose  ourselves  trans- 
lated into  Jupiter  or  Saturn,  and  there  to 
meet  a  Chinese  or  other  more  distant  native 
of  our  own  planet,  we  should  look  on  him 
as  a  near  relation,  and  readily  commence  a 
friendship  with  him.  These  are  natural  re- 
flections, and  such  as  may  convince  us  that 
Ave  are  linked  by  an  imperceptible  chain  to 
every  individual  of  the  human  race.  .  .  . 

The  mutual  gravitation  of  bodies  cannot 
be  explained  any  other  way  than  by  resolv- 
ing it  into  the  immediate  operation  of  God, 
who  never  ceases  to  dispose  and  actuate  his 
creatures  in  a  manner  suitable  to  their  re- 
spective beings.  So  neither  can  that  recip- 
rocal attraction  in  the  minds  of  men  be 
accounted  for  by  any  other  cause.  It  is  not 
the  result  of  education,  law,  or  fashion;  but 
is  a  principle  originally  ingrafted  in  the  very 
first  formation  of  the  soul  by  the  Author  of 
our  nature. 

And  as  the  attractive  pnwer  in  bodies  is 
the  most  universal  principle  which  produceth 
innumerable  effects,  and  is  a  key  to  explain 
the  various  phenomena  of  nature,  so  the  cor- 
responding social  appetite  in  human  souls  is 


the  great  spring  and  source  of  moral  actions. 
This  it  is  that  inclines  each  individual  to  an 
intercourse  with  his  species,  and  models 
every  one  to  that  behaviour  which  best  suits 
with  the  common  well-being.  Hence  that 
sympathy  in  our  nature,  whereby  we  feel 
the  pains  and  joys  of  our  fellow-creatures. 
Hence  that  prevalent  love  in  parents  towards 
their  children,  which  is  neither  founded  on 
the  merit  of  the  object,  nor  yet  on  self- 
interest.  It  is  this  that  makes  us  inquisitive 
concerning  the  affairs  of  distant  nations, 
which  can  have  no  influence  on  our  own.  It 
is  this  that  extends  our  care  to  future  gener- 
ations, and  excites  us  to  acts  of  beneficence 
towards  those  who  are  not  yet  in  being,  and 
consequently  from  whom  we  can  expect  no 
recompense.  In  a  word,  hence  .arises  that 
diffusive  sense  of  humanity  so  unaccount- 
able to  the  selfish  man  who  is  untouched 
with  it,  and  is  indeed  a  sort  of  monster,  or 
anomalous  production. 

These  thoughts  do  naturally  suggest  the 
following  particulars  :  first,  that  as  social 
inclinations  are  absolutely  necessary  to  the 
well-being  of  the  world,  it  is  the  duty  and 
interest  of  each  individual  to  cherish  and 
improve  them  to  the  benefit  of  mankind: 
the  duty,  because  it  is  agreeable  to  the  in- 
tention of  the  Author  of  our  being,  who  aims 
at  the  common  good  of  his  creatures,  and, 
as  an  indication  of  his  will,  hath  implanted 
the  seeds  of  mutual  benevolence  in  our 
souls ;  the  interest,  because  the  good  of  the 
whole  is  inseparable  from  that  of  the  parts : 
in  promoting,  therefore,  the  common  good, 
every  one  doth  at  the  same  time  promote  his 
own  private  interest.  Another  observation 
I  shall  draw  from  the  premises  is,  that  it 
makes  a  signal  proof  of  the  divinity  of  the 
Christian  religion  that  the  main  duty  which 
it  inculcates  above  all  others  is  Charity. 
Different  maxims  and  precepts  have  distin- 
guished the  different  sects  of  philosophy  and 
religion :  our  Lord's  peculiar  precept  is, 
"  Love  thy  neighbour  as  thyself.  By  this 
shall  all  men  know  that  you  are  my  dis- 
ciples, if  you  love  one  another." 

The  Guardian,  No.  126,  August  5,  1713. 


EUSTACE  BUDGELL, 

born  1685.  best  known  by  his  intimacy 
with  Addison,  his  quarrel  with  Pope,  and 
his  contributions  to  The  Spectator  (37  or  38 
papers,  marked  X,  and  a  letter),  The  Guar- 
dian (Nos.  25,  31),  and  The  Craftsman,  also 
published  The  Characters  of  Theophrastus, 
translated  from  the  Greek.  Lond.,  1713,  8vo 
(commended  by  Addison),  Memoirs  of  the 
illustrious  Family  of  the  Boyles,  3d  edit., 


154 


EUSTACE  BUD G ELL. 


Lond.,  1737,  8vo,  and  some  political  and 
other  pieces,  and  poems.  He  was  of  a  quar- 
relsome temper,  and  drowned  himself  in  the 
Thames  in  1736. 

"  The  humour  and  wit  of  Budgell  appear  to 
advantage  in  several  of  his  communications  :  es- 
pecially in  his  'Observations  on  Beards  (Specta- 
tor, No.  331) ;  on  Country  Wakes  (No.  161),'  etc." 
— Drake's  Etssays,  vol.  iii. 

Ox  BEARDS. 

When  I  was  last  with  my  friend  Sir 
Roger  in  Westminster-abbey  I  observed  that 
lie  stood  longer  than  ordinary  before  the 
bust  of  a  venerable  old  man.  I  was  at  a 
loss  to  guess  the  reason  of  it;  when,  after 
some  time,  he  pointed  to  the  figure,  and 
asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  that  our  fore- 
fathers looked  much  wiser  in  their  beards 
than  we  do  without  them?  "For  my  part,'" 
says  he,  "  when  I  am  walking  in  my  gallery 
in  the  country,  and  see  my  ancestors,  who 
many  of  them  died  before  they  were  of  my 
age,  I  cannot  forbear  regarding  them  us  so 
many  old  patriarchs,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
looking  upon  myself  as  an  idle  smock-faced 
young  fellow.  I  love  to  see  your  Abrahams, 
your  Isaacs,  and  your  Jacobs,  as  we  have 
them  in  old  pieces  of  tapestry,  with  beards 
below  their  girdles,  that  cover  half  the 
hangings."  The  knight  added,  "  if  I  [The 
Spectator]  would  recommend  beards  in  one 
of  my  papers,  and  endeavour  to  restore  human 
faces  to  their  ancient  dignity,  that,  upon  a 
month's  warning,  he  would  undertake  to 
lead  up  the  fashion  himself  in  a  pair  of 
•whiskers." 

I  smiled  at  my  friend's  fancy ;  but  after 
we  parted,  could  not  forbear  reflecting  on 
the  metamorphosis  our  faces  have  under- 
gone in  this  particular. 

The  beard,  conformable  to  the  notion  of 
my  friend  Sir  Roger,  was  for  many  ages 
looked  upon  as  the  type  of  wisdom.  Lucian 
more  than  once  rallies  the  philosophers  of 
his  time,  who  endeavoured  to  rival  one  an- 
other in  beards;  and  represents  a  learned 
man  who  stood  for  a  professorship  in  phi- 
losophy, as  unqualified  for  it  by  the  short- 
ness of  his  beard. 

/Elian,  in  his  account  of  Zoilus,  the  pre- 
tended critic,  who  wrote  against  Homer  and 
Plato,  and  thought  himself  wiser  than  all 
who  had  gone  before  him.  tells  us  that  this 
Zoilus  had  a  very  long  beard  that  hung 
down  upon  his  breast,  but  no  hair  upon  his 
head,  which  he  always  kept  close  shaved, 
regarding,  it  seems,  the  hairs  of  his  head  as 
so  many  suckers,  which,  if  they  had  been 
suffered  to  grow,  might  have  drawn  away 
the  nourishment  from  his  chin,  and  by  that 
means  have  starved  his  beard. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  one  of  the 


popes  refused  to  accept  an  edition  of  a 
saint's  works,  which  were  presented  to  him, 
because  the  saint,  in  his  effigies  before  the 
book,  was  drawn  without  a  beard. 

We  see  by  these  instances  what  homage 
the  world  has  formerly  paid  to  beards ;  and 
that  a  barber  was  not  then  allowed  to 
make  those  depredations  on  the  faces  of 
the  learned,  which  have  been  permitted 
him  of  late  years. 

Accordingly,  several  wise  nations  have 
been  so  extremely  jealous  of  the  least  ruffle 
offered  to  their  beards  that  they  seem  to 
have  fixed  the  point  of  honour  principally 
in  that  part.  The  Spaniards  were  wonder- 
fully tender  in  this  particular.  Don  Quevedo, 
in  his  third  vision  on  the  last  judgment,  has 
carried  the  humour  very  far,  when  he  tells 
us  that  one  of  his  vain-glorious  countrymen, 
after  having  received  sentence,  was  taken 
into  custody  by  a  couple  of  evil  spirits,  but 
that  his  guides  happening  to  disorder  his 
mustachoes,  they  were  forced  to  recompose 
them  with  a  pair  of  curling-irons  before  they 
could  get  him  to  file  off. 

If  we  look  into  the  history  of  our  own 
nation  we  shall  find  that  the  beard  flour- 
ished in  the  Saxon  heptarchy,  but  was  very 
much  discouraged  under  the  Norman  line. 
It  shot  out,  however,  from  time  to  time,  in 
several  reigns  under  different  shapes.  The 
last  effort  it  made  seems  to  have  been  in 
Queen  Mary's  days,  as  the  curious  reader 
may  find,  if  he  pleases  to  peruse  the  fig- 
ures of  Cardinal  Pole  and  Bishop  Gardiner  ; 
though,  at  the  same  time,  I  think  it  may  be 
questioned  if  zeal  against  popery  has  not 
induced  our  Protestant  painters  to  extend 
the  beards  of  these  two  persecutors  be}rond 
their  natural  dimensions,  in  order  to  make 
them  appear  more  terrible. 

I  find  but  few  beards  worth  taking  notice 
of  in  the  reign  of  King  James  the  First. 

During  the  civil  wars  there  appeared  one 
which  makes  too  great  a  figure  in  story  to 
be  passed  over  in  silence:  I  mean  that  of 
the  redoubted  Hudibras,  an  account  of  which 
Butler  has  transmitted  to  posterity  in  the  fol- 
lowing lines: 

His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace 
Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face; 
In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 
A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile ; 
The  upper  part  thereof  was  whey, 
The  nether  orange  mixt  with  gray. 

The  whisker  continued  for  some  time 
among  us  after  the  extirpation  of  beards ; 
but  this  is  a  subject  which  I  shall  not  here 
enter  upon,  having  discussed  it  at  large  in 
a  distinct  treatise,  which  I  keep  by  me  in 
manuscript,  upon  the  mustachoe. 

If  my  friend  Sir  Roger's  project  of  intro- 
ducing beards  should  take  effect,  I  fear  the 


RALPH  ERSKINE.— THOMAS   TICKELL. 


155 


luxury  of  the  present  age  would  make  it  a 
very  expensive  fashion.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion but  the  beaux  would  soon  provide  them- 
selves with  false  ones  of  the  lightest  colours 
and  the  most  immoderate  lengths.  A  fair 
beard  of  the  tapestry  size,  which  Sir  Roger 
seems  to  approve,  could  not  come  under 
twenty  guineas.  The  famous  golden  beard 
of  ^sculapius  would  hardly  be  more  valu- 
able than  one  made  in  the  extravagance 
of  the  fashion. 

Besides,  we  are  not  certain  that  the  ladies 
would  not  come  into  the  mode  when  they 
take  the  air  on  horseback.  They  already 
appear  in  hats  and  feathers,  coats  and  peri- 
wigs :  and  I  see  no  reason  why  we  may  not 
suppose  that  they  would  have  their  riding- 
beards  on  the  same  occasion.  1  may  give 
the  moral  of  this  discourse  in  another  paper. 

X. 

The  Spectator,  No.  331,  Thursday,  March 
20,  1711-12. 


RALPH   ERSKINE, 

b^rn  1685,  minister  at  Dunfermline,  1711, 
joined  the  Seceders,  1734,  died  1752,  pub- 
lished a  number  of  Sermons,  Theological 
Treatises,  Scripture  Songs,  Gospel  Songs, 
etc.,  1738-52,  and  several  of  his  works  were 
published  after  his  death.  Works:  Glasg., 
1764-66,  2  vols.  fol. ;  Glasg.,  1777,  10  vols. 
8vo;  Lond.,  1821,  10  vols.  8vo ;  Gospel 
Sonnets,  new  edit.,  1844,  24m o ;  Sermons 
of  Ralph  and  Ebenezer  Erskine,  Selected, 
with  a  Preface,  by  the  Rev.  Thomas  Brad- 
bury, 1738,  3  vols.  ;  1757,  3  vols.  8vo;  Ser- 
mons by  Rev.  Ralph  Erskine,  A.M.,  Selected 
from  the  British  Editions  of  1777  and  1821  ; 
with  a  Preface  by  the  Rev.  Stephen  II. 
Tvng,  D.D.,  Leighton  Publications,  Phila., 
1863,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"The  works  of  Ralph  Erskine  are  highly  evan- 
gelical; the  productions  of  minds  very  strongly 
attached  to  truth,  devotional  and  zealous." — WIL- 
LIAMS'S  C/irintitin  Prencher. 

"  The  two  Erskines  Cecil  calls  the  best  Scotch 
divines,  but  speaks  of  them  as  dry  and  laboured. 
He  did  not  at  this  moment  recollect  Leighton,  Ruth- 
erford, Maclaurin,  etc." — BICKEUSTETH'S  Christian 
/Student. 

THE  MERCY  OF  GOD. 

There  are  some  merciful  intimations  and 
communications  that  they  sometimes  get  to 
make  them  sing  of  mercy.  Sometimes  he 
intimates  his  love,  saying,  I  have  loved  thee 
with  an  everlasting  love.  Sometimes  he 
intimates  pardon,  saying,  I,  even  I.  am  he 
that  blotteth  out  thy  transgressions,  and  will 
remember  thy  sins  no  more  :  Sometimes  he 
intimates  acceptance,  saying,  0  man,  greatly 


beloved ;  and  the  intimation  sets  them  a 
wondering  and  praising :  Sometimes  he 
communicates  his  mind  and  his  secrets  to 
them,  The  secret  of  the  Lord  is  with  them 
that  fear  him,  and  he  will  shew  unto  them 
his  covenant :  Sometimes  the  secrets  of  his 
providence  :  he  will  tell  them  what  he  hath 
a  mind  to  do  with  themselves,  and  what  he 
hath  a  mind  to  do  with  such  a  friend,  and 
such  a  child,  and  such  a  land  or  church  : 
Shall  I  hide  from  Abraham  that  which  I 
do?  Sometimes  he  communicates  himself 
to  them,  saying  I  am  thy  God,  I  am  thy 
shield ;  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with  thee : 
Sometimes  such  intimations  and  communi- 
cations are  given  as  make  all  their  bones  to 
say,  Who  is  like  unto  thee? 

There  are  merciful  visits  after  desertion, 
and  after  backsliding,  that  they  sometimes 
get,  to  make  them  sing  of  mercy,  when  they 
have  been  heaping  up  mountains  of  sin  and 
provocation  betwixt  them  and  him  :  yet, 
after  all,  he  hath  come  and  given  them  oc- 
casion to  say,  "  The  voice  of  my  beloved  ! 
behold  he  cometh,  leaping  upon  the  moun- 
tains, skipping  upon  the  hills,"  Cant.  ii.  8. 
The  voice  of  my  Beloved  !  0  an  exceed- 
ing sweet  and  powerful  voice !  It  had  a 
sound  of  heaven ;  I  thought  the  mountains 
would  have  kept  him  away,  but  I  heard  the 
sound  of  his  feet  upon  the  mountains,  that 
made  my  heart  warm  toward  him  again  ;  I 
had  departed  from  him  by  an  evil  heart  of 
unbelief,  and  I  thought  he  would  never 
return  ;  but,  0  he  restored  my  soul,  and 
helped  me  anew  to  wrestle  with  him :  We 
found  him  in  Bethel,  and  there  he  spake 
with  us. 

There  are  merciful  accomplishments  of 
promises  that  they  sometimes  get,  to  make 
them  sing  of  mercy.  The  Lord  sometimes 
lets  in  a  promise  with  life  and  power,  and 
gives  them  a  word  on  which  he  causes  them  to 
hope.  It  may  be  he  will  give  them  a  promise 
for  themselves,  and  it  may  be  a  promise  for 
their  children  ;  such  as  that,  I  will  be  thy 
Godj  and  the  God  of  thy  seed ;  and  some- 
times a  promise  for  the  church  ;  such  as 
that,  Upon  all  the  glory  there  shall  be  a 
defence  ;  and  sometimes  he  gives  a  wonder- 
ful accomplishment  of  promises,  like  that  of 
Hezekiah :  What  shall  I  say?  he  hath  both 
spoken,  and  himself  hath  done  it :  He  hath 
come  to  my  soul,  and  made  me  see  that  he 
is  as  good  as  his  word  ;  and  that  faithfulness 
is  the  girdle  of  'his  loins. 

Sermon  XXII.     The,  Militant's  Song. 


THOMAS  TICKELL, 

horn  1686,  Fellow  of  Queen's  College,  Ox- 
ford, 1710,  was  introduced  to  literary  circles 


156 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


and  public  employment  by  Addison,  who  in 
1717,  when  he  became  Secretary  of  State, 
made  Tickell  Under-Secretary ;  was  ap- 
pointed Secretary  to  the  Lords  Justices  of 
Ireland  in  1724.  and  held  this  post  until  his 
death,  1740.  He  published  The  First  Book 
of  Homer's  Iliad,  translated  into  English 
Verse  by  Thomas  Tickell,  Esq.,  Lond.,  1715, 
4to  (supposed  by  Pope  to  be  really  trans- 
lated by  Addison  for  the  purpose  of  injur- 
ing his  translation),  contributed  papers  to 
The  Spectator  and  The  Guardian,  and  pub- 
lished a  number  of  poems,  of  which  his 
Elegy  to  Addison,  prefixed  to  his  edition  of 
that  poet's  Works,  Lond.,  1721,  4  vols.  4to, 
is  the  best  known. 

"The  Elegy  by  Mr.  Tickell  is  one  of  the  finest 
in  our  language.  There  is  so  little  new  th;it  can 
be  said  upon  the  death  of  a  friend,  after  the  com- 
plaints of  Ovid  and  the  Latin  Italians,  in  this 
way,  that  one  is  surprised  to  see  so  much  novelty 
in  this  to  strike  us,  and  so  much  interest  to  affect." 
—GOLDSMITH. 

"  Many  tributes  wore  paid  to  the  memory  of 
Addison;  but  one  alone  is  now  remembered.  Tick- 
ell bewailed  his  friend  in  an  elegy  which  would 
do  honour  to  the  greatest  name  in  our  literature, 
and  which  unites  the  energy  and  magnificence  of 
Dryden  to  the  tenderness  and  purity  of  Cowper." 
— LORD  MACAULAV  :  Life  and  Writing*  of  Addition, 
Ed  in,  Itcv.,  July,  1843,  and  in  his  Etmaye. 

PLEASURES  OF  SPRING — Music  OF  BIRDS. 

Men  of  my  age  receive  a  greater  pleasure 
from  fine  weather  than  from  any  other 
sensual  enjoyment  of  life.  In  spite  of  the 
auxiliary  bottle,  or  any  artificial  heat,  we 
are  apt  to  droop  under  a  gloomy  sky  ;  and 
taste  no  luxury  like  a  blue  firmament,  and 
sunshine.  I  have  often,  in  a  splenetic  fit, 
wished  myself  a  dormouse  during  the  winter ; 
and  I  never  see  one  of  those  snug  animals, 
wrapt  up  close  in  his  fur,  and  compactly 
happy  in  himself,  but  I  contemplate  him 
witli  envy  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  philos- 
opher. If  the  art  of  flying  were  brought  to 
perfection,  the  use  that  I  should  make  of  it 
would  be  to  attend  the  sun  round  the  world, 
and  pursue  the  spring  through  every  sign  of 
the  Zodiac.  His  love  of  warmth  makes  my 
heart  glad  at  the  return  of  the  spring.  How 
amazing  is  the  change  in  the  face  of  nature, 
when  the  earth  from  being  bound  with  frost, 
or  covered  with  snow,  begins  to  put  forth 
her  plants  and  flowers,  to  be  clothed  with 
green,  diversified  with  ten  thousand  various 
dyes;  and  to  exhale  such  fresh  and  charm- 
ing odours  as  fill  every  living  creature  with 
delight! 

Full  of  thoughts  like  these,  I  make  it  a 
rule  to  lose  as  little  as  I  can  of  that  blessed 
season  ;  and  accordingly  rise  with  the  sun, 
and  wander  through  the  fields,  throw  my- 


self on  the  banks  of  little  rivulets,  or  lose 
myself  in  the  woods.  I  spent  a  day  or  two 
this  spring  at  a  country  gentleman's  seat, 
where  I  feasted  my  imagination  every  morn- 
ing with  the  most  luxurious  prospect  I  ever 
saw.  I  usually  took  my  stand  by  the  wall 
of  an  old  castle  built  upon  a  high  hill.  A 
noble  river  ran  at  the  foot  of  it,  which,  after 
being  broken  by  a  heap  of  misshapen  stones, 
glided  away  in  a  clear  stream,  and  wander- 
ing through  two  woods  on  eacli  side  of  it  in 
many  windings,  shone  here  and  there  at  a 
great  distance  through  the  trees.  I  could 
trace  the  mazes  for  some  miles,  until  my 
eye  was  led  through  two  ridges  of  hills,  and 
terminated  by  a  vast  mountain  in  another 
county. 

I  hope  the  reader  will  pardon  me  for 
taking  his  eye  from  our  present  subject 
of  the  spring  by  this  landscape,  since  it  is 
at  this  time  of  the  year  only  that  prospects 
excel  in  beauty.  But  if  the  eye  is  delighted, 
the  ear  hath  likewise  its  proper  entertain- 
ment. The  music  of  the  birds  at  this  time 
of  the  year  hath  something  in  it  so  wildly 
sweet  as  makes  me  less  relish  the  most 
elaborate  compositions  of  Italy.  .  .  .  The 
sight  that  gave  me  the  most  satisfaction  was 
a  flight  of  young  birds,  under  the  conduct 
of  the  father,  and  indulgent  directions  and 
assistance  of  the  dam.  I  took  particular 
notice  of  a  beau  goldfinch,  who  was  pick- 
ing his  plumes,  pruning  his  wings,  and  with 
great  diligence  adjusting  all  his  gaudy  fur- 
niture. When  he  had  equipped  himself 
with  great  trimness  and  nicety,  he  stretched 
his  painted  neck,  which  seemed  to  brighten 
with  new  glowings,  and  strained  his  throat 
into  many  wild  notes  and  natural  melody. 
He  then  flew  about  the  nest  in  several  cir- 
cles and  windings,  and  invited  his  wife  and 
children  into  open  air.  It  was  very  entertain- 
ing to  see  the  trembling  and  the  fluttering 
little  strangers  at  their  first  appearance  in 
the  world,  and  the  different  care  of  the  male 
and  female  parent,  as  suitable  to  their  sev- 
eral sexes.  I  could  not  take  my  eye  quickly 
from  so  entertaining  an  object  ;  nor  could  I 
help  wishing  that  creatures  of  a  superior 
rank  would  so  manifest  their  mutual  affec- 
tion, and  so  cheerfully  concur  in  providing 
for  their  offspring. 

The  Guardian,  No.  125,  Tuesday,  ^August 
4,  1713, 


ALEXANDER    POPE, 

born  in  London,  1688.  died  at  Twickenham, 
1744,  famous  as  a  poet,  has  also  claims  to 
be  reckoned  among  prose  writers  from  his 
Prefaces  to  his  works,  and  his  letters :  see 
Pope's  Literary  Correspondence  for  Thirty 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


157 


Years,  from  1704  to  1734,  Lond.,  1735-37, 
5  vols.  small  8vo,  and  other  volumes  enu- 
merated in  Bohn's  Lowndes's  Bibliogra- 
pher's Manual,  vol.  iv.,  1916,  and  especially 
Ilev.  Mr.  Elwin's  edition  of  Pope's  Works, 
now  (1879)  in  course  of  publication. 

"  Pope  seems  to  have  thought  that  unless  a  sen- 
tence was  well  turned,  and  every  period  pointed 
with  some  conceit,  it  was  not  worth  the  carriage. 
Accordingly,  he  is  to  ine,  except  in  a  very  few  in- 
stances, the  most  disagreeable  maker  of  epistles 
that  I  ever  met  with." — COWPER  TO  Us  WIN,  June  8, 
1780. 

"  It  is  a  mercy  to  have  no  character  to  maintain. 
Your  predecessor,  Mr.  Pope,  laboured  his  letters 
:is  much  as  the  '  Essay  on  Man ;'  and  as  they  were 
written  to  every  body,  they  do  not  look  as  if  they 
had  been  written  to  any  body." — HORACE  WALPOLE 
TO  REV.  WM.  MASO.V,  Mar.  13,  1777:  Letters,  edit. 
1861,  vi.  422. 

"  Pope's  letters  and  prose  writings  neither  take 
away  from,  nor  add  to,  his  poetical  reputation. 
There  is  occasionally  a  littleness  of  manner  and  an 
unnecessary  degree  of  caution.  He  appears  anx- 
ious to  say  a  good  thing  in  every  word  as  well  as 
every  sentence.  They,  however,  give  a  very  fa- 
vourable idea  of  his  moral  character  in  all  re- 
spects; and  his  letters  to  Atterbury  in  disgrace 
and  exile  do  equal  honour  to  both." — HAZLITT  : 
Lecta.  on  the  English  1'uetn,  Lect.  I V, 

Ox  HOMER  AND  VIRGIL. 

The  beauty  of  his  [Homer's]  numbers  is 
allowed  by  the  critics  to  be  copied  but  faintly 
by  Virgil  himself,  though  they  are  so  just 
as  to  ascribe  it  to  the  nature  of  the  Latin 
tongue  :  indeed,  the  Greek  has  some  advan- 
tages, both  from  the  natural  sound  of  its 
words,  and  the  turn  and  cadence  of  its  verse, 
Avhich  agree  with  the  genius  of  no  other 
language.  Virgil  was  very  sensible  of  this, 
and  used  the  utmost  diligence  in  working 
up  a  more  intractable  language  to  whatso- 
ever graces  it  was  capable  of;  and  in  par- 
ticular never  failed  to  bring  the  sound  of  his 
line  to  a  beautiful  agreement  with  its  sense. 
If  the  Grecian  poet  has  not  been  so  fre- 
quently celebrated  on  this  .account  us  the 
Roman,  the  only  reason  is,  that  fewer  critics 
have  understood  one  language  than  the  other. 
Dionysius  of  Halicarnassus  has  pointed  out 
many  of  our  author's  beauties  in  this  kind, 
in  his  treatise  of  the  Composition  of  Words. 
It  suffices  at  present  to  observe  of  his  num- 
bers, that  they  flow  with  so  much  ease  as  to 
make  one  imagine  Homer  had  no  other  care 
than  to  transcribe  as  fast  as  the  Muses  dic- 
tated ;  and  at  the  same  time  with  so  much 
force  and  aspiring  vigour  that  they  awaken 
and  raise  us  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet. 
They  roll  along  as  a  plentiful  river,  always 
in  motion,  and  always  full  ;  while  we  are 
borne  away  by  a  tide  of  verse,  the  most 
rapid  and  yet  the  most  smooth  imaginable. 

Thus,  on  whatever   side  we  contemplate 


Homer,  what  principally  strikes  us  is  his 
Invention.  It  is  that  which  forms  the  char- 
acter of  each  part  of  his  work  ;  and  accord- 
ingly we  find  it  to  have  made  his  fable  more 
extensive  and  copious  than  any  other,  his 
manners  more  lively  and  strongly  marked, 
his  speeches  more  affecting  and  transported, 
his  sentiments  more  warm  and  sublime, 
his  images  and  descriptions  more  full  and 
animated,  his  expression  more  raised  and 
daring,  and  his  numbers  more  rapid  and 
various.  I  hope,  in  what  has  been  said  of 
Virgil,  with  regard  to  any  of  these  heads, 
I  have  in  no  way  derogated  from  his  char- 
acter. Nothing  is  more  absurd  and  endless 
than  the  common  method  of  comparing  emi- 
nent writers  by  an  opposition  of  particular 
passages  in  them,  and  forming  a  judgment 
from  thence  of  their  merit  upon  the  whole. 
We  ought  to  have  a  certain  knowledge  of 
the  principal  character  and  distinguishing 
excellence  of  each  :  it  is  in  that  we  are  to 
consider  him,  and  in  proportion  to  his  de- 
gree in  that  we  are  to  admire  him.  No 
author  or  man  ever  excelled  all  the  world 
in  more  than  one  faculty  ;  and  as  Homer 
has  done  this  in  Invention,  Virgil  has  in 
Judgment.  Not  that  we  are  to  think  Ho- 
mer wanted  Judgment,  because  Virgil  has 
it  in  a  more  eminent  degree,  or  that  Virgil 
wanted  Invention,  because  Homer  possessed 
a  larger  share  of  it:  each  of  these  great 
authors  had  more  of  both  than  perhaps  any 
man  besides,  and  are  only  said  to  have  less 
in  comparison  with  one  another.  Homer 
was  the  greater  genius,  Virgil  the  better 
artist.  In  one  we  most  admire  the  man.  ia 
the  other  the  work :  Homer  hurries  and 
transports  us  with  a  commanding  impetu- 
osity, Virgil  leads  us  with  an  attractive 
majesty:  Homer  scatters  with  a  generous 
profusion,  Virgil  bestows  with  a  careful 
magnificence:  Homer,  like  the  Nile,  pours 
out  his  riches  with  a  boundless  overflow, 
Virgil,  like  a  river  in  its  banks,  with  a  gen- 
tle and  constant  stream.  When  we  behold 
their  battles,  methinks  the  two  poets  resem- 
ble the  heroes  they  celebrate:  Homer,  bound- 
less and  irresistible  as  Achilles,  bears  all 
before  him,  and  shines  more  and  more  as 
the  tumult  increases;  Virgil,  calmly  daring 
like  ^Eneas,  appears  undisturbed  in  the 
midst  of  the  action  ;  disposes  all  about  him, 
and  conquers  with  tranquillity.  .  And  when 
we  look  upon  their  machines,  Homer  seems 
like  his  own  Jupiter  in  his  terrors,  shaking 
Olympus,  scattering  the  lightnings,  and  firing 
the  heavens ;  Virgil,  like  the  same  power  in 
his  benevolence,  counselling  with  the  gods, 
laying  plans  for  empires,  and  regularly  or- 
dering his  whole  creation. 

Preface  to  the  Translation  of  Homer. 


158 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


POPE  TO  BISHOP  ATTERBURY,  ix  THE  TOWER 

BEFORE   HIS  E.XILE. 

May  17,  1723. 

Once  more  I  write  to  you,  as  I  promised, 
and  this  once,  I  fear,  will  be  the  last !  The 
curtain  will  soon  be  drawn  between  rny  friend 
and  me,  and  nothing  left  but  to  wish  you  a 
long  good-night.  May  you  enjoy  a  state  of 
repose  in  this  life  not  unlike  that  sleep  of 
the  soul  which  some  have  believed  is  to  suc- 
ceed it,  where  we  lie  utterly  forgetful  of 
that  world  from  which  we  are  gone,  and 
ripening  for  that  to  which  we  are  to  go. 
If  you  retain  any  memory  of  the  past,  let 
it  only  image  to  you  what  has  pleased  you 
best ;  sometimes  present  a  dream  of  an  ab- 
sent friend,  or  bring  you  back  an  agreeable 
converscition.  But,  upon  the  whole,  I  hope' 
you  will  think  less  of  the  time  past  thcin  of 
the  future,  as  the  former  has  been  less  kind 
to  you  than  the  latter  infallibly  will  be. 
Do  not  envy  the  world  your  studies  ;  they 
will  tend  to  the  benefit  of  men  against  whom 
you  can  have  no  complaint;  I  mean  of  all 
posterity  :  and  perhaps  at  your  time  of  life 
nothing  else  is  worth  your  care.  What  is 
every  year  of  a  wise  man's  life  but  a  cen- 
sure or  critic  on  the  past?  Those  whose 
date  is  the  shortest  live  long  enough  to 
laugh  at  one-half  of  it;  the  boy  despises 
the  infant,  the  man  the  boy.  the  philosopher 
both,  and  the  Christian  all.  You  may  now 
begin  to  think  your  manhood  was  too  much 
a  puerility,  and  you  will  never  suffer  your 
age  to  be  but  a  second  infancy.  The  toys 
and  baubles  of  your  childhood  are  hardly 
now  more  below  you  than  those  toys  of  our 
riper  and  our  declining  years,  the  drums 
and  rattles  of  ambition,  and  the  dirt  and 
bubbles  of  avarice.  At  this  time,  when  you 
are  cut  off  from  a  little  society,  and  made  a 
citizen  of  the  world  at  large,  you  should 
bend  your  talents,  not  to  serve  a  party  or  a 
few,  but  all  mankind.  Your  genius  should 
mount  above  that  mist  in  which  its  partici- 
pation and  neighbourhood  witli  earth  long 
involved  it:  to  shine  abroad,  and  to  heaven, 
ought  to  be  the  business  and  the  glory  of 
your  present  situation.  Remember  it  was 
at  such  a  time  that  the  greatest  lights  of 
antiquity  dazzled  and  blazed  the  most,  in 
their  retreat,  in  their  exile,  or  in  their  death. 
But  why  do  I  talk  of  dazzling  or  blazing? 
— it  was  then  that  they  did  good,  that  they 
gave  light,  and  that  they  became  guides  to 
mankind. 

Those  aims  alone  are  worthy  of  spirits 
truly  great,  and  such  I  therefore  hope  will 
be  yours.  Resentment,  indeed,  may  remain, 
perhaps  cannot  be  quite  extinguished  in  the 
noblest  minds :  but  revenge  never  will  har- 
bour there.  Higher  principles  than  those 
of  the  first,  and  better  principles  than  those 


of  the  latter,  will  infallibly  influence  men 
whose  thoughts  and  whose  hearts  are  en- 
larged, and  cause  them  to  prefer  the  whole 
to  any  part  of  mankind,  especially  to  so 
small  a  part  as  one's  single  self. 

Believe  me,  my  lord,  I  look  upon  you  as 
a  spirit  entered  into  another  life,  as  one  just 
upon  the  edge  of  immortality,  where  the 
passions  and  affections  must  be  much  more 
exalted,  and  where  you  ought  to  despise  all 
little  views  and  all  mean  retrospects.  No- 
thing is  worth  your  looking  hack :  and, 
therefore,  look  forward,  and  make  (as  you 
can)  the  world  look  after  you.  But  take 
care  that  it  be  not  with  pity,  but  with  esteem 
and  admiration. 

I  am,  with  the  greatest  sincerity  and  pas- 
sion for  your  fame  as  well  as  happiness, 
your,  &c. 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON, 

"  The  inventor  of  the  English  novel,"  the 
author  of  Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded, 
Lond.,  1741,  2  vols.  12mo,  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
Lond.,  1751,  7  vols.  8vo,  and  the  History  of 
Sir  Charles  Grandison,  Lond.,  1754,  6  vols. 
8vo,  was  born  in  Derbyshire,  1089,  com- 
menced master  printer  in  Fleet  Street,  1719, 
and  died,  after  a  prosperous  career,  in  1761. 

"Richardson,  with  the  mere  advantages  of  na- 
ture, improved  by  a  very  moderate  progress  in 
education,  struck  out  at  once,  and  of  his  own  ac- 
cord,  into  a  new  province  of  writing,  in  which  he 
succeeded  to  admiration;  and,  what  is  more  re- 
markable, he  not  only  began,  but  finished,  the  plan 
on  which  he  set  out,  leaving  no  room  for  any  one 
after  him  to  render  it  more  complete ;  and  not  one 
of  the  various  writers  that  have  ever  since  attempted 
to  imitate  him  has  in  any  respect  or  at  all  ap- 
proached near  him.  This  kind  of  romance  is 
peculiarly  his  own  :  and  I  consider  him  as  a  truly 
great  natural  genius;  as  great  nnd  super-eminent 
in  his  way  as  Shakspeare  and  Milton  were  in 
theirs." — DR.  YOUNG,  Author  of  the  Nif/ht  Thought*. 

"  The  great  excellence  of  Richardson's  novels 
consists,  we  think,  in  the  unparalleled  minuteness 
and  copiousness  of  his  descriptions,  and  in  the 
pains  he  takes  to  make  us  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  every  particular  in  the  character  and  situa- 
tion of  the  personages  with  whom  we  are  occupied. 
.  .  .  In  this  art  Richardson  is  undoubtedly  with- 
out an  equal,  nnd,  if  we  except  De  Foe,  without  ft 
competitor,  we  believe,  in  the  whole  history  of 
literature." — Lonn  JEFFREY:  Edin.  Rev.,  \.  43, 
and  in  his  Contrib.  to  Edin.  Itev.,  edit.  1853,  151. 

ADVICE  TO  UNMARRIED  LADIES. 

The  reader  is  indebted  for  this  day's  enter- 
tainment to  an  author  from  whom  the  age 
has  received  greater  favours,  who  has  en- 
larged the  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and 
taught  the  passions  to  move  at  the  command 
of  virtue  (Dr.  Johnson). 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


159 


To  THE  RAMBLER. 

SIR,  When  the  Spectator  was  first  pub- 
lished in  single  papers,  it  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure  than  it  is  one  of  the  favourite 
amusements  of  my  age  to  recollect  it;  and 
when  I  reflect  on  the  foibles  of  those  times, 
as  described  in  that  useful  work,  and  com- 
pare them  with  the  vices  now  reigning  among 
us,  I  cannot  but  wish  that  you  would  oftener 
take  cognizance  of  the  manners  of  the  bet- 
ter half  of  the  human  species,  that  if  your 
precepts  and  observations  be  carried  down 
to  posterity,  the  Spectators  may  shew  to  the 
rising  generation  what  were  the  fashionable 
follies  of  their  grandmothers,  the  Rambler 
of  their  mothers,  and  that  from  both  they 
may  draw  instruction  and  warning.  .  .  . 

fn  the  time  of  the  Spectator,  excepting 
sometimes  an  appearance  in  the  ring,  some- 
times at  a  good  and  chosen  play,  sometimes 
on  a  visit  at  the  house  of  a  grave  relation, 
the  young  ladies  contented  themselves  to  be 
found  employed  in  domestic  duties  ;  for  then 
routs,  drums,  balls,  assemblies,  and  such  like 
markets  for  women,  were  not  known. 

Modesty  and  diffidence,  gentleness  and 
meekness,  were  looked  upon  as  the  appro- 
priate virtues  and  characteristic  graces  of  the 
sex.  And  if  a  forward  spirit  pushed  itself 
into  notice,  it  was  exposed  in  print  as  it  de- 
served. 

The  churches  were  almost  the  only  places 
where  single  women  were  to  be  seen  by 
strangers.  Men  went  thither  expecting  to 
see  them,  and  perhaps  too  much  for  that 
only  purpose.  .  .  . 

Every  inquiry  he  made  into  the  lady's 
domestic  excellence,  which,  when  a  wife  is 
to  be  chosen,  will  surely  not  be  neglected, 
confirmed  him  in  his  choice.  He  opens  his 
heart  to  a  common  friend,  and  honestly  dis- 
covers the  state  of  his  fortune.  His  friend 
applies  to  those  of  the  young  lady,  whose 
parents,  if  they  approve  his  proposals,  dis- 
close them  to  their  daughter. 

She,  perhaps,  is  not  an  absolute  stranger 
to  the  passion  of  the  young  gentleman.  His 
eyes,  his  assiduities,  his  constant  attendance 
at  a  church  whither,  till  of  late,  he  used 
seldom  to  come,  and  a  thousand  little  observ- 
ances that  he  paid  her,  had  very  probably 
first  forced  her  to  regard,  and  then  inclined 
her  to  favour  him. 

That  a  young  lady  should  be  in  love,  and 
the  love  of  the  young  gentleman  undeclared, 
is  a  heterodoxy  which  prudence,  and  even 
policy,  must  not  allow.  But  thus  applied  to 
she  is  all  resignation  to  her  parents.  Charm- 
ing resignation,  which  inclination  opposes 
not. 

Her  relations  applaud  her  for  her  duty ; 
friends  meet;  points  are  adjusted;  delight- 


ful perturbations,  and  hopes,  and  a  few 
lovers'  fears,  fill  up  the  tedious  space,  till  an 
interview  is  granted :  for  the  young  lady  had 
not  made  herself  cheap  at  public  places. 

The  time  of  interview  arrives.  She  is 
modestly  reserved  ;  he  is  not  confident.  He 
declares  his  passion  :  the  consciousness  of 
her  own  worth,  and  his  application  to  her 
parents,  take  from  her  any  doubt  of  his 
sincerity  ;  and  she  owns  herself  obliged  to 
him  for  his  good  opinion.  The  inquiries  of 
her  friends  into  his  character  have  taught 
her  that  his  good  opinion  deserves  to  be 
valued. 

She  tacitly  allows  of  his  future  visits;  he 
renews  them ;  the  regard  of  each  for  the 
other  is  confirmed  ;  and  when  he  presses  for 
the  favour  of  her  hand,  he  receives  a  declara- 
tion of  an  entire  acquiescence  with  her  duty, 
and  a  modest  acknowledgment  of  esteem  for 
him. 

He  applies  to  her  parents,  therefore,  for  a 
near  day  ;  and  thinks  himself  under  obliga- 
tion to  them  for  the  cheerful  and  affectionate 
manner  in  which  they  receive  his  agreeable 
application. 

With  this  prospect  of  future  happiness 
the  marriage  is  celebrated.  Gratulations 
pour  in  from  every  qunrter.  Parents  and 
relations  on  both  sides,  brought  acquainted 
in  the  course  of  the  courtship,  can  receive 
the  happy  couple  with  countenances  illu- 
mined, and  joyful  hearts. 

The  brothers,  the  sisters,  the  friends  of 
one  family  are  the  brothers,  the  sisters,  the 
friends  of  the  other.  Their  two  families, 
thus  made  one,  are  the  world  to  the  young 
couple. 

Their  home  is  the  place  of  their  principal 
delight,  nor  do  they  ever  occasionally  quit 
it  but  they  find  the  pleasure  of  returning  to 
it  augmented  in  proportion  to  the  time  of 
their  absence  from  it. 

Ah,  Mr.  Rambler !  forgive  the  talkative- 
ness of  an  old  man  !  When  I  courted  and 
married  my  Laetitia,  then  a  blooming  beauty, 
every  thing  passed  just  so  !  But  how  is  the 
case  now?  The  ladies,  maidens,  wives,  and 
widows  are  engrossed  by  places  of  open 
resort  and  general  entertainment,  which  fill 
every  quarter  of  the  metropolis,  and  being 
constantly  frequented,  make  home  irksome. 
Breakfasting-places,  dining-places ;  routs, 
drums,  concerts,  balls,  plsiys.  operas,  mas- 
querades for  the  evening,  and  even  for  all 
night;  and,  lately,  public  sales  of  the  goods 
of  broken  housekeepers,  which  the  general 
dissoluteness  of  manners  has  contributed  to 
make  very  frequent,  come  in  as  another 
seasonable  relief  to  those  modern,  time- 
killers.  .  .  . 

Two  thousand  pounds  in  the  last  age,  with 
a  domestic  wife,  would  go  farther  than  tea 


160 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON. 


thousand  in  this.  Yet  settlements  are  ex- 
pected that  often,  to  a  mercantile  man  espe- 
cially, sink  a  fortune  into  uselessness  ;  and 
pin-money  is  stipulated  for,  which  makes  a 
wife  independent,  and  destroys  love,  by  put- 
ting it  out  of  a  man's  power  to  lay  any  obli- 
gation upon  her,  that  might  engage  gratitude 
and  kindle  affection.  When  to  all  this  the 
card-tables  are  added,  how  can  a  prudent 
man  think  of  marrying?  .  .  .  But  should 
your  expostulations  and  reproof  have  no 
effect  upon  those  who  are  far  gone  in  fashion- 
able folly,  they  may  be  retailed  from  their 
mouths  to  their  nieces  (marriage  will  not 
often  have  entitled  them  to  daughters), 
when  they,  the  meteors  of  a  day,  find  them- 
selves elbowed  off  the  stage  of  vanity  by 
other  flutterers  ;  for  the  most  admired  women 
cannot  have  many  Tunbridge,  many  Bath 
seasons  to  blaze  in  ;  since  even  fine  faces 
often  seen  are  less  regai'ded  than  new  faces, 
the  proper  punishment  of  showy  girls  for 
rendering  themselves  so  impoliticly  cheap. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  sincere  admirer,  &c. 

The  Rambler,  No.  97,  Tuesday,  February 
ID,  1751. 

RICHARDSON  TO  LADY  BRADSIIAIGII  ox 
LEARNING  ix  WOMEN. 

DEAR  MADAM, — You  do  not  approve  of  great 
learning  in  women.  Learning  in  women 
may  be  either  rightly  or  wrongly  placed, 
according  to  the  uses  made  of  it  by  them. 
And  if  the  sex  is  to  be  brought  up  with  a 
view  to  make  the  individuals  of  it  inferior 
in  knowledge  to  the  husbands  they  may 
happen  to  have,  not  knowing  who  those 
husbands  are,  or  what,  or  whether  sensible 
or  foolish,  learned  or  illiterate,  it  would  be 
best  to  keep  them  from  writing  and  rend- 
ing, and  even  from  the  knowledge  of  the 
common  idioms  of  speech.  Would  it  not 
be  very  pretty  for  parents  on  both  sides  to 
make  it  the  first  subject  of  their  inquiries, 
whether  the  girl,  as  a  recommendation, 
were  a  greater  fool,  or  more  ignorant,  than 
the  young  fellow ;  and  if  not,  that  they 
should  reject  her,  for  the  booby's  sake? — 
and  would  not  your  objection  stand  as 
strongly  .against  a  preference  in  mother 
wit  in  the  girl,  as  against  what  is  called 
learning:  since  linguists  (I  will  not  call 
all  linguists  learned  men)  do  very  seldom 
make  the  figure  in  conversation  that  even 
girls  from  sixteen  to  twenty  make. 

If  a  woman  has  genius,  let  it  take  its 
course,  as  well  as  in  men ;  provided  she 
neglects  not  any  thing  that  is  more  peculi- 
arly her  province.  If  she  has  good  sense, 
she  will  not  make  the  man  she  chooses,  who 
wants  her  knowledge,  uneasy,  nor  despise 
him  for  that  want.  Her  good  sense  will 


teach  her  what  is  her  duty  ;  nor  will  she 
want  reminding  of  the  tenor  of  her  marriage 
vow  to  him.  If  she  has  not,  she  will  find  a 
thousand  ways  to  plague  him,  though  she 
know  not  one  word  beyond  her  mother- 
tongue,  nor  how  to  write,  read,  or  speak 
properly  in  that.  The  English,  madam,  and 
particularly  what  we  call  the  plain  English, 
is  a  very  copious  and  very  expressive  lan- 
guage. 

But,  dear  madam,  does  what  you  say  in 
the  first  part  of  the  paragraph  under  my 
eye,  limiting  the  genius  of  women,  quite 
cohere  with  the  advantages  which,  in  the 
last  part,  you  tell  me  they  have  over  us? — 
"Men  do  well,"  you  say,  "to  keep  women 
in  ignorance:"  but  this  is  not  generally  in- 
tended to  be  the  case,  I  believe.  Girls,  I 
think  you  formerly  said,  were  compounded 
of  brittle  materials.  They  are  not,  they 
cannot  be,  trusted  to  be  sent  abroad  to  semi- 
naries of  learning,  as  men  are.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  they  should  be  brought  up  to  a 
knowledge  of  the  domestic  duties.  A  young 
man's  learning  time  is  from  ten  to  twenty- 
five,  more  or  less.  At  fifteen  or  sixteen  a 
girl  starts  into  woman  ;  and  then  she  throws 
her  purveying  eyes  about  her  :  and  what  is 
the  learning  she  is  desirous  to  obtain? — 
Dear  lady,  discourage  not  the  sweet  souls 
from  acquiring  any  learning  that  may  keep 
them  employed,  and  out  of  mischief,  and 
that  may  divert  them  from  attending  to  tho 
whisperings  within  them,  and  to  the  flat- 
teries without  them,  till  they  have  taken  in 
a  due  quality  of  ballast,  that  may  hinder 
them,  all  their  sails  unfurled  and  streamers 
flying,  from  being  overset  at  their  first  en- 
trance upon  the  voyage  of  life. 

To  LADY  BRADSIIAIGH  ON  MEN  AND  WOMEN. 

NORTH-END,  Dec.  26,  1751. 
Tell  you  sincerely,  which  do  I  think, 
upon  the  whole,  men  or  women,  have  the 
greatest  trials  of  patience,  and  which  bears 
them  the  best?  You  mean,  you  say,  from 
one  sex  to  the  other  only? — What  a  ques- 
tion is  here!  Which?  Why  women,  to  be 
sure.  Man  is  an  animal  that  must  bustle 
in  the  world,  go  abroad,  converse,  fight  bat- 
tles, encounter  other  dangers  of  seas,  winds, 
and  I  know  not  what,  in  order  to  protect, 
provide  for,  maintain,  in  ease  and  plenty, 
women.  Bravery,  anger,  fierceness,  occa- 
sionally are  made  familiar  to  them.  They 
buffet  and  are  buffeted  by  the  world ;  are 
impatient  and  uncontrollable.  They  talk  of 
honour,  and  run  their  heads  against  stone 
walls  to  make  good  their  pretensions  to  it; 
and  often  quarrel  with  one  another,  and 
fight  duels,  upon  any  other  silly  thing  that 
happens  to  raise  their  choler ;  with  their 
shadows,  if  you  please. 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


161 


While  women  are  meek,  passive,  good 
creatures,  who,  used  to  stay  at  home,  set 
their  maids  at  work,  and  formerly  them- 
selves,— get  their  houses  in  order,  to  receive, 
comfort,  oblige,  give  joy  to  their  fierce,  fight- 
ing, bustling,  active  protectors,  providers, 
maintainers, — divert  him  with  pretty  pug's 
tricks,  tell  him  soft  tales  of  love,  and  of  who 
and  who's  together,  and  what  has  been  done 
in  his  absence, — bring  to  him  little  master, 
so  like  his  own  dear  papa ;  and  little  pretty 
miss,  a  soft,  sweet,  smiling  soul,  with  her 
sampler  in  her  hand,  so  like  what  her  meek 
mamma  was  at  her  years  !  And  with  these 
differences  in  education,  nature,  employ- 
ments, your  ladyship  asks,  whether  the  man 
or  the  woman  bears  more  from  each  other? 
has  the  more  patience?  Dearest  lady!  how 
can  you  be  so  severe  upon  your  own  sex, 
yet  seem  to  persuade  yourself  that  you  are 
defending  them  ? 

What  you  say  of  a  lover's  pressing  his 
mistress  to  a  declaration  of  her  love  for  him, 
is  sweetly  pretty,  and  very  just;  but  let  a 
man  press  as  he  will,  if  the  lady  answers 
him  rather  by  her  obliging  manners  than 
in  words,  she  will  leave  herself  something 
to  declare,  and  she  will  find  herself  rather 
more  than  less  respected  for  it:  such  is  the 
nature  of  man ! — A  man  hardly  ever  pre- 
sumes to  press  a  lady  to  make  this  declara- 
tion, hut  when  he  thinks  himself  sure  of 
her.  He  urges  her,  therefore,  to  add  to  his 
own  consequence ;  and  hopes  to  quit  scores 
with  her,  when  he  returns  love  for  love,  and 
favour  for  favour:  and  thus  "draws  the 
tender-hearted  soul  to  professions  which 
she  is  often  upbraided  for  all  her  life 
after,"  says  your  ladyship.  But  these  must 
be  the  most  ungenerous  of  men.  All  I 
would  suppose  is  that  pride  and  triumph 
is  the  meaning  of  the  urgency  for  a  declara- 
tion which  pride  and  triumph  make  a  man 
think  unnecessary ;  and  perhaps  to  know 
how  far  he  may  go,  and  be  within  allowed 
compass.  A  woman  who  is  brought  to  own 
her  love  to  the  man,  must  act  accordingly 
towards  him  ;  must  be  more  indulgent  to 
him  ;  must,  in  a  word,  abate  of  her  own 
significance,  and  add  to  his.  And  have  you 
never  seen  a  man  strut  upon  the  occasion, 
and  how  tame  and  bashful  a  woman  looks 
sifter  she  has  submitted  to  make  the  acknowl- 
edgment? The  behaviourof  each  to  the  other, 
upon  it  and  after  it,  justifies  the  caution  to 
the  sex,  which  I  would  never  have  a  woman 
forget, — always  to  leave  to  herself  the  power 
of  granting  something:  yet  her  denials  may 
be  so  managed  as  to  lie  more  attractive  than 
her  compliance.  AVomen,  Lovelace  says  (and 
he  pretends  to  know  them),  are  fond  of 
ardours ;  but  there  is  an  end  of  them  when 
a  lover  is  secure.  He  can  then  look  about 
11 


him,  and  be  occasionally,  if  not  indifferent, 
unpunctual,  and  delight  in  being  missed, 
expected,  and  called  to  tender  account  for 
his  careless  absences:  and  he  will  bo  less 
and  less  solicitous  about  giving  good  reasons 
for  them,  as  she  is  more  and  more  desirous 
of  his  company.  Poor  fool!  he  has  brought 
her  to  own  that  she  loves  him  :  and  will  she 
not  bear  with  the  man  she  loves?  She,  her- 
self, as  I  have  observed,  will  think  she  must 
act  consistently  with  her  declaration  ;  and 
he  will  plead  that  declaration  in  his  favour, 
let  his  neglects  or  slights  be  what  they  will. 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY 
MONTAGU, 

eldest  daughter  of  Evelyn,  Earl  of  Kingston 
(afterwards  Marquis  of  Dorchester,  finally 
Duke  of  Kingston),  by  his  wife  the  Lady 
Mary  Fielding,  daughter  of  William,  Earl 
of  Denbigh,  born  about  1690,  and  married 
in  1712  to  Edward  Wortley  Montagu,  ac- 
companied her  husband  during  his  resi- 
dence as  ambassador  to  the  Porte,  1716-18  ; 
resided  without  her  husband  on  the  Conti- 
nent, 1739-1761 ;  returned  to  England,  Octo- 
ber, 1761,  and  died  August  21,  1762.  Whilst 
abroad  she  wrote  many  epistles,  of  which  the 
best  collection  will  be  found  in  The  Letters 
and  Works  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu, 
edited  by  her  great-grandson,  Lord  Wharn- 
clitfe,  Lond.,  1837,  5  vols.  8vo;  2d  and  best 
edit,  also  1837.  See  also  her  Letters  from 
the  Levant,  edited  by  J.  A.  St.  John,  Lond.r 
1838,  fp.  8vo,  and  her  Works,  with  Memoirs, 
Lond.,  1803,  5  vols.  8vo. 

By  her  exertions  inoculation  for  the  small- 
pox was  introduced  into  England.  Pope 
quarrelled  with,  and,  of  course,  abused  her. 

"  The  letters  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
are  not  unworthy  of  being  named  after  those  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  They  have  much  of  the 
French  ea?e  and  vivacity,  and  retain  more  tho 
character  of  agreeable  epistolary  style  than  per- 
haps any  other  letters  which  have  appeared  in  the 
English  language." — DR.  HUGH  BLAIR:  Lects.  OH 
lihetoric  niid  Belles- Letters,  Led.  xxfrii. 

"  A  reader  need  only  glance  at  Lady  Mary's 
letters  to  see  that  she  was  not  less  distinguished 
for  wit  than  prone  to  indulge  in  sarcasm,  in  scan- 
dal, and  in  a  very  free  range  of  opinions  of  all 
sorts.  .  .  .  We  have  no  doubt  whatsoever  that  one 
of  the  things  which  drove  Lady  Mary  from  Eng- 
land was  the  enmity  she  caused  all  around  her  by 
the  license  of  her  tongue  and  pen.  She  was  always 
writing  scandal  :  a  journal  full  of  it  was  burnt  by 
her  family  ;  her  very  panegyrics  were  sometimes 
malicious,  or  were  thought  so,  in  consequence  of 
her  character,  as  in  the  instance  of  the  extraordi- 
nary verses  addressed  to  Mrs.  Murray  in  connexion 
with  a  trial  for  a  man's  life.  Pope  himself,  with  all 
the  temptations  of  his  wit  and  resentment,  would 


162 


LADY  MART   WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 


hardly  have  written  of  her  as  he  did  had  her  rep- 
utation for  offence  been  less  a  matter  of  notoriety." 
• — LEIGH  HUNT:  Men,  \Vomen,  and  Book*,  vol.  ii. 

LADV  MONTAGU  TO  E.  W.  MONTAGU,  ESQ., 
IN  PROSPECT  OF  MARRIAGE. 

One  part  of  my  character  is  not  so  good, 
nor  t'other  so  bud,  as  you  fancy  it.  Should 
we  ever  live  together  you  would  be  disap- 
pointed both  ways :  you  would  find  an  easy 
equality  of  temper  you  do  not  expect,  and  a 
thousand  faults  you  do  not  imagine.  You 
think  if  you  married  me  I  should  be  passion- 
ately fond  of  you  one  month,  and  of  some- 
body else  the  next.  Neither  would  happen. 
1  can  esteem,  1  can  be  a  friend  ;  but  I  don't 
know  whether  I  can  love.  Expect  all  that 
is  complaisant  and  easy,  but  never  what  is 
fond,  in  me. 

As  to  travelling,  'tis  what  I  should  do 
with  great  pleasure,  and  could  easily  quit 
London  upon  your  account;  but  a  retire- 
ment in  the  country  is  not  so  disagreeable 
to  me  as  I  know  a  few  months  would  make 
it  tiresome  to  you.  Where  people  are  tied 
for  life  'tis  their  mutual  interest  not  to  grow 
weary  of  one  another.  If  I  had  all  the  per- 
sonal charms  that  I  want,  a  face  is  too  slight 
a  foundation  for  happiness.  You  would  be 
soon  tired  of  seeing  every  day  the  same 
thing.  Where  you  saw  nothing  else,  you 
would  have  leisure  to  remark  all  the  defects  : 
which  would  increase  in  proportion  as  the 
novelty  lessened,  which  is  always  a  great 
charm.  I  should  have  the  displeasure  of 
seeing  a  coldness,  which,  though  I  could  not 
reasonably  blame  you  for,  being  involuntary, 
yet  it  would  render  me  uneasy;  and  the 
more,  because  I  know  a  love  may  be  revived, 
which  absence,  inconstancy,  or  even  infi- 
delity has  extinguished  ;  but  there  is  no  re- 
turning from  a  dfyo&t  given  by  satiety.  .  .  . 

TO  THE  SAME ON  MATRIMONIAL  HAPPINESS. 

If  we  marry,  our  happiness  must  consist 
in  loving  one  another:  'tis  principally  my 
concern  to  think  of  the  most  probable  method 
of  making  that  love  eternal.  You  object 
against  living  in  London  :  I  am  not  fond  of 
it  myself,  and  readily  give  it  up  to  you, 
though  I  am  assured  there  needs  more  art 
to  keep  a  fondness  alive  in  solitude,  where 
it  generally  preys  upon  itself.  There  is  one 
article  absolutely  necessary — to  be  ever  be- 
loved, one  must  be  ever  agreeable.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  being  agreeable  without 
a  thorough  good  humour,  a  natural  sweet- 
ness of  temper  enlivened  by  cheerfulness. 
Whatever  natural  funds  of  gaiety  one  is  born 
with,  'tis  necessary  to  be  entertained  with 
agreeable  objects.  Any  body  capable  of  tast- 
ing pleasure,  when  they  confine  themselves 
to  one  place,  should  take  care  'tis  the  place 


in  the  world  the  most  agreeable.  Whatever 
you  may  now  think  (now,  perhaps,  you  have 
some  fondness  for  me),  though  your  love 
should  continue  in  its  full  force,  there  are 
hours  when  the  most  beloved  mistress  would 
be  troublesome.  People  are  not  forever  (nor 
is  it  in  human  nature  that  they  should  be) 
disposed  to  be  fond  ;  you  would  be  glad  to 
find  in  me  the  friend  and  the  companion. 
To  be  agreeably  the  last,  it  is  necessary  to 
be  gay  and  entertaining. 

A  perpetual  solitude  in  a  place  where  you 
see  nothing  to  raise  your  spirits  at  length 
wears  them  out,  and  conversation  insensibly 
falls  into  dull  and  insipid.  When  I  have  no 
more  to  say  to  you,  you  will  like  me  no 
longer.  How  dreadful  is  that  view  !  You 
will  reflect,  for  my  sake  you  have  abandoned 
the  conversation  of  a  friend  that  you  liked, 
and  your  situation  in  a  country  where  all 
things  would  have  contributed  to  make  your 
life  pass  in  (the  true  volupte)  a  smooth  tran- 
quillity. /  shall  lose  the  vivacity  which 
should  entertain  you,  and  you  will  have 
nothing  to  recompense  you  for  what  you 
have  lost.  Very  few  people  that  have  set- 
tled entirely  in  the  country  but  have  grown 
at  length  weary  of  one  another.  The  lady's 
conversation  generally  falls  into  a  thousand 
impertinent  effects  of  idleness  ;  and  the  gen- 
tleman falls  in  love  with  his  dogs  and  his 
horses,  and  out  of  love  with  everything  else. 
I  am  not  now  arguing  in  favour  of  the  town  ; 
you  have  answered  me  as  to  that  point.  In 
respect  of  your  health,  'tis  the  first  thing  to 
be  considered,  and  I  shall  never  ask  you  to 
do  anything  injurious  to  that.  But 'tis  my 
opinion,  'tis  necessary  to  be  happy  that  we 
neither  of  us  think  any  place  more  agreeable 
than  that  where  we  are. 

To    THE    COUNTESS    OF  BUTE   ON    FEMALE 
EDUCATION. 

LOUVERE,  Jan.  28,  N.  S.,  1753. 
DEAR  CHILD, — You  have  given  me  a  great 
deal  of  satisfaction  by  your  account  of  your 
eldest  daughter.  I  am  particularly  pleased 
to  hear  she  is  a  gocd  arithmetician  ;  it  is  the 
best  proof  of  understanding:  the  knowledge 
of  numbers  is  one  of  the  chief  distinctions 
between  us  and  brutes.  .  .  .  Learning,  if 
she  has  a  real  taste  for  it,  will  not  only  make 
her  contented,  but  happy  in  it  [retirement], 
No  entertainment  is  so  cheap  as  reading,  nor 
any  pleasure  so  lasting.  She  will  not  want 
new  fashions,  nor  regret  the  loss  of  expen- 
sive diversions,  or  variety  of  company,  if  she 
can  be  amused  with  an  author  in  her  closet. 
To  render  this  amusement  complete,  she 
should  be  permitted  to  learn  the  languages. 
I  have  heard  it  lamented  that  boys  lose  so 
many  years  in  mere  learning  of  words :  this 


JOSEPH  BUTLER. 


163 


is  no  objection  to  a  girl,  whose  time  is  not 
so  precious:  she  cannot  advance  herself  in 
any  profession,  and  has  therefore  more  hours 
to  spare ;  and  as  you  say  her  memory  is 
good,  she  will  be  very  agreeably  employed 
this  way.  There  are  two  cautions  to  be 
given  on  this  subject:  first,  not  to  think  her- 
self learned  when  she  can  read  Latin,  or 
even  Greek.  Languages  are  more  properly 
to  be  called  vehicles  of  learning  than  learn- 
ing itself,  as  may  be  observed  in  many 
schoolmasters,  who,  though  perhaps  critics 
in  grammar,  are  the  most  ignorant  fellows 
upon  earth.  True  knowledge  consists  in 
knowing  things,  not  words.  I  would  no 
further  wish  her  a  linguist  than  to  enable 
her  to  read  books  in  their  originals,  that  are 
often  corrupted,  and  always  injured  by  trans- 
lations. Two  hours'  application  every  morn- 
ing will  bring  this  about  mnch  sooner  than 
you  can  imagine,  and  she  will  have  leisure 
enough  besides  to  run  over  the  English 
poetry,  which  is  a  more  important  part  of  a 
woman's  education  than  it  is  generally  sup- 
posed. Many  a  young  damsel  has  been 
ruined  by  a  fine  copy  of  verses  which  she 
would  have  laughed  at  if  she  had  known  it 
had  been  stolen  from  Mr.  Waller.  .  .  .  The 
second  caution  to  be  given  her  (and  which 
is  most  absolutely  necessary),  is  to  conceal 
whatever  learning  she  attains,  with  as  much 
solicitude  as  she  would  hide  crookedness  or 
lameness:  the  parade  of  it  can  only  serve  to 
draw  on  her  the  envy,  and  consequently  the 
most  inveterate  hatred,  of  all  he  and  she 
fools,  which  will  certainly  be  at  least  three 
parts  in  four  of  her  acquaintance.  The  use 
of  knowledge  in  our  sex,  beside  the  amuse- 
ment of  solitude,  is  to  moderate  the  pas- 
sions, and  learn  to  be  contented  with  a  small 
expense,  which  are  the  certain  effects  of  a 
studious  life  ;  and  it  may  be  preferable  even 
to  that  fame  which  men  have  engrossed  to 
themselves,  and  will  not  suffer  us  to  share. 
You  will  tell  me  I  have  not  observed  this 
rule  myself;  but  you  are  mistaken  :  it  is  only 
inevitable  accident  that  has  given  me  any 
reputation  that  way.  I  have  always  care- 
fully avoided  it,  and  ever  thought  it  a  mis- 
fortune. The  explanation  of  this  paragraph 
would  occasion  a  long  digression,  which  I 
will  not  trouble  you  with,  it  being  my  pres- 
ent design  only  to  say  what  I  think  useful 
to  my  granddaughter,  which  I  have  much  at 
heart.  If  she  has  the  same  inclination  (I 
should  say  passion)  for  learning  that  I  was 
born  with,  history,  geography,  and  philoso- 
phy will  furnish  her  with  materials  to  pass 
away  cheerfully  a  longer  life  than  is  allotted 
to  mortals.  I  believe  there  are  few  heads 
capable  of  making  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  cal- 
culations, but  the  result  of  them  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  be  understood  by  a  moderate  capacity. 


Do  not  fear  this  should  make  her  affect  the 

character  of  Lady  ,  or  Lady  ,  or 

Mrs. :  those  women  are  ridiculous,  not 

because  they  have  learning,  but  because  they 
have  it  not.  One  thinks  herself  a  complete 
historian,  after  reading  Echard's  Roman 
History;  another  a  profound  philosopher, 
having  got  by  heart  some  of  Pope's  unin- 
telligible essays;  and  a  third  an  able  divine, 
on  the  strength  of  AVhitefield's  sermons: 
thus  you  hear  them  screaming  politics  and 
controversy. 

It  is  a  saying  of  Thncydides,  that  igno- 
rance is  bold  and  knowledge  reserved.  In- 
deed it  is  impossible  to  be  far  advanced  in 
it  without  being  more  humbled  by  a  convic- 
tion of  human  ignorance  than  elated  by 
learning.  At  the  same  time  I  recommend 
books,  I  neither  exclude  work  nor  drawing. 
I  think  it  is  as  scandalous  for  a  woman  not 
to  know  how  to  use  a  needle,  as  for  a  man 
not  to  know  how  to  use  a  sword. 


JOSEPH  BUTLER,  D.C.L., 

born  1692,  Preacher  at  the  Rolls,  1718-1726, 
Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  Queen  Caroline,  1736, 
Bishop  of  Bristol,  1738,  Bishop  of  Durham, 
1750,  died  1752,  will  always  be  remem- 
bered for  his  great  work  The  Analogy  of 
Religion,  Natural  and  Revealed,  to  the  Con- 
stitution and  Course  of  Nature,  to  which  are 
added  Two  Brief  Dissertations:  1.  On  Per- 
sonal Identity;  2.  On  the  Nature  of  Virtue. 
The  first  edition  of  the  Analogy  was  pub- 
lished in  1736.  The  Works,  with  an  Ac- 
count by  Bishop  Halifax,  appeared,  Oxford, 
1807,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  same,  Oxford.  1849,  2  vols. 
8vo;  Works,  New  York,  1845,  8vo.  The 
Works  contain  The  Analogy  and  Two  Dis- 
sertations, twenty-one  Sermons,  A  Charge, 
and  Correspondence  between  Dr.  Butler  and 
Dr.  [Samuel]  Clarke. 

"  The  author  to  whom  I  am  under  the  greatest 
obligations  is  Bishop  Butler.  .  .  .  The  whole  of 
this  admirable  treatise — one  of  the  most  remark- 
able that  any  language  can  produce — is  intended 
to  show  that  the  principles  of  moral  government 
taught  in  the  Scriptures  are  strictly  analogous  to 
those  everywhere  exhibited  in  the  government  of 
the  world  as  seen  in  natural  religion." — DR.  FRAN- 
CIS WAYLAND  :  Moral  Phil.,  p.  5 ;  Intellec.  Phil.,  p. 
338. 

''The  most  original  find  profound  work  extant 
in  any  language  on  the  philosophy  of  religion." — 
SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH  :  2d  Prelim.  Dissert,  to 
Encyc.  Brit. 

"  I  have  derived  greater  aid  from  the  views  and 
reasonings  of  Bishop  Butler  than  I  have  been  able 
to  find  besides  in  the  whole  range  of  our  extant 
authorship." — DR.  T.  CHALMERS  :  Bridgewater 
Trentixe,  Prcf. 

Butler's  Sermons  also  are  very  valuable. 


164 


JOSEPH  BUTLER. 


REWARDS  AND  PUNISHMENTS. 

That  which  makes  the  question  concerning 
a  future  life  to  be  of  so  great  importance  to 
us,  is  our  capacity  of  happiness  and  misery. 
And  that  which  makes  the  consideration  of 
it  to  be  of  so  great  importance  to  us,  is  the 
supposition  of  our  happiness  or  misery  here- 
after depending  upon  our  actions  here. 
Without  this  indeed,  curiosity  could  not  but 
sometimes  bring  a  subject,  in  which  we  may 
be  so  highly  interested,  to  our  thoughts;  es- 
pecially upon  the  mortality  of  others,  or  the 
near  prospect  of  our  own.  But  reasonable 
men  would  not  take  any  further  thought 
about  hereafter,  than  what  should  happen 
thus  occasionally  to  rise  in  their  minds,  if 
it  were  certain  that  our  future  interest  no 
way  depended  upon  our  present  behaviour; 
whereas,  on  the  contrary,  if  there  be  ground, 
either  from  analogy  or  anything  else,  to 
think  it  does,  then  there  is  reason  also  for 
the  most  active  thought  and  solicitude  to 
secure  that  interest;  to  behave  so  as  that 
we  may  escape  that  misery,  and  obtain  that 
happiness  in  another  life  which  we  not  only 
suppose  ourselves  capable  of,  but  which  we 
apprehend  also  is  put  in  our  own  power. 
And  whether  there  be  ground  for  this  last 
apprehension  certainly  would  deserve  to  be 
most  seriously  considered,  were  there  no 
other  proof  of  a  future  life  and  interest 
than  that  presumptive  one  which  the  fore- 
going observations  amount  to. 

Now  in  the  present  state,  all  which  we 
enjoy,  and  a  great  part  of  what  we  suffer, 
is  put  in  our  own  power.  For  pleasure  and 
pain  are  the  consequences  of  our  actions; 
and  we  are  endued  by  the  Author  of  our 
nature  with  capacities  for  foreseeing  these 
consequences.  We  find  by  experience  he 
does  not  so  much  as  preserve  our  lives,  ex- 
clusively of  our  own  care  and  attention  to 
provide  ourselves  with,  and  to  make  use  of, 
that  sustenance  by  which  he  has  appointed 
our  lives  shall  be  preserved ;  and  without 
which  he  has  appointed  they  shall  not  be 
preserved  at  all.  And  in  general  we  foresee 
that  the  external  things  which  are  the  objects 
of  our  various  passions  can  neither  be  ob- 
tained nor  enjoyed  without  exerting  our- 
selves in  such  and  such  manners :  but  by 
thus  exerting  ourselves  we  obtain  and  enjoy 
these  objects  in  which  our  natural  good  con- 
sists ;  or  by  this  means  God  gives  us  the 
possession  and  enjoyment  of  them.  I  know 
not  that  we  have  any  one  kind  or  degree  of 
enjoyment  but  by  the  means  of  our  own 
actions.  And  by  prudence  and  care  we 
may,  for  the  most  part,  pass  our  days  in 
tolerable  ease  and  quiet:  or,  on  the  contrary, 
we  may,  by  rashness,  ungoverned  passion, 
wilfuluess,  or  even  by  negligence,  make  our- 


selves as  miserable  as  ever  we  please.  And 
many  do  please  to  make  themselves  extremely 
miserable,  i.e.,  to  do  what  they  know  before- 
hand will  render  them  so.  They  follow 
those  ways  the  fruit  of  which  they  know, 
by  instruction,  example,  experience,  will  be 
disgrace,  and  poverty,  and  sickness,  and  un- 
timely death.  This  every  one  observes  to  be 
the  general  course  of  things;  though  it  is 
to  be  allowed  we  cannot  find  by  experience 
that  all  our  sufferings  are  owing  to  our  own 
follies. 

Why  the  Author  of  Nature  does  not  give 
his  creatures  promiscuously  such  and  such 
perceptions  without  regard  to  their  beha- 
viour; why  he  does  not  make  them  happy 
without  the  instrumentality  of  their  own 
actions,  and  prevent  their  bringing  any  suf- 
ferings upon  themselves,  is  another  matter. 
Perhaps  there  may  be  some  impossibilities 
in  the  nature  of  things,  which  we  are  unac- 
quainted with.  Or  less  happiness,  it  may 
be,  would  upon  the  whole  be  produced  by 
such  a  method  than  is  by  the  present.  Or 
perhaps  divine  goodness,  with  which,  if  I 
mistake  not,  we  make  very  free  in  our  spec- 
ulations, may  not  be  a  bare  single  disposi- 
tion to  produce  happiness  ;  but  a  disposition 
to  make  the  good,  the  faithful,  the  honest 
man  happy. 

ANALOGY,  Chap.  II. 

CONSCIENCE. 

There  is  a  principle  of  reflection  in  men 
by  which  they  distinguish  between,  approve 
and  disapprove  their  own  actions.  We  are 
plainly  constituted  such  sort  of  creatures  as 
to  reflect  upon  our  own  nature.  The  mind 
can  take  a  view  of  what  passes  within  itself, 
its  propensions,  aversions,  passions,  affec- 
tions, as  respecting  such  objects,  and  in  such 
degrees ;  and  of  the  several  actions  conse- 
quent thereupon.  In  this  survey  it  approves 
of  one,  disapproves  of  another,  and  towards 
a  third  is  affected  in  neither  of  these  ways, 
but  is  quite  indifferent.  This  principle  in 
man,  by  which  he  approves  or  disapproves 
his  heart,  temper,  and  actions,  is  conscience  ; 
for  this  is  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  though 
sometimes  it  is  used  so  as  to  take  in  more. 
And  that  this  faculty  tends  to  restrain  men 
from  doing  mischief  to  each  other,  and  leads 
them  to  do  good,  is  too  manifest  to  need 
being  insisted  upon.  Thus  a  parent  has  the 
affection  of  love  to  his  children  :  this  leads 
him  to  take  care  of,  to  educate,  to  make  due 
provision  for  them ;  the  natural  affection 
leads  to  this:  but  the  reflection  that  it  is 
his  proper  business,  what  belongs  to  him, 
that  it  is  right  and  commendable  so  to  do ; 
this  added  to  the  affection  becomes  a  much 
more  settled  principle,  and  carries  him  on 


JOSEPH  BUTLER. 


165 


through  more  labour  and  difficulties  for  the 
sake  of  his  children  than  he  would  undergo 
from  that  affection  alone  if  he  thought  it, 
ami  the  course  of  action  it  led  to,  either  in- 
different or  criminal. 

This  indeed  is  impossible,  to  do  that  which 
is  good  and  not  to  approve  of  it;  for  which 
reason  they  are  frequently  not  considered  as 
distinct,  though  they  really  are:  for  men 
often  approve  of  the  actions  of  others  which 
they  will  not  imitate,  and  likewise  do  that 
which  they  approve  not.  It  cannot  possibly 
be  denied  that  there  is  this  principle  of  re- 
flection or  conscience  in  human  nature.  Sup- 
pose a  man  to  relieve  an  innocent  person  in 
great  distress;  suppose  the  same  man  after- 
wards, in  the  fury  of  anger,  to  do  the  greatest 
mischief  to  a  person  who  had  given  no  just 
cause  of  offence ;  to  aggravate  the  injury, 
add  the  circumstances  of  former  friendship 
and  obligation  from  the  injured  person  :  let 
the  man  who  is  supposed  to  have  done  these 
two  different  actions  coolly  reflect  upon  them 
afterwards,  without  regard  to  their  conse- 
quences to  himself:  to  assert  that  any  com- 
mon man  would  be  affected  in  the  same 
way  towards  these  different  actions,  that  he 
would  make  no  distinction  between  them, 
but  approve  or  disapprove  them  equally,  is 
too  glaring  an  absurdity  to  need  being  con- 
futed. There  is  therefore  this  principle  of 
reflection  or  conscience  in  mankind.  It  is 
needless  to  compare  the  respect  it  has  to 
private  good  with  the  respect  it  has  to 
public:  since  it  plainly  tends  as  much  to 
the  latter  as  to  the  former,  and  is  commonly 
thought  to  tend  chiefly  to  the  latter.  This 
faculty  is  now  mentioned  merely  as  another 
part  in  the  inward  frame  of  man,  pointing 
out  to  us  in  some  degree  what  we  fire  in- 
tended for,  and  as  what  will  naturally  and 
of  course  have  some  influence. 

Sermon  upon  Human  Nature. 

SELF-DECEIT. 

There  is  not  anything  relating  to  men  and 
characters,  more  surprising  and  unaccount- 
able, than  this  partiality  to  themselves  which 
is  observable  in  many;  as  there  is  nothing 
of  more  melancholy  reflection,  respecting 
morality,  virtue,  and  religion.  Hence  it  is 
that  many  men  seem  perfect  strangers  to 
their  own  characters.  They  think,  and 
reason,  and  judge  quite  differently  upon  any 
matter  relating  to  themselves  from  what  they 
do  in  cases  of  others  where  they  are  not  in- 
terested. Hence  it  is  one  hears  people  ex- 
posing follies  which  they  themselves  are 
eminent  for;  and  talking  with  great  severity 
against  particular  vices  which,  if  all  the 
world  be  not  mistaken,  they  themselves  are 
notoriously  guilty  of.  This  self-ignorance 


and  self-partiality  may  be  in  all  different 
degrees.  It  is  a  lower  degree  of  it  which 
David  himself  refers  to  in  these  words,  Who 
can  tell  how  oft  he  offendeth  ?  O  cleanse  thou 
me  from  my  secret  faults.  This  is  the  ground 
of  that  advice  of  Elihu  to  Job:  fin-rely  it  in 
meet  to  be  said  unto  God, — That  which  I  see 
not,  teach  thou  me;  if  I  have  done  iniquity,  I 
will  do  no  more.  And  Solomon  saw  this 
thing  in  a  very  strong  light  when  he  said, 
He  that  trusteth  his  own  heart  is  a  fool.  This 
likewise  was  the  reason  why  that  precept, 
Know  thyself,  was  so  frequently  inculcated 
by  the  philosophers  of  old.  For  if  it  were 
not  for  that  partial  and  fond  regard  to  our- 
selves it  would  certainly  be  no  great  difficulty 
to  know  our  own  character,  what  passes 
within  the  bent  and  bias  of  our  mind  ;  much 
less  would  there  be  any  difficulty  in  judging 
rightly  of  our  own  actions.  But  from  this 
partiality  it  frequently  comes  to  pass  that 
the  observation  of  many  men's  being  them- 
selves last  of  all  acquainted  with  what  falls 
out  in  their  own  families  may  be  applied  to 
a  nearer  home, — to  what  passes  within  their 
own  breasts. 

There  is  plainly,  in  the  generality  of  man- 
kind, an  absence  of  doubt  or  distrust,  in  a 
very  great  measure,  as  to  their  moral  char- 
acter and  behaviour  :  and  likewise  a  disposi- 
tion to  take  for  granted  that  all  is  right  and 
well  with  them  in  these  respects.  The  former 
is  owing  to  their  not  reflecting,  not  exercising 
their  judgment  upon  themselves ;  the  latter,  to 
self-love.  I  am  not  speaking  of  that  extrava- 
gance, which  is  sometimes  to  be  met  with ; 
instances  of  persons  declaring  in  words  at 
length,  that  they  never  were  in  the  wrong, 
nor  ever  had  any  diffidence  of  the  justness 
of  their  conduct,  in  their  whole  lives.  No, 
these  people  are  too  far  gone  to  have  any- 
thin?  said  to  them.  The  thing  before  us  is 
indeed  of  this  kind,  but  in  a  lower  degree, 
and  confined  to  the  moral  character;  some- 
what of  which  we  almost  all  of  us  have, 
without  reflecting  upon  it.  Now  consider 
how  long  and  how  grossly  a  person  of  the 
best  understanding  might  be  imposed  upon 
by  one  of  whom  he  had  not  any  suspicion, 
and  in  whom  he  placed  an  entire  confidence  ; 
especially  if  there  were  friendship  and  real 
kindness  in  the  case :  surely  this  holds  even 
stronger  with  respect  to  that  self  we  are  all 
so  fond  of.  Hence  arises  in  men  a  disregard 
of  reproof  and  instruction,  rules  of  conduct 
and  moral  discipline,  which  occasionally 
come  in  their  way :  a  disregard,  I  say,  of 
these ;  not  in  every  respect,  but  in  this 
single  one.  namely,  as  what  may  be  of 
service  to  them  in  particular  towards  mend- 
ing their  own  hearts  and  tempers,  and  mak- 
ing them  better  men.  It  never  in  earnest 
comes  into  their  thoughts  whether  such  ad- 


166 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE. 


monitions  may  not  relate  and  be  of  service 
to  themselves,  and  this  quite  distinct  from  a 
positive  persuasion  to  the  contrary,  a  per- 
suasion from  reflection  that  they  are  innocent 
and  blameless  in  these  respects. 
Sermon  upon  Sdf-Deceit. 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHO'PE, 
EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD, 

born  1694,  died  1773,  famous  in  his  day  as 
a  wit,  a  courtier,  a  politician,  and  patron  of 
literature,  is  still  remembered  for  his  Letters 
to  his  Son  Philip  Stanhope,  Lond.,  1774,  2 
vols.  4to;  Ne\v  edition,  with  Additions, 
edited  by  Lord  Mahon  [5th  Earl  Stanhope], 
Lond.,  1845-53,  5  vols.  8vo.  The  first  edition 
was  republished  in  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1779. 
Miscellaneous  Works,  with  Memoirs  by  M. 
Maty,  M.D.,  Lond.,  1777-78,  2  vols.  4to; 
Supplement  to  his  Letters,  Lond.,  1787,  4to. 

"  It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  they  had  so 
great  a  sale,  considering  that  they  were  the  let- 
ters of  a  statesman,  a  wit,  one  who  had  been  much 
in  the  mouths  of  mankind,  one  long  accustomed 
vlrum  volitnre  per  oi-it.  .  .  .  Does  not  Lord  Ches- 
terfield give  precepts  for  uniting  wickedness  and 
the  graces?  .  .  .  Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters  to  his 
Son,  I  think,  might  be  made  a  very  pretty  book. 
Take  out  the  i  in  morality,  and  it  should  be  put  into 
the  hands  of  every  gentleman." — DR.  JOHNSON. 

It  may  here  be  remarked  that  Johnson's 
letter  to  Chesterfield  was  grossly  unjust. 

GOOD  BREEDING. 

A  friend  of  yours  and  mine  has  very 
justly  defined  good  breeding  to  be,  "the  re- 
sult of  much  pood  sense,  some  pood  nature, 
and  a  little  self-denial  for  the  sake  of  others, 
and  with  a  view  to  obtain  the  same  indul- 
gence from  them."  Taking  this  for  granted 
(as  I  think  it  cannot  be  disputed),  it  is  aston- 
ishing to  me  that  anybody  who  has  good 
sense  and  good  nature  can  essentially  fail  in 
good  breeding.  As  to  the  modes  of  it, 
indeed,  they  vary  according  to  persons, 
places,  and  circumstances,  and  are  only  to 
be  acquired  by  observation  and  experience  ; 
but  the  substance  of  it  is  everywhere  and 
eternally  the  same.  Good  manners  are,  to 
particular  societies,  what  good  morals  are  to 
society  in  general — their  cement  and  their 
security.  And  as  laws  are  enacted  to  enforce 
good  morals,  or  at  least  to  prevent  the  ill 
effects  of  bad  ones,  so  there  are  certain  rules 
of  civility,  universally  implied  and  received, 
to  enforce  good  manners  and  punish  bad 
ones.  And  indeed  there  seems  to  be  less 
difference  between  the  crimes  and  punish- 
ments than  at  first  one  would  imagine.  The 


immoral  man  who  invades  another's  prop- 
erty is  justly  hanged  for  it;  and  the  ill-bred 
man  who  by  his  ill  manners  invades  and 
disturbs  the  quiet  and  comforts  of  private 
life  is  by  common  consent  as  justly  banished 
society.  Mutual  complaisances,  attentions, 
and  sacrifices  of  little  conveniences,  are  as 
natural  an  implied  contract  between  civilized 
people  as  protection  and  obedience  are  be- 
tween kings  and  subjects  ;  whoever,  in  either 
case,  violates  that  compact  justly  forfeits  all 
advantages  arising  from  it.  For  my  own 
part  I  really  think  that,  next  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  doing  a  good  action  that  of 
doing  a  civil  one  is  the  most  pleasing  ;  and 
the  epithet  which  I  should  covet  the  most, 
next  to  that  of  Aristides,  would  be  that  of 
well-bred.  Thus  much  for  good  breeding  in 
general:  I  will  now  consider  some  of  the 
various  modes  and  degrees  of  it. 

Very  few,  scarcely  any,  are  wanting  in 
the  respect  which  they  should  show  to  those 
whom  they  acknowledge  to  be  infinitely 
their  superiors,  such  as  crowned  heads, 
princes,  and  public  persons  of  distinguished 
and  eminent  posts.  It  is  the  manner  of 
showing  that  respect  which  is  different.  The 
man  of  fashion  and  of  the  world  expresses 
it  in  its  fullest  extent,  but  naturally,  easily, 
and  without  concern  ;  whereas  a  man  who 
is  not  used  to  keep  good  company  expresses 
it  awkwardly  ;  one  sees  that  he  is  not  used 
to  it,  and  that  it  costs  him  a  great  deal ; 
but  I  never  saw  the  worst-bred  man  living 
guilty  of  lolling,  whistling,  scratching  his 
head,  and  such  like  indecencies,  in  company 
that  he  respected.  In  such  companies,  there- 
fore, the  only  point  to  be  attended  to  is,  to 
show  that  respect  which  everybody  means 
to  show,  in  an  easy,  unembarrassed,  and 
graceful  manner.  This  is  what  observation 
and  experience  must  teach  you. 

In  mixed  companies,  whoever  is  admitted 
to  make  part  of  them  is,  for  the  time  at  least, 
supposed  to  1)6  on  a  footing  of  equality  with 
the  rest:  and,  consequently,  as  there  is  no 
one  principal  object  of  awe  and  respect,  peo- 
ple are  apt  to  take  a  greater  latitude  in  their 
behaviour,  and  to  be  less  upon  their  guard : 
and  so  they  may,  provided  it  be  within  cer- 
tain bounds,  which  are  upon  no  occasion  to 
be  transgressed.  But  upon  these  occasions, 
though  no  one  is  entitled  to  distinguished 
marks  of  respect,  every  one  claims,  and  very 
justly,  every  mark  of  civility  and  good 
breeding.  Ease  is  allowed,  but  careless- 
ness and  negligence  are  strictly  forbidden. 
If  a  man  accosts  you,  and  talks  to  you  ever 
so  dully  or  frivolously,  it  is  worse  than  rude- 
ness, it  is  brutality,  to  show  him,  by  a  mani- 
fest inattention  to  what  he  says,  that  you 
think  him  a  fool  or  a  blockhead,  and  not 
worth  hearing.  It  is  much  more  so  with 


WILLIAM   WARBURTON. 


167 


regard  to  women,  who,  of  whatever  rank 
they  are,  are  entitled,  in  consideration  of 
their  sex,  not  only  to  an  attentive,  but  an 
officious  good  breeding  from  men.  Their 
little  wants,  likings,  dislikes,  preferences, 
antipathies,  and  fancies  must  be  officiously 
attended  to,  and,  if  possible,  guessed  at  and 
anticipated,  by  a  well-bred  man.  You  must 
never  usurp  to  yourself  those  conveniences 
and  gratifications  which  are  of  common  right, 
such  as  the  best  places,  the  best  dishes,  &c. ; 
but  on  the  contrary  always  decline  them 
yourself,  and  offer  them  to  others,  who,  in 
their  turns,  will  offer  them  to  you  ;  so  that, 
upon  the  whole,  you  will  in  your  turn  enjoy 
your  share  of  the  common  right.  It  would 
be  endless  for  me  to  enumerate  all  the  par- 
ticular instances  in  which  a  well-bred  man 
shows  his  good  breeding  in  good  company  ; 
and  it  would  be  injurious  to  you  to  suppose 
that  your  own  good  sense  will  not  point 
them  out  to  you  ;  and  then  your  own  good 
nature  will  recommend  and  your  self-inter- 
est enforce  the  pr.ictice. 

There  is  a  third  sort  of  good  breeding  in 
which  people  are  the  most  apt  to  fail  from  a 
very  mistaken  notion  that  they  cannot  fail 
at  all.  I  mean  with  regard  to  one's  most 
familiar  friends  and  acquaintances,  or  those 
who  really  are  our  inferiors;  and  there,  un- 
doubtedly, a  greater  degree  of  ease  is  not 
only  allowed,  but  proper,  and  contributes 
much  to  the  comforts  of  a  private  social  life. 
But  ease  and  freedom  have  their  bounds, 
which  must  by  no  means  be  violated.  A 
certain  degree  of  negligence  and  careless- 
ness becomes  injurious  and  insulting,  from 
the  real  or  supposed  inferiority  of  the  per- 
sons ;  and  that  delightful  liberty  of  conver- 
sation among  a  few  friends  is  soon  destroyed, 
as  liberty  often  has  been,  by  being  carried  to 
licentiousness.  But  example  explains  things 
best,  and  I  will  put  a  pretty  strong  case  : 
Suppose  you  and  me  alone  together:  I  be- 
lieve you  will  allow  that  I  have  as  good  a 
right  to  unlimited  freedom  in  your  company 
as  either  you  or  I  can  possibly  have  in  any 
other  ;  and  I  am  apt  to  believe,  too,  that 
you  would  indulge  me  in  that  freedom  as 
far  as  anybody  would.  But,  notwithstand- 
ing this,  do  you  imagine  that  I  should  think 
there  was  no  bounds  to  that  freedom?  I 
assure  you  I  should  not  think  so;  and  I 
take  myself  to  be  as  much  tied  down  by  a 
certain  degree  of  good  manners  to  you,  as 
by  other  degrees  of  them  to  other  people. 
The  most  familiar  and  intimate  habitudes, 
connexions,  and  friendships  require  a  de- 
gree of  good  breeding  both  to  preserve  and 
cement  them.  The  best  of  us  have  our  bad 
sides,  and  it  is  as  imprudent  as  it  is  ill-bred 
to  exhibit  them.  I  shall  not  use  ceremony 
with  you  ;  it  would  be  misplaced  between 


us  ;  but  I  shall  certainly  observe  that  degree 
of  good  breeding  with  you  which  is,  in  the 
first  place,  decent,  and  which,  I  am  sure, 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  make  us  like  one 
another's  company  long. 

Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters  to  his  Son. 


WILLIAM  WARBURTON,  D.D., 

born  1698,  left  school  (he  was  never  at  col- 
lege) 1715,  and  for  about  four  years  prac- 
tised as  an  attorney  at  Newark  ;  received 
deacon's  orders,  1723,  Preacher  to  Lincoln's 
Inn,  1746,  Prebendary  of  Gloucester,  1753, 
and  of  Durham,  1755,  Dean  of  Bristol,  1757, 
Bishop  of  Gloucester,  1759,  died  1779.  He 
was  author  of  Miscellaneous  Translations, 
Lond.,  1723  (some  1724),  12tno;  Critical  and 
Philosophical  Enquiry  into  the  Causes  of 
Prodigies  and  Miracles,  as  related  by  Histo- 
rians, Lond.,  1727,  I2mo  (this  and  the  Trans- 
lations were  suppressed)  ;  The  Alliance  be- 
tween Church  and  State,  Lond..  1741,  8vo  ; 
Julian,  1750,  8vo  ;  and  other  works.  His 
greatest  production  was  The  Divine  Legation 
of  Moses  Demonstrated,  Lond.,  1737,  etc., 
never  completed  :  new  edition,  Lond.,  Tegg, 
1846,  3  vols.  8vo  ;  Warburton's  Works 
[edited  by  Bishop  Ilurd],  Lond.,  1788,  7  vols. 
4to ;  new  edition,  Lond.,  1811,  12  vols.  8vo. 

"  Warburton's  Divine  Legation  delighted  me 
more  than  any  book  I  had  yet  [at  15]  read.  .  .  . 
The  luminous  theory  of  hieroglyphics,  as  a  stage 
in  the  progress  of  society,  between  picture-writing 
and  alphabetic  character,  is  perhaps  the  only 
addition  made  to  the  stock  of  knowledge  in  this 
extraordinary  work;  but  the  uncertain  and  prob- 
ably false  suppositions  about  the  pantheism  of  the 
ancient  philosophers  and  the  object  of  the  myste- 
ries (in  reality,  perhaps,  somewhat  like  the  free- 
masonry of  our  own  times)  are  well  adapted  to 
rouse  and  exercise  the  adventurous  genius  of 
youth." — SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH:  Life,  eh.  i. 

"  The  Divine  Legation  of  Moses  is  a  monument, 
already  crumbling  into  dust,  of  the  vigour  and  the 
weakness  of  the  human  rnind.  If  Warburton's 
new  argument  proved  anything,  it  would  be  a 
demonstration  against  the  legislator  who  left  his 
people  without  the  knowledge  of  a  future  state. 
But  some  episodes  of  the  work,  on  the  Greek 
philosophy,  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt,  &c.,  are 
entitled  to  the  praise  of  learning,  imagination, 
and  discernment." — EDWARD  GIBBON:  Miscelt. 
Works,  edit.  1837,  88,  n. 

The  reader  will  find  a  graphic  portrait  of 
Warburton  by  a  good  painter  in  our  article 
on  Lord  Bolingbroko  in  this  volume. 

BISHOP  WARBUUTOX  TO  HURD. 

PRIOR  PARK,  Dec.  27,  1761. 
Let  me  wish  you  (as  we  all  do)  all  the 
happiness  that  goodness   can   derive   from 
this  season. 


1G8 


JOSEPH  SPENCE. 


The  honour  this  country  derives  from  the 
Duke  of  York's  visit  can  hardly  compensate 
the  bad  news  of  a  Spanish  war,  which  puts 
the  city  of  London  in  a  consternation.  This 
event  does  honour  to  Mr.  Pitt's  sagacity,  and 
the  wisdom  of  his  advice  upon  it.  Whether 
this  war,  which  was  foreseen  by  nobody  to 
be  inevitable  but  by  him,  can  be  successfully 
managed  by  anybody  but  by  him,  time  must 
show  ;  for  I  would  not  pretend  to  be  wiser 
than  our  teachers,  I  mean,  the  news-writers, 
who  refer  all  doubtful  cases,  as  the  Treasury 
does  all  desperate  payments,  to  time.  .  .  . 
What  you  say  of  Hume  is  true:  and  (what 
either  I  said  in  my  last,  or  intended  to  say) 
you  have  taught  him  to  write  so  much  bet- 
ter, that  he  has  thoroughly  confirmed  your 
system. 

I  have  been  both  too  ill  and  too  lazy  to 
finish  my  Discourse  on  the  Holy  Spirit.  Not 
above  half  of  it  is  yet  printed. 

I  have  been  extremely  entertained  with 
the  wars  of  Fingal  [OssianJ.  It  can  be  no 
cheat,  for  I  think  the  enthusiasm  of  this  su- 
perficial sublime  could  hardly  be  counterfeit. 
A  modern  writer  would  have  been  less 
simple  and  uniform.  Thus  far  had  I  writ- 
ten when  your  letter  of  Christmas-day  came 
to  hand  ;  as  you  will  easily  understand  by 
my  submitting  to  take  shame  upon  me,  (and 
assuring  you  that  I  am  fully  convinced  of 
my  false  opinion  delivered  just  above  con- 
cerning Fingal.  I  did  not  consider  the  mat- 
ter as  I  ought.  Your  reasons  for  the  for- 
gery are  unanswerable.  And  of  all  these 
reasons  but  one  occurred  to  me,  the  want  of 
external  evidence;  and  this.  I  own,  did  shock 
me.  But  you  have  waked  me  from  a  very 
pleasing  dream  ;  and  made  me  hate  the  im- 
postor, which  is  the  most  uneasy  sentiment 
of  our  waking  thoughts.  .  .  . 

Sterne  has  published  his  fifth  and  sixth 
volumes  of  Tristram.  They  are  wrote  pretty 
much  like  the  first  and  second  ;  but  whether 
they  will  restore  his  reputation  as  a  writer 
with  the  public  is  another  question.  The 
fellow  himself  is  an  irrecoverable  scoun- 
drel. .  .  . 

I  think  the  booksellers  have  an  intention 
of  employing  Baskerville  to  print  Pope  in 
4to  ;  so  they  sent  me  the  last  octavo  to  look 
over.  I  have  added  the  enclosed  to  the  long 
note  in  the  beginning  of  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  in  answer  to  an  impertinence  of  Joseph 
War  ton.  When  you  have  perused  it,  you 
will  send  it  back.  I  have  sometimes  thought 
of  collecting  my  scattered  anecdotes  and 
critical  observations  together,  for  the  foun- 
dation of  a  life  of  Pope,  which  the  booksellers 
tease  me  for.  If  I  do  that,  all  of  that  kind 
must  be  struck  out  of  the  notes  of  that  edi- 
tion. You  could  help  ine  nobly  to  fill  up 
the  canvas. 


JOSEPH  SPENCE, 

born  1699,  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford, 
17-8-38,  and  Regius  Professor  of  Modern 
History,  1742,  Prebendary  of  Durham,  1754, 
was  drowned  in  a  canal  in  his  garden,  1768. 
Among  his  works  are  An  Essay  on  Pope's 
Translation  of  Homer's  Odyssey,  Lond., 
1727,  8vo  ;  Polyrnetis  ;  or,  An  Enquiry  con- 
cerning the  Agreement  between  the  Works 
of  the  Roman  Poets  and  the  Remains  of  the 
Ancient  Artists,  Lond.,  1747,  royal  fol.  ; 
Crito,  by  Sir  Harry  Beaumont,  Lond.,  1752, 
8vo  :  Moralities,  by  Sir  Harry  Beaumont, 
Lond.,  1753,  8vo.  He  left  a  valuable  MS. 
collection  of  Observations.  Anecdotes,  and 
Characters,  which  were  first  published  in 
1820,  crown  8vo,  two  editions,  —  one  edited 
by  E.  Maione,  one  by  S.  W.  Singer,  —  pub- 
lished the  same  day  :  Malone's  edition  is 
only  a  Selection  ;  Singer's  edition,  2d  edit., 
1858,  fp.  8vo,  professes  to  be  authentic. 

"Enough  has  been  proved  to  show  thnt,  instead 
of  a  'verbatim'  reprint,  what  was  wanted  was  a 
carefully  revised,  collected,  and  annotated  edition, 
and  that  Mr.  Singer's,  neat  and  cheap,  unhappily 
stops  the  way."  —  Lond.  Athen.,  1859,  250. 


THE 


AND  VIRGIL'S  GENIUS. 


It  preserves  more  to  us  of  the  religion  of 
the  Romans  than  all  the  other  Latin  poets 
(excepting  only  Ovid)  put  together  ;  and 
gives  us  tlie  forms  and  appearances  of  their 
deities  as  strongly  as  if  we  had  so  many  pic- 
tures of  them  preserved  to  us,  done  by  some 
of  the  best  hands  in  the  Augustan  age.  It 
is  remarkable  that  he  is  commended  by  some 
of  the  ancients  themselves  for  the  strength 
of  his  imagination  as  to  this  particular, 
though  in  general  that  is  not  his  character 
so  much  as  exactness.  He  was  certainly 
the  most  correct  poet  even  of  his  time  ;  in 
which  all  false  thoughts  and  idle  ornaments 
in  writing  were  discouraged  :  and  it  is  cer- 
tain that  there  is  but  little  of  invention  in  his 
^neid  ;  much  less,  I  believe,  than  is  gener- 
ally imagined.  Almostall  the  little  facts  in 
it  are  built  on  history;  and  even  as  to  the 
particular  lines  no  one  perhaps  ever  bor- 
rowed more  from  the  poets  that  preceded 
him  than  he  did.  He  goes  so  far  back  as  to 
old  Ennius  :  and  often  inserts  whole  verses 
from  him  and  some  other  of  their  earliest 
writers.  The  obsoleteness  of  their  style  did 
not  hinder  him  much  in  this  ;  for  he  was  a 
particular  lover  of  their  old  language  ;  and 
no  doubt  inserted  many  more  antiquated 
words  in  his  poem  than  we  can  discover 
at  present.  Judgment  is  his  distinguishing 
character  ;  and  his  great  excellence  consisted 
in  chusing  and  ranging  things  aright.  What- 
ever he  borrowed  he  had  the  skill  of  making 
his  own,  by  weaving  it  so  well  into  his  work 


GILBERT   WEST. 


1G9 


that  it  looks  all  of  a  piece  :  even  those  parts 
of  his  poems  where  this  may  be  most  prac- 
tised resembling  a  fine  piece  of  Mosaic,  in 
which  all  the  parts,  though  of  such  different 
marbles,  unite  together;  and  the  various 
shades  and  colours  are  so  artfully  disposed 
as  to  melt  off  insensibly  into  one  another. 

One  of  the  greatest  beauties  in  Virgil's 
private  character  was  his  modesty  and  good- 
nature. He  was  apt  to  think  humbly  of  him- 
self and  handsomely  of  others ;  and  was 
ready  to  show  his  love  of  merit  even  where 
it  might  seem  to  clash  with  his  own.  He 
was  the  first  who  recommended  Horace  to 
Maecenas. 

OBSERVATIONS  ON  HORACE. 

Horace  was  the  fittest  man  in  the  world 
for  a  court  where  wit  was  so  particularly 
encouraged.  No  man  seems  to  have  had 
more,  and  all  of  the  genteelest  sort ;  or  to 
have  been  better  acquainted  with  mankind. 
His  gaiety,  and  even  his  debauchery,  made 
him  still  the  more  agreeable  to  Maecenas: 
so  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  his  acquaintance 
with  that  Minister  grew  up  to  so  high  a 
degree  of  friendship  as  is  very  uncommon 
between  a  first  Minister  and  a  poet;  and 
which  had  probably  such  an  effect  upon  the 
latter  as  one  shall  scarce  ever  hear  of  be- 
tween any  two  friends  the  most  on  a  level : 
for  there  is  some  room  to  conjecture  that  he 
hastened  himself  out  of  this  world  to  accom- 
pany his  great  friend  in  the  next.  Horace 
has  been  most  generally  celebrated  for  his 
lyric  poems  •,  in  which  he  far  exceeded  all 
the  Roman  poets,  and  perhaps  was  no  un- 
worthy rival  of  several  of  the  Greek  :  which 
seems  to  have  been  the  height  of  his  ambi- 
tion. His  next  point  of  merit,  as  it  has 
been  usually  reckoned,  was  his  refining 
satire;  and  bringing  it  from  the  coarseness 
and  harshness  of  Lucilius  to  the  genteel, 
easy  manner  which  lie,  and  perhaps  nobody 
but  he  and  one  person  more  in  all  the  ages 
since,  has  ever  possessed.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber that  any  one  of  the  ancients  says  any- 
thing of  his  Epistles:  and  this  has  made 
me  sometimes  imagine  that  his  Epistles  and 
Satires  might  originally  have  passed  under 
one  and  the  same  name ;  perhaps  that  of 
Sermons.  They  are  generally  written  in  a 
style  approaching  to  that  of  conversation  ; 
and  are  so  much  alike  that  several  of  the 
satires  might  just  as  well  be  called  epistles, 
as  several  of  his  epistles  have  the  spirit  of 
satire  in  them.  This  latter  part  of  his 
works,  by  whatever  name  you  please  to  call 
them  (whether  satires  and  epistles,  or  dis- 
courses in  verse  on  moral  and  familiar  sub- 
jects), is  what,  I  must  own,  I  love  much  bet- 
ter even  than  the  lyric  part  of  his  works.  It 


is  in  these  that  he  shews  that  talent  for  crit- 
icism in  which  he  so  very  much  excelled  ; 
especially  in  his  long  epistle  to  Augustus; 
and  that  other  to  the  Pisos,  commonly  called 
his  Art  of  Poetry.  They  abound  in  strokes 
which  shew  his  great  knowledge  of  mankind, 
and  in  that  pleasing  way  he  had  of  teaching 
philosophy,  of  laughing  away  vice,  and  in- 
sinuating virtue  into  the  minds  of  his  read- 
ers. They  may  serve  as  much  as  almost 
any  writings  can,  to  make  men  wiser  and 
better:  for  he  has  the  most  agreeable  way 
of  preaching  that  ever  was.  He  was,  in 
general,  an  honest  good  man  himself:  at 
least  he  does  not  seem  to  have  had  any  one 
ill-natured  vice  about  him.  Other  poets  we 
admire  ;  but  there  is  not  any  of  the  ancient 
poets  that  I  could  wish  to  have  been  ac- 
quainted with  so  much  as  Horace.  One 
cannot  be  very  conversant  with  his  writings 
without  having  a  friendship  for  the  man  ; 
and  longing  to  have  just  such  another  a;  he 
was  for  one's  friend. 


GILBERT   WEST,    LL.D., 

born  about  1700  to  1705,  died  1756,  pub- 
lished among  other  things  Odes  of  Pindar, 
with  several  other  Pieces  in  Prose  and 
Verse,  translated  from  the  Greek,  etc., 
Lond.,  1749,  4to;  Observations  on  the  His- 
tory and  Evidences  of  the  Resurrection  of 
Jesus  Christ,  Lond.,  1747,  Svo. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  acutest  and  b^st-reasoned 
works  which  have  appeared  in  English  on  the 
Resurreution  of  Christ." — OUME'S  Bill.  liib.,  464. 

"  His  work  is  noticed  here  on  account  of  the  lumi- 
nous and  satisfactory  manner  in  which  he  has  har- 
monized the  several  accounts  of  the  evangelical  his- 
tory of  the  resurrection." — HORNE'S  Bibl.  liib.,  138. 

THE  SIMPLICITY  OF  THE  SACRED  WRITERS. 

I  cannot  forbear  taking  notice  of  one  other 
mark  of  integrity  which  appears  in  all  the 
compositions  of  the  sacred  writers,  and  par- 
ticularly the  evangelists;  and  that  is  the 
simple,  unaffected,  unornamental,  and  unos- 
tentatious manner  in  which  they  deliver 
truths  so  important  and  sublime,  and  facts 
so  magnificent  and  wonderful,  as  are  capa- 
ble, one  would  think,  of  lighting  up  a  flame 
of  oratory,  even  in  the  dullest  and  coldest 
breasts.  They  speak  of  an  angel  descend- 
ing from  heaven  to  foretell  the  miraculous 
conception  of  Jesus  ;  of  another  proclaim- 
ing his  birth,  attended  by  a  multitude  of  the 
heavenly  host  praising  God.  "and  saying 
Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth 
peace,  good-will  towards  men  ;"  of  his  star 
appearing  in  the  East;  of  angels  minister- 
ing to  him  in  the  wilderness ;  of  his  glory 
in  the  mount ;  of  a  voice  twice  heard  from 


170 


PHILIP  DODDRIDGE. 


heaven,  saying,  (>  This  is  my  beloved  son  ;" 
of  innumerable  miracles  performed  by  him, 
and  by  his  disciples  in  his  name;  of  his 
knowing  the  thoughts  of  men;  of  his  fore- 
telling future  events;  of  prodigies  accom- 
panying his  crucifixion  and  death  ;  of  an 
angel  descending  in  terrors,  opening  his 
sepulchre,  and  frightening  away  the  soldiers 
•who  were  set  to  guard  it ;  of  his  rising  from 
the  dead,  ascending  into  heaven,  and  pour- 
ing down,  according  to  his  promise,  the  va- 
rious and  miraculous  gifts  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
upon  his  apostles  and  disciples.  All  these 
amazing  incidents  do  these  inspired  histo- 
rians relate  nakedly  and  plainly  without  any 
of  the  colourings  and  heightenings  of  rhet- 
oric, or  so  much  as  a  single  note  of  admira- 
tion ;  without  making  any  comment  or  re- 
mark upon  thorn,  or  drawing  from  them  any 
conclusion  in  honour  either  of  their  master 
or  themselves,  or  to  the  advantage  of  the 
religion  they  preached  in  his  name  ;  but  con- 
tenting themselves  with  relating  the  naked 
truth,  whether  it  seems  to  make  for  thorn  or 
against  them  :  without  either  magnifying 
on  the  one  hand,  or  palliating  on  the  other, 
they  leave  their  cause  to  the  unbiassed  judg- 
ment of  mankind,  seeking,  like  genuine  apos- 
tles of  the  Lord  of  truth,  to  convince  rather 
than  to  persuade;  and  therefore  coming,  as 
St.  Paul  speaks  of  his  preaching,  "not  with 
excellency  of  speech, — not  with  enticing 
words  of  man's  wisdom,  but  with  demonstra- 
tion of  the  Spirit,  and  of  power,  that,':  adds 
he,  "  your  faith  should  not  stand  in  the  wis- 
dom of  men,  but  in  the  power  of  God."  And 
let  it  l>e  remembered  that  he  who  speaks  this 
•wanted  not  learning,  art,  or  eloquence,  as  is 
evident  from  his  speeches  recorded  in  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  and  from  the  testimony 
of  that  great  critic  Longinus,  •who,  in  reck- 
oning up  the  Grecian  orators,  places  among 
them  Paul  of  Tarsus. 


PHILIP   DODDRIDGE,    D.D., 

born  1702,  died  1751,  published  a  number 
of  theological  treatises,  sermons,  &c.,  but 
ia  best  known  by  his  Family  Expositor;  or, 
A  Paraphrase  and  Version  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament, with  Critical  Notes  and  Practical 
Improvements,  Lond.,  1760-G2,  6  vols.  4to  ; 
with  his  Life  by  Dr.  Kippis,  Lond.,  1808,  4 
vols.  4to.  or  6  vols.  8vo;  new  edition,  Lond., 
1839,  imperial  fol.,  also  1840,  4  vols.  8vo  ; 
other  editions.  AVhole  Works,  by  D.  Wil- 
liams and  the  Rev.  E.  Parsons,  Leeds,  1802, 
10  vols.  8vo  and  royal  8vo.  A  Course  of 
Lectures  on  the  Principal  Subjects  in  Pneu- 
inatology,  Ethics,  and  Divinity,  published 
by  llev.  Samuel  Clarke,  Lond.,  1763,  4to ; 
3d  edit.,  by  A.  Kippis,  D.D.,  Lond.,  1794,  2 


vols.  8vo.  Miscellaneous  Works,  by  Rev. 
T.  Morell,  Lond.,  1839,  imp.  8vo.  Letters, 
Shrewsb.,  1790,  8vo.  Memoirs,  byJobOrton, 
Salop,  1761),  8vo.  Life  and  Correspondence, 
Lond.,  1831,  5  vols.  8vo.  His  Rise  and  Pro- 
gress of  Religion  in  the  Soul,  Lond.,  1750, 
12mo,  has  been  frequently  republished. 

"  The  Family  Expositor  is  a  very  judicious 
work.  It  has  long  been  highly  esteemed,  nml  is 
worthy  of  all  the  credit  it  has  among  religious 
people." — DR.  ADAM  CLARKE. 

"  And  let  me  tell  you,  a  man  who  comments  on 
the  Bible  affords  all  the  opportunity  a  caviller 
could  wish  for.  But  your  judgment  is  always  so 
true,  and  your  decision  so  right,  that  I  am  as  un- 
profitable a  reader  to  you  as  the  least  of  your 
flock." — BISHOP  WARBUIITON  TO  DR.  DODDRIDGE, 
Cambridge,  April  4,  1739. 

DEVOTIONAL  FEELINGS. 

I  hope,  my  dear,  you  will  not  be  offended 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  am,  what  I  hardly 
thought  it  possible,  without  a  miracle,  that 
I  should  have  been,  very  easy  and  happy 
without  you.  My  days  begin,  pass,  and  end 
in  pleasure,  and  seem  short  because  they 
are  so  delightful.  It  may  seem  strange  to 
say  it,  but  really  so  it  is,  I  hardly  feel  that 
I  want  anything.  I  often  think  of  you,  and 
pray  for  you,  and  bless  God  on  your  account, 
and  please  myself  with  the  hope  of  many 
comfortable  days,  and  weeks,  and  years  with 
you  ;  yet  I  am  not  at  all  anxious  about  your 
return,  or  indeed  about  anything  else.  And 
the  reason,  the  great  and  sufficient  reason, 
is  that  I  have  more  of  the  presence  of  God 
with  me  than  I  remember  ever  to  have  en- 
joyed in  any  one  month  of  my  life.  He 
enables  me  to  live  for  him,  and  to  live  with 
him.  When  I  awake  in  the  morning,  which 
is  always  before  it  is  light,  I  address  myself 
to  him,  and  converse  with  him,  speak  to  him 
while  I  am  lighting  my  candle  and  putting 
on  my  clothes,  and  have  often  more  delight 
before  I  come  out  of  my  chamber,  though  it 
be  hardly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  my 
awaking,  than  I  have  enjoyed  for  whole 
days,  or,  perhaps,  weeks,  of  my  life.  IIo 
meets  me  in  my  study,  in  secret,  in  family 
devotions.  It  is  pleasant  to  read,  pleasant 
to  compose,  pleasant  to  converse  with  my 
friends  at  home;  pleasant  to  visit  those 
abroad — the  poor,  the  sick;  pleasant  to 
write  letters  of  necessary  business  by  which 
any  good  can  be  done;  pleasant  to  go  out 
and  preach  the  gospel  to  poor  souls,  of  which 
some  are  thirsting  for  it,  and  others  dying 
without  it;  pleasant  in  the  week-day  to 
think  how  near  another  Sabbath  is ;  but, 
oh!  much  more,  much  more  pleasant,  to 
think  how  near  eternity  is,  and  how  short 
the  journey  through  this  wilderness,  and 
that  it  is  but  a  step  from  earth  to  heaven. 


ROBERT  DODSLEY.—SOAME  JENYNS. 


171 


I  cannot  forbear,  in  these  circumstances, 
pausing  a  little,  and  considering  whence 
this  happy  scene  just  at  this  time  arises, 
and  whither  it  tends.  Whether  God  is  about 
to  bring  about  me  any  peculiar  trial,  for 
which  this  is  to  prepare  me ;  whether  he  is 
shortly  about  to  remove  me  from  the  earth, 
and  so  is  giving  me  more  sensible  preliba- 
tions  of  heaven,  to  prepare  me  for  it ;  or 
whether  he  intends  to  do  some  peculiar 
services  by  me  just  at  this  time,  which  many 
other  circumstances  lead  me  sometimes  to 
hope  ;  or  whether  it  be  that,  in  answer  to 
your  prayers,  and  in  compassion  to  that 
distress  which  I  must  otherwise  have  felt  in 
the  absence  and  illness  of  her  who  has  been 
so  exceedingly  dear  to  me,  and  was  never 
more  sensibly  dear  to  me  than  now,  he  is 
pleased  to  favour  me  with  this  teaching  ex- 
perience ;  in  consequence  of  which,  I  freely 
own  I  am  less  afraid  than  ever  of  any  event 
that  can  possibly  arise,  consistent  with  his 
nearness  to  my  heart,  and  the  tokens  of  his 
paternal  and  covenant  love.  I  will  muse  no 
further  on  the  cause.  It  is  enough  the  effect 
is  so  blessed. 

To  Mrs.  Doddridge,  from  Northampton, 
October,  1743. 


ROBERT  DODSLEY, 

born  1703,  died  1764,  after  serving  as  ap- 
prentice to  a  tradesman,  and  subsequently 
acting  as  a  footman,  became  author  and 
bookseller  by  profession,  lie  published  A 
Muse  in  Livery,  or  The  Footman's  Miscel- 
lany, Lond.,  1732,  small  8vo  ;  A  Select 'Col- 
lection of  Old  Plays,  Lond.,  1744,  12  vols. 
12mo;  Miscellanies,  Lond.,  1745,  2  vols. 
8vo  ;  The  Preceptor,  Lond.,  1748,  2  vols. 
8vo  •,  The  (Economy  of  Human  Life,  Lond., 
1751,  8vo;  Fugitive  Pieces,  Lond.,  17^4, 
2  vols.  small  8vo  ;  was  the  author  of  The 
Toy  Shop,  The  King  and  the  Miller  of 
Mansfield,  and  The  Blind  Beggar  of  Bethnal 
Green  (these  three  are  plays),  and  other  pro- 
ductions, and  published  The  Annual  Regis- 
ter, Lond.,  1758,  etc.,  suggested  by  Edmund 
Burke. 

PRUDENCE. 

Hear  the  words  of  Prudence,  give  heed 
unto  her  counsels,  and  store  them  in  thy 
heart:  her  maxims  are  universal  and  all 
the  virtues  lean  upon  her:  she  is  the  guide 
and  mistress  of  human  life. 

Put  a  bridle  on  thy  tongue  ;  set  a  guard 
before  thy  lips,  lest  the  words  of  thine  own 
mouth  destroy  thy  peace. 

Let  him  that  scoflfeth  at  the  lame  take 
care  that  he  halt  not  himself:  whosoever 
speaketh  of  another's  failings  with  pleasure. 


shall  hear  of  his  own  with  bitterness  of 
heart. 

Of  much  speaking  cometh  repentance,  but 
in  silence  is  safety. 

A  talkative  man  is  a  nuisance  to  society  ; 
the  ear  is  sick  of  his  babbling,  the  torrent 
of  his  words  overwhelmed!  conversation. 

Boast  not  of  thyself,  for  it  shall  bring 
contempt  upon  thee;  neither  deride  another, 
for  it  is  dangerous. 

A  bitter  jest  is  the  poison  of  friendship  ; 
and  he  that  cannot  restrain  his  tongue  shall 
have  trouble. 

Furnish  thyself  with  the  proper  accom- 
modations belonging  to  thy  condition  ;  yet 
spend  not  to  the  utmost  of  what  thou  canst 
afford,  that  the  providence  of  thy  youth  may 
be  a  comfort  to  thy  old  age. 

Let  thine  own  business  engage  thy  atten- 
tion :  leave  the  care  of  the  state  to  the  gov- 
ernors thereof. 

Let  not  thy  recreations  be  expensive,  lest 
the  pain  of  purchasing  them  exceed  the 
pleasure  thou  hast  in  their  enjoyment. 

Neither  let  prosperity  put  out  the  eyes  of 
circumspection,  nor  abundance  cut  off  the 
hands  of  frugality:  he  that  too  much  in- 
dulgeth  in  the  superfluities  of  life  shall  live 
to  lament  the  want  of  its  necessaries. 

From  the  experience  of  others  do  thou 
learn  wisdom  ;  and  from  their  failings  cor- 
rect thine  own  faults. 

Trust  no  man  before  thou  hast  tried  him  ; 
yet  mistrust  not  without  reason  :  it  is  un- 
charitable. 

But  when  thou  hast  proved  a  man  to  be 
honest,  lock  him  up  in  thine  heart  as  a 
treasure  ;  regard  him  as  a  jewel  of  inesti- 
mable value. 

llefuse  the  favours  of  a  mercenary  man  ; 
they  will  be  a  snare  unto  thee:  thou  shalt 
never  be  quit  of  the  obligations. 

Use  not  to-day  what  to-morrow  may  want: 
neither  leave  that  to  hazard  what  foresight 
may  provide  for,  or  care  prevent. 

The  fool  is  not  always  unfortunate,  nor  the 
wise  man  always  successful ;  yet  never  had 
a  fool  a  thorough  enjoyment;  never  was  a 
wise  man  wholly  unhappy. 

(Economy  of  Human  Life,  Part  I. 


SOAME  JENYNS, 

born  1704,  died  1787,  noted  as  a  politician, 
essayist,  infidel,  and  subsequently  as  a  cham- 
pion of  Christianity,  was  author  of  A  Free 
Enquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Origin  of  Evil, 
Lond.,  1757.  12mo  (ridiculed  by  Dr.  Johnson 
in  The  Literary  Magazine),  with  his  Poems, 
17l')l,  2  vols.  12mo;  View  of  the  Internal 
Evidence  of  the  Christian  Religion,  Lond., 


172 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


1776,  12mo;  Bohn,  1850,  8vo,  and  other 
productions,  for  which  see  The  Works  of 
Soame  Jenyns,  Esq.,  etc.,  with  Life  by  C. 
N.  Cole,  Lond.,  17(JO,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"  His  Poetry  does  not  rise  above  mediocrity  : 
indeed,  it  scarcely  deserves  the  name:  but  the 
st.vle  of  his  pro^e  is  smooth  and  lucid,  his  turns 
of  thought  are  neat  and  unexpected ;  and  when  he 
sports  in  irony,  in  which  he  apparently  delights  to 
indulge,  he  is  uncommonly  playful  and  airy.  .  .  . 
Jenyns  has  evidently  a  predilection  for  parodoxi- 
cal  opinions:  and  why,  he  might  reasonably  urge 
in  his  defence,  should  a  man  address  the  Public, 
who  has  nothing  new  to  offer  to  it?" — GREEN: 
Diary  »f  a  Lover  of  Lit. 

CRUELTY  TO  INFERIOR  ANIMALS. 

We  see  children  laughing  at  the  miseries 
which— they  inflict  on  every  unfortunate 
animal  that  comes  within  their  power,  all 
savages  are  ingenious  in  contriving  and 
happy  in  executing  the  most  exquisite  tor- 
tures;  and  the  common  people  of  all  coun- 
tries are  delighted  with  nothing  so  much  as 
bull-baiting,  prize-fightings,  executions,  and 
all  spectacles  of  cruelty  and  horror.  Though 
civilization  may  in  some  degree  abate  this 
native  ferocity,  it  can  never  quite  extirpate 
it:  the  most  polished  are  not  ashamed  to  be 
pleased  with  scenes  of  little  less  barbarity 
and,  to  the  disgrace  of  human  nature,  to 
dignify  them  with  the  name  of  sports.  They 
arm  cocks  with  artificial  weapons,  which 
nature  had  kindly  denied  to  their  malevo- 
lence, and,  with  shouts  of  applause  and 
triumph,  see  them  plunge  them  into  each 
other's  hearts:  they  view  with  delight  the 
trembling  deer  and  defenceless  hare,  flying 
for  hours  in  the  utmost  agonies  of  terror 
and  despair,  and  at  last,  sinking  under 
fatigue,  devoured  by  their  merciless  pur- 
suers: they  see  with  joy  the  beautiful 
pheasant  and  harmless  partridge  drop  from 
their  flight,  weltering  in  their  blood,  or  per- 
haps perishing  with  wounds  and  hunger 
under  the  cover  of  some  friendly  thicket  to 
which  they  have  in  vain  retreated  for  safety  : 
they  triumph  over  the  unsuspecting  fish 
•whom  they  have  decoyed  by  an  insidious 
pretence  of  feeding,  and  drag  him  from  his 
native  element  by  a  hook  fixed  to  and  tear- 
ing out  his  entrails:  and,  to  add  to  all  this, 
they  spare  neither  labour  nor  expense  to 
preserve  and  propagate  these  innocent  ani- 
mals for  no  other  end  but  to  multiply  the 
objects  of  their  persecution. 

What  name  would  we  bestow  on  a  superior 
being  whose  whole  endeavours  were  em- 
ployed, and  whose  pleasure  consisted,  in 
terrifying,  ensnaring,  tormenting,  and  de- 
stroying mankind;  whose  superior  faculties 
were  exerted  in  fomenting  animosities  among 
them,  in  contriving  engines  of  destruction, 
and  inciting  them  to  use  them,  in  maiming 


and  murdering  each  other?  whose  power 
over  them  was  employed  in  assisting  the 
rapacious,  deceiving  the  simple,  and  op- 
pressing the  innocent?  who,  without  provo- 
cation or  advantage,  should  continue  from 
day  to  day,  void  of  all  pity  and  remorse, 
thus  to  torment  mankind  for  diversion,  and 
at  the  same  time  endeavour  with  his  utmost 
care  to  preserve  their  lives,  and  to  propagate 
their  species,  in  order  to  increase  the  number 
of  victims  devoted  to  his  malevolence,  and 
be  delighted  in  proportion  to  the  miseries  he 
occasioned?  I  say,  what  name  detestable 
enough  could  we  find  for  such  a  being? 
Yet,  if  we  impartially  consider  the  case, 
and  our  intermediate  situation,  we  must 
acknowledge  that,  with  regard  to  inferior 
animals,  such  a  being  is  a  sportsman. 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN,  L.L.D., 

born  in  Boston,  1706,  emigrated  to  Phila- 
delphia, 1723  ;  worked  as  a  printer  in  Lon- 
don. 1724  to  1726,  when  he  returned  to  Phil- 
adelphia ;  Clerk  of  the  Provincial  Assembly, 
1736;  Deputy  Postmaster  at  Philadelphia, 
1737,  and  Postmaster-General  for  British 
America,  1753;  Agent  for  Pennsylvania  in 
England,  1757  to  1762,  and  again  for  several 
of  the  colonies,  1764  to  1775;  Minister  Plen- 
ipotentiary to  France,  1776  to  1785,  when  he 
returned  to  Philadelphia;  President  of  Penn- 
sylvania, 1785  to  1788,  and  in  1787  was  a 
member  of  the  Federal  Convention  which 
framed  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States; 
died  in  Philadelphia,  1790.  For  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  his  services  to  politics,  science,  and 
philosophy,  see  his  Autobiography  prefixed 
to  his  Works,  new  edition,  by  Jared  Sparks, 
Phila.,  1858,  10  vols.  8vo,  and  especially  Big- 
elow's  edition  of  Franklin's  Autobiography, 
1868,  8vo,  his  Life  of  Franklin  as  told  by 
Himself,  3  vols.  8vo,  and  James  Parton's 
Life  and  Times  of  Franklin,  new  edit.,  Bost., 
1867,  2  vols.  12mo. 

"  Science  appears  in  his  language  in  a  dress  won- 
derfully decorous,  best  adapted  to  display  her  native 
loveliness.  He  has  in  no  instance  exhibited  that 
false  dignity  by  which  philosophy  is  kept  aloof 
from  common  applications;  and  he  has  sought 
rather  to  make  her  an  useful  inmnte  and  servant 
in  the  common  habitations  of  man,  than  to  pre- 
serve her  merely  as  an  object  of  admiration  in 
temples  and  palaces." — SIR  HUMPHRY  DAVY. 

"  His  style  has  all  the  vigour  and  even  concise- 
ness of  Swift,  without  any  of  his  harshness.  It  is 
in  no  degree  more  flowery,  yet  both  elegant  and 
lively.  The  wit,  or  rather  humour,  which  prevails 
in  his  works,  varies  with  the  subject.  Sometimes 
he  is  bitter  and  sarcastic;  often  gay  and  even 
droll :  reminding  us  in  this  respect  far  more  fre- 
quently of  Addison  than  of  Swift,  as  might  natu- 
rally be  expected  from  his  admirable  temper,  or 


BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 


173 


the  happy  turn  of  his  investigation." — LORD  JEF- 
FREY :  Edin.  Rev. :  see  viii.  327-344,  xxviii.  275- 
302. 

GOOD  WORKS. 

For  my  own  part,  when  I  am  employed 
in  serving  others  I  do  not  look  upon  myself 
as  conferring  favours,  but  as  paying  debts. 

In  my  travels,  and  since  my  settlement,  I 
have  received  much  kindness  from  men  to 
whom  I  shall  never  have  an  opportunity  of 
making  the  least  direct  return  ;  and  number- 
less mercies  from  God,  who  is  infinitely  above 
being  benefited  by  our  services.  Those  kind- 
nesses from  men  I  can  therefore  only  return 
on  their  fellow-men;  and  I  can  only  shew 
my  gratitude  for  these  mercies  from  God  by 
a  readiness  to  help  his  other  children,  and 
my  brethren.  For  I  do  not  think  that  thanks 
and  compliments,  though  repeated  weekly, 
can  discharge  our  real  obligations  to  each 
other,  and  much  less  those  to  our  Creator. 
You  will  see  in  this  my  notion  of  good 
works :  that  I  am  far  from  expecting  to 
merit  heaven  by  them.  By  heaven  we  un- 
derstand a  state  of  happiness,  infinite  in 
degree  and  eternal  in  duration  :  I  can  do 
nothing  to  deserve  such  rewards.  He  that 
for  giving  a  draught  of  water  to  a  thirsty 
person  should  expect  to  be  paid  with  a  good 
plantation  would  be  modest  in  his  demands 
compared  with  those  who  think  they  deserve 
heaven  for  the  little  good  they  do  on  earth. 
Even  the  mixed,  imperfect  pleasures  we  enjoy 
in  this  world  are  rather  from  God's  goodness 
than  our  merit:  how  much  more  such  hap- 
piness of  heaven ! 

The  faith  you  mention  has  certainly  its 
use  in  the  world  :  I  do  not  desire  to  see  it 
diminished,  nor  would  I  endeavour  to  lessen 
it  in  any  man.  But  I  wish  it  were  more  pro- 
ductive of  good  works  than  I  have  generally 
seen  it :  I  mean  real  good  works  :  works  of 
kindness,  charity,  mercy,  and  public  spirit; 
not  holiday- keeping,  sermon -reading,  or 
hearing ;  performing  church  ceremonies,  or 
making  long  prayers,  filled  with  flatteries 
and  compliments,  despised  even  by  wise 
men,  and  much  less  capable  of  pleasing  the 
Deity.  The  worship  of  God  is  a  duty  ;  the 
hearing  and  reading  of  sermons  are  useful ; 
but  if  men  rest  in  hearing  and  praying,  as 
too  many  do,  it  is  as  if  a  tree  should  value 
itself  on  being  watered  and  putting  forth 
leaves,  though  it  never  produced  any  fruit. 

Your  great  Master  thought  much  less  of 
these  outward  appearances  and  professions 
than  many  of  his  modern  disciples.  He  pre- 
ferred the  doers  of  the  word  to  the  mere  hear- 
ers ;  the  son  that  seemingly  refused  to  obey  his 
father  and  yet  performed  his  commands,  to 
him  that  professed  his  readiness,  but  neg- 
lected the  work  :  the  heretical  but  charita- 
ble Samaritan  to  the  uncharitable  though 


orthodox  priest  and  sanctified  Levite :  and 
those  who  gave  food  to  the  hungry,  drink  to 
the  thirsty,  raiment  to  the  naked,  entertain- 
ment to  the  stranger,  and  relief  to  the  sick, 
though  they  never  heard  of  his  name,  he 
declares  shall  in  the  last  day  be  accepted  ; 
when  those  who  cry  Lord  !  Lord  !  who  value 
themselves  upon  their  faith,  though  great 
enough  to  perform  miracles,  but  have  neg- 
lected good  works,  shall  be  rejected,  lie 
professed  that  he  came  not  to  call  the  right- 
eous, but  sinners  to  repentance,  which  im- 
plied his  modest  opinion  that  there  were 
some  in  his  time  who  thought  themselves  so 
good  that  they  need  not  hear  even  him  for 
improvement:  but  now-a-days  we  have  scarce 
a  little  parson  that  does  not  think  it  the  duty 
of  every  man  within  his  reach  to  sit  under 
his  petty  ministrations,  and  that  whoever 
omits  them  offends  God.  1  wish  to  such 
more  humility,  and  to  you  health  and  hap- 
piness, being  your  friend  and  servant. 

To  Rev.  George  Whitefield:  Philadelphia, 
Jane  6,  1753. 

EARLY  MARRIAGES. 

DEAR  JACK, — You  desire,  you  say,  my 
impartial  thoughts  on  the  subject  of  an 
early  marriage,  by  way  of  answer  to  the 
numberless  objections  that  have  been  made 
by  numerous  persons  to  your  own.  You 
may  remember,  when  you  consulted  me  on 
the  occasion,  that  I  thought  youth  on  both 
sides  to  be  no  objection.  Indeed,  from  the 
marriages  that  have  fallen  under  my  obser- 
vation, I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  that 
early  ones  stand  the  best  chance  of  happi- 
ness. The  temper  and  habits  of  the  young 
are  not  yet  become  so  stiff  and  uncomply- 
ing as  when  more  advanced  in  life:  they 
form  more  easily  to  each  other,  and  hence 
many  occasions  of  disgust  are  removed. 
And  if  youth  has  less  of  that  prudence  which 
is  necessary  to  manage  a  family,  yet  the  par- 
ents and  elder  friends  of  young  married  per- 
sons are  generally  at  hand  to  afford  their 
.advice,  which  amply  supplies  that  defect ; 
and  by  early  marriage  youth  is  sooner 
formed  to  regular  and  useful  life  ;  and  pos- 
sibly some  of  those  accidents  or  connexions 
that  might  have  injured  the  constitution,  or 
reputation,  or  both,  are  thereby  happily  pre- 
vented. Particular  circumstances  of  par- 
ticular persons  may  possibly  sometimes  make 
it  prudent  to  delay  entering  into  that  state  ; 
but  in  general,  when  nature  has  rendered 
our  bodies  fit  for  it,  the  presumption  is  in 
nature's  favour,  that  she  has  not  judged 
amiss  in  making  us  desire  it.  Late  mar- 
riages are  often  attended,  too,  with  this  far- 
ther inconvenience,  that  there  is  not  the 
same  chance  that  the  parents  shall  live  to 


1T4 


HENRY  FIELDING. 


wee  their  offspring  educated.  "  Late  chil- 
dren," says  the  Spanish  proverb,  "are early 
orphans,'' — a  melancholy  reflection  to  those 
AY  hose  case  it  may  be.  With  us,  in  America, 
marriages  are  generally  in  the  morning  of 
life  ;  our  children  are  therefore  educated  and 
settled  in  the  world  by  noon  ;  and  thus,  our 
business  being  done,  we  have  an  afternoon 
and  evening  of  cheerful  leisure  to  ourselves; 
such  as  our  friend  at  present  enjoys.  By 
these  early  marriages  we  are  blessed  Avith 
more  children  ;  and  from  the  mode  among 
us,  founded  by  nature,  of  every  mother  suck- 
ling and  nursing  her  own  child,  more  of 
them  are  raised.  Thence  the  swift  progress 
of  population  among  us,  unparalleled  in  Eu- 
rope. In  tine,  I  am  glad  you  are  married, 
and  congratulate  you  most  cordially  upon  it. 
You  are  now  in  the  way  of  becoming  a  use- 
ful citizen  ;  and  you  have  escaped  the  unnat- 
ural state  of  celibacy  for  life, — the  fate  of 
inanj'  here  [in  England],  Avho  never  intended 
it,  but  who,  having  too  long  postponed  the 
change  of  their  condition,  find,  at  length, 
that  it  is  too  late  to  think  of  it,  and  so  live, 
all  their  lives,  in  a  situation  that  greatly  les- 
sens a  man's  value.  An  odd  volume  of  a  set 
of  books  bears  not  the  value  of  its  proportion 
to  the  set:  what  think  you  of  the  value  of 
the  odd  half  of  a  pair  of  scissors?  It  can't 
Avell  cut  any  thing;  it  may  possibly  serve  to 
scrape  a  trencher. 

1'ray  make  my  compliments  and  best 
Avishes  acceptable  to  your  bride.  I  am  old 
and  heavy,  or  I  should,  ere  this,  have  pre- 
sented them  in  person.  I  shall  make  but 
small  use  of  the  old  man's  privilege,  that 
of  giving  advice  to  younger  friends.  Treat 
your  wife  always  with  respect:  it  will  pro- 
cure respect  to  you,  not  only  from  her,  but 
from  all  that  observe  it. 

Never  use  a  slighting  expression  to  her, 
even  in  jest;  for  slights  in  jest,  after  fre- 
quent bandyings,  are  apt  to  end  in  angry 
earnest.  Bo  studious  in  your  profession, 
and  you  will  be  learned.  Be  industrious  and 
frugal,  and  you  will  be  rich.  Be  sober  and 
temperate,  and  you  will  be  healthy.  Be  in 
general  virtuous,  and  you  will  be  happy. 
At  least  you  will,  by  such  conduct,  stand 
the  best  chance  for  such  consequences.  I 
pray  God  to  bless  you  both  ;  being  ever 
your  affectionate  friend. 

To  John  Alleyne,  Esq.,  Craven  Street,  Au- 
gust 9,  1768. 

THE  FAME  OF  WASHINGTON. 

SIR, — I  have  received  but  lately  the  letter 
your  excellency  did  me  the  honour  of  writ- 
ing to  me  in  recommendation  of  the  Marquis 
de  la  Fayette.  His  modesty  detained  it  long 
in  his  own  hands.  We  became  acquainted, 


however,  from  the  time  of  his  arrival  at 
Paris  ;  and  his  zeal  for  the  honour  of  our 
country,  his  activity  in  our  affairs  here,  and 
his  firm  attachment  to  our  cause,  and  to 
you,  impressed  me  with  the  same  regard  and 
esteem  for  him  that  your  excellency's  letter 
would  have  done  had  it  been  immediately 
delivered  to  me. 

Should  peace  arrive  after  another  cam- 
paign or  two,  and  afford  us  a  little  leisure. 
1  should  be  happy  to  see  your  excellency  in 
Europe,  and  to  accompany  you,  if  my  age  and 
strength  would  permit,  in  visiting  some  of 
its  ancient  and  most  famous  kingdoms.  You 
would  on  this  side  the  sea  enjoy  the  great 
reputation  you  have  acquired,  pure  and  free 
from  those  little  shades  that  the  jealousy  and 
envy  of  a  man's  countrymen  and  contem- 
poraries are  ever  endeavouring  to  cast  over 
living  merit.  Here  you  would  know,  and 
enjoy,  what  posterity  will  say  of  Washing- 
ton :  for  a  thousand  le€igues  have  nearly  the 
same  effect  as  a  thousand  years.  The  feeble 
voice  of  those  grovelling  passions  cannot  ex- 
tend so  far  either  in  time  or  distance.  At 
present  I  enjoy  that  pleasure  for  you  :  as 
I  frequently  hear  the  old  generals  of  this 
martial  country  (who  studied  the  maps  of 
America,  and  mark  upon  them  all  your 
operations)  speak  with  sincere  approbation 
and  great  applause  of  your  conduct;  and 
join  in  giving  you  the  character  of  one  of 
the  greatest  captains  of  the  age. 

I  must  soon  quit  the  scene,  but  you  may 
live  to  see  our  country  flourish,  as  it  will 
amazingly  and  rapidly  after  the  war  is  over  : 
like  a  field  of  young  Indian  corn,  which  long 
fair  weather  and  sunshine  had  enfeebled  and 
discoloured,  and  Avhich,  in  that  weak  state, 
by  a  thunder-gust  of  violent  wind,  hail,  and 
rain,  seemed  to  be  threatened  with  absolute 
destruction  ;  yet,  the  storm  being  past,  it  re- 
covers fresh  verdure,  shoots  up  with  double 
vigour,  and  delights  the  eye  not  of  its  owner 
only,  but  of  every  observing  traveller. 

The  best  wishes  that  can  be  formed  for 
your  health,  honour,  and  happiness  ever 
attend  you,  from  yours,  &c. 

To  General  Washington:  Passy,  March  5, 
1780. 


HENRY  FIELDING, 

one  of  the  greatest  of  English  novelists, 
born  1707,  died  1754,  was  a  son  of  Lieu- 
tenant-General Fielding  and  great-grandson 
of  William,  third  Earl  of  Denbigh,  a  descend- 
ant of  the  Counts  of  Ilapsburg,  the  Gorman 
branch  of  Avhich  has  counted  among  its 
members  Emperors  of  Germany  and  Kings 
of  Spain. 

In  addition  to  his  novels  of  The  Adven- 


HENRY  FIELDING. 


175 


tures  of  Joseph  Andrews.  Lond.,  1742,  2  vols. 
12mo,  History  of  Tom  Jones,  a  Foundling, 
Lond.,  1749,"  2  vols.  12mo,  and  Amelia, 
Lond.,  1752.  4  vols.  12mo,  he  also  published 
History  of  Jonathan  AVild  the  Great,  Love 
in  Several  Masks,  The  Author's  Farce,  The 
Grul)  Street  Opera,  The  Modern  Husband, 
many  other  comedies,  and  poems,  and  es- 
says. Among  the  collective  editions  of  his 
"Works  are  those  of  Chalmers,  1821,  10  vols. 
8vo,  and  lloscoe,  1840,  etc.,  imp.  8vo.  Novels, 
with  Memoir  by  Sir  AV.  Scott,  Edin.,  1821, 
8vo. 

"  Smollett  and  Fielding  were  so  eminently  suc- 
cessful as  novelists  that  no  other  English  author 
of  that  class  has  a  right  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
s;ime  breath.  We  readily  grant  to  Smollett  an 
equal  rank  with  his  great  rival,  Fielding, — while 
we  place  both  far  above  any  of  their  successors  in 
the  same  line  of  fictitious  composition.  Perhaps 
no  books  ever  written  excited  such  peals  of  inex- 
haustible laughter  as  those  of  Smollett." — SIR 
AV  ALTER  SCOTT. 

"I  go  to  Sterne  for  the  feelings  of  nature; 
Fielding  for  its  vices;  Johnson  for  a  knowledge 
of  the  workings  of  its  powers;  and  Shakspeare  fur 
every  thing."— ABERNKTHY. 

"  Fielding  being  mentioned,  Johnson  exclaimed, 
'  He  was  a  blockhead  !'  and  upon  expressing  my 
astonishment  at  so  strange  an  assertion,  he  said, 
'  What  I  mean  by  his  being  a  blockhead  is,  that 
he  was  a  barren  rascal!'  BOSWKLL:  'Will  you 
not  allow,  sir,  that  he  draws  very  natural  pictures 
of  human  life  ?'  JOHNSOX  :  '  Why.  sir,  it  is  of  very 
low  life.'  " — BOSWELL  :  Life  of  Johnson. 

PARTRIDGE  AT  THE  PLAYHOUSE. 

As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark,  began,  Partridge  was 
all  attention,  nor  did  he  break  silence  till 
the  entrance  of  the  ghost;  upon  which  he 
asked  Jones,  "AVliat  man  that  was  in  the 
strange  dress  :  something,"  said  he,  "  like 
what  I  have  seen  in  a  picture.  Sure  it  is 
not  armour,  is  it?"  Jones  answered,  "That 
is  the  ghost."  To  which  Partridge  replied, 
with  a  smile,  "Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if 
you  can.  Though  I  can't  say  I  ever  actually 
saw  a  ghost  in  my  life,  yet  I  am  certain  I 
should  know  one  if  I  saw  him  better  than 
that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir  ;  ghosts  don't 
appear  in  such  dresses  as  that  neither."  In 
this  mistake,  which  caused  much  laughter 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Partridge,  he  was 
suffered  to  continue  till  the  scene  between 
the  ghost  and  Hamlet,  when  Partridge  gave 
that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had 
denied  to  Jones,  and  fell  into  so  violent  a 
trembling  that  his  knees  knocked  against 
each  other.  Jones  asked  him  what  was  the 
matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the 
warrior  upon  the  stage?  "0  la!  sir,"  said 
he,  '•  I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I  know  it  is 
but  a  play ;  and  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it 


could  do  one  no  harm  at  such  a  distance, 
and  in  so  much  company ;  and  yet  if  I 
was  frightened  I  am  not  the  only  person." 
"  Why,  who,"  cries  Jones,  "dost  thou  take 
to  be  such  a  coward  here  beside  thyself?" 
"  Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward  if  you  will ; 
but  if  that  little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is 
not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any  man  fright- 
ened in  my  life.  Ay,  ay;  go  along  with 
you!  Ay  to  be  sure!  Who's  fool  then? 
Will  you?  Lud  have  mercy  upon  such  fool- 
hardiness!  Whatever  happens,  it  is  good 
enough  for  you.  Follow  you  !  I'd  follow  the 
devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is  the  devil, — 
for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what  likeness  he 
pleases.  Oh!  here  he  is  again.  No  farther! 
No,  you  have  gone  far  enough  already ; 
farther  than  I'd  have  gone  for  all  the  king's 
dominions."  Jones  offered  to  speak,  but 
Partridge  cried,  "  Hush,  hush,  dear  sir, 
don't  you  hear  him  ?"  And  during  the 
whole  speech  of  the  ghost  he  sat  with  his 
eyes  fixed  partly  on  the  ghost,  and  partly 
on  Hamlet,  and  with  his  mouth  open  ;  the 
same  passions  which  succeeded  each  other  in 
Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in  him. 

When  the  scene  was  over,  Jones  said, 
"Why,  Partridge,  you  exceed  my  expecta- 
tions. You  enjoy  the  play  more  than  I 
conceived  possible."  "Nay,  sir,"  answered 
Partridge,  "  if  you  are  not  afraid  of  the 
devil,  I  can't  help  it;  but  to  be  sure,  it  is 
natural  to  be  surprised  at  such  things, 
though  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  them : 
not  that  it  was  the  ghost  that  surprised  me 
neither;  for  I  should  have  known  that  to 
have  been  only  a  man  in  a  strange  dress  ; 
but  when  I  saw  the  little  man  so  frightened 
himself,  it  was  that  which  took  hold  of  me." 
"  And  dost  thou  imagine,  then,  Partridge," 
cries  Jones,  "  that  he  was  really  frightened?" 
"Nay,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  "did  not  you 
yourself  observe  afterwards,  when  he  found 
it  was  his  own  father's  spirit,  and  how  he 
was  murdered  in  his  garden,  how  his  fear 
forsook  him  by  degrees,  and  he  was  struck 
dumb  with  sorrow,  as  it  were,  just  as  I 
should  have  been  had  it  been  my  own  case. 
But  hush  !  Ola!  what  noise  is  that  ?  There 
he  is  again.  Well,  to  be  certain,  though  I 
know  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  I  am 
glad  I  am  not  down  yonder  where  those 
men  .are."  Then  turning  his  eyes  again 
upon  Hamlet,  "  Ay,  you  may  draw  your 
sword  :  what  signifies  a  sword  against  the 
power  of  the  devil?" 

During  the  second  act  Partridge  made 
very  few  remarks.  He  greatly  admired  the 
fineness  of  the  dresses;  nor  could  he  help 
observing  upon  the  king's  countenance. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "  how  people  may  be  de- 
ceived by  faces!  Nalla  fides  front  is,  I  find, 
a  true  saying.  Who  would  think,  by  look- 


176 


WILLIAM  PITT, 


ing  into  the  kind's  face,  that  he  had  ever 
committed  a  murder?" 

He  then  inquired  after  the  ghost;  but 
Jones,  who  intended  he  should  be  surprised, 
gave  him  no  other  satisfaction  than  "  that 
he  might  possibly  see  him  again  soon,  and 
in  a  flash  of  tire." 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of 
this;  and  now,  when  the  ghost  made  his 
next  appearance,  Partridge  cried  out, "  There, 
sir,  now:  what  say  you  now?  is  he  fright- 
ened now  or  no?  As  much  frightened  as 
YOU  tli ink  me.  and,  to  be  sure,  nobody  can 
help  some  fears.  I  would  not  be  in  so  bad 
a  condition  as — what's  his  name? — Squire 
Hamlet  is  there,  for  all  the  world.  Bless 
me!  what's  become  of  the  spirit?  As  I  am 
a  living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him  sink  into 
the  earth;"  "Indeed  you  saw  right,"  an- 
swered Jones.  "  Well,  well,"  cries  Par- 
tridge, "  I  know  it  is  only  a  play  ;  and  be- 
sides, if  there  was  anything  in  all  this, 
Madam  Miller  would  not  laugh  so;  for  as 
to  you,  sir,  you  would  not  be  afraid,  I  be- 
lieve, if  the  devil  was  here  in  person.  There, 
there,  ay,  no  wonder  you  are  in  such  a  pas- 
sion ;  shake  the  vile  wicked  wretch  to  pieces. 
If  she  was  my  own  mother  I  should  serve 
her  so.  To  be  sure  all  duty  to  a  mother  is 
forfeited  by  such  wicked  doings.  Ay,  go 
about  your  business:  I  hate  the  sight  of 
you  !" 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the 
play  which  Hamlet  introduces  before  the 
king.  This  he  did  not  at  first  understand 
till  Jones  explained  it  to  him;  but  he  no 
sooner  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it,  than  he 
began  to  bless  himself  that  he  had  never 
committed  murder.  Then  turning  to  Mrs. 
Miller,  he  asked  her  "If  she  did  not  imag- 
ine the  king  looked  as  if  he  was  touched ; 
though  he  is,"  said  he,  "a  good  actor,  and 
doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it.  Well,  I  would 
not  have  so  much  to  answer  for  as  that 
wicked  man  there  hath,  to  sit  upon  a  much 
higher  chair  than  he  sits  upon.  No  wonder 
he  run  away:  for  your  sake  I'll  never  trust 
an  innocent  face  again." 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the 
attention  of  Partridge,  who  expressed  much 
surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown 
upon  the  stage,  to  which  Jones  answered, 
"  That  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous  burial- 
places  about  town."  "  No  wonder,  then," 
cries  Partridge,  "  that  the  place  is  haunted. 
But  I  never  saw  in  my  life  a  worse  grave- 
digger.  I  had  a  sexton  when  I  was  clerk 
that  should  have  dug  three  graves  while  he 
is  digging  one.  The  fellow  handles  a  spade 
as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  one 
in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay,  you  may  sing.  You 
had  rather  sing  than  \vork,  I  believe!" 
Upon  Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull,  he  cried 


out,  "Well!  it  is  strange  to  see  how  fear- 
less some  men  are.  I  never  could  bring  my- 
self to  touch  anything  belonging  to  a  dead 
man  on  any  account.  He  seemed  fright- 
ened enough  too  at  the  ghost,  I  thought. 
Nemo  omnibus  horis  sapit"  Little  more 
worth  remembering  occurred  during  the 
play;  at  the  end  of  which  Jones  asked 
him  "Which  of  the  players  he  had  liked 
best?"  To  this  he  answered,  with  some 
appearance  of  indignation  at  the  question, 
"  The  king,  without  doubt."  "  Indeed.  Mr. 
Partridge,"  says  Mrs.  Miller,  "you  are  not 
of  the  same  opinion  with  the  town  ;  for  they 
are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet  is  acted  by  the 
best  player  who  ever  was  on  the  stage." 
"  He  the  best  player !"  cries  Partridge,  with 
a  contemptuous  sneer;  "why,  I  could  act 
as  well  as  he  myself.  I  am  sure  if  I  had 
seen  a  ghost  I  should  have  looked  in  the 
very  same  manner,  and  done  just  as  he  did. 
And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that  scene,  as  you 
called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where 
you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why,  Lord  help 
me,  any  man,  that  is.  any  good  man,  that 
had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  exactly 
the  same.  I  know  you  are  only  joking  with 
me:  but,  indeed  madam,  though  I  was  never 
at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have  seen  acting 
before  in  the  country  ;  and  the  king  for  my 
money:  bespeaks  all  his  words  distinctly, 
half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Anybody 
may  see  he  is  an  actor !" 
History  of  Tom  Jones. 


RIGHT   HON.  WILLIAM   PITT, 
EARL  OF  CHATHAM, 

born  1708,  and  educated  at  Eton  and  Trinity 
College,  Oxford,  after  serving  a  short  time 
as  a  cornet  in  the  Blues,  British  army,  was 
in  1735  chosen  M.P.  for  Old  Sarum,  was 
premier  for  five  months  in  1757,  and  subse- 
quently gained  great  glory  in  the  same  high 
position  ;  Earl  of  Chatham,  1766;  died  1778. 
See  Letters  written  by  the  late  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham to  his  Nephew  Thomas  Pitt  (after- 
wards Lord  Camelford),  then  at  Cambridge, 
Lond.,  1804,  crown  8vo  :  large  paper  ;  Cor- 
respondence of  the  Earl  of  Chatham,  Lond., 
1838,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  History  of  the  Earl  of 
Chatham,  by  the  Rev.  Francis  Thackeray, 
A.M.,  Lond.,  1807,  2  vols.  4to  ;  Goodrich's 
Select  British  Eloquence,  N.  York,  1852. 8vo. 
"  His  eloquence  was  of  the  very  highest  order : 
vehement,  fiery,  close  to  the  subject,  concise,  some- 
times eminently,  even  boldly,  figurative  :  it  was 
original  nnd  surprising,  yet  quite  natural.  The 
fine  passages  or  felicitous  hit*  in  which  all  popular 
assemblies  take  boundless  delight  .  .  .  form  the 
grand  charm  of  Lord  Chatham's  oratory.  .  .  .  lie 
is  the  person  to  whom  every  one  would  at  once 


WILLIAM  PITT. 


point  if  desired  to  name  the  most  successful  states- 
man and  most  brilliant  orator  that  this  country 
ever  produced.  Some  fragments  of  his  speeches 
have  been  handed  down  to  us;  but  these  bear  so 
very  small  a  proportion  to  the  prodigious  fame 
which  his  eloquence  has  left  behind  it,  that  far 
more  is  manifestly  lost  than  has  reached  us." — 
LOUD  BROUGHAM  :  Statesmen  of  the  Time  of  Georye 
11 1. 

EMPLOYMENT  OF  INDIANS  IN  THE  WAR  WITH 
AMERICA. 

I  cannot,  my  lords,  I  will  not,  join  in 
congratulation  on  misfortune  and  disgrace. 
This,  my  lords,  is  a  perilous  and  tremendous 
moment;  it  is  not  a  time  for  adulation  ;  the 
smoothness  of  flattery  cannot  save  us  in  this 
rugged  and  awful  crisis.  It  is  now  neces- 
sary to  instruct  the  throne  in  the  language 
of  truth.  We  must,  if  possible,  dispel  the 
delusion  and  darkness  which  envelope  it,  and 
display,  in  its  full  danger  and  genuine  col- 
ours, the  ruin  which  is  brought  to  our  doors. 
Can  ministers  still  presume  to  expect  support 
in  their  infatuation  ?  Can  parliament  be  so 
dead  to  their  dignity  and  duty  as  to  give 
their  support  to  measures  thus  obtruded 
and  forced  upon  them. — measures,  my  lords, 
which  have  reduced  this  late  flourishing 
empire  to  scorn  and  contempt?  But  yester- 
day, and  England  might  have  stood  against 
the  world  ;  now,  none  so  poor  to  do  her 
reverence !  The  people  whom  we  at  first 
despised  as  rebels,  but  whom  we  now  ac- 
knowledge as  enemies,  are  abetted  against 
you,  supplied  with  every  military  store, 
have  their  interest  consulted,  and  their  am- 
bassadors entertained  by  your  inveterate 
enemy ;  and  ministers  do  not,  arid  dare 
not,  interpose  with  dignity  or  effect.  The 
desperate  state  of  our  army  abroad  is  in 
part  known.  No  man  more  highly  esteems 
and  honours  the  English  troops  than  I  do ; 
I  know  their  virtues  and  their  valour;  I 
know  they  can  achieve  anything  but  impos- 
sibilities ;  and  I  know  that  the  conquest  of 
British  America  is  an  impossibility.  You 
cannot,  my  lords,  you  cannot  conquer 
America.  What  is  your  present  situation 
there?  We  do  not  know  the  worst;  but  we 
know  that  in  three  campaigns  we  have  done 
nothing  and  suffered  much.  You  may  swell 
every  expense,  accumulate  every  assistance, 
and  extend  your  traffic  to  the  shambles  of 
every  German  despot:  your  attempts  will 
be  forever  vain  and  impotent, — doubly  so, 
indeed,  from  this  mercenary  aid  on  which 
you  rely  ;  for  it  irritates,  to  an  incurable 
resentment,  the  minds  of  your  adversaries, 
to  overrun  them  with  the  mercenary  sons  of 
rapine  and  plunder,  devoting  them  and  their 
possessions  to  the  rapacity  of  hirelingcruelty. 
If  I  were  an  American,  as  I  am  an  English- 
man, while  a  foreign  troop  was  landed  in 
12 


my  country  I  never  would  lay  down  my 
arms.  Never !  Never !  Never !  But,  my 
lords,  who  is  the  man  that,  in  addition  to 
the  disgraces  and  mischiefs  of  the  war,  has 
dared  to  authorize  and  associate  to  our  arms 
the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  of  the 
savage?  to  call  into  civilized  alliance  the 
wild  and  inhuman  inhabitant  of  the  woods? 
to  delegate  to  the  merciless  Indian  the  de- 
fence of  disputed  rights,  and  to  wage  the 
horrors  of  his  barbarous  war  against  our 
brethren?  My  lords,  these  enormities  cry 
aloud  for  redress  and  punishment.  But, 
my  lords,  this  barbarous  measure  has  been 
defended,  not  only  on  the  principles  of  policy 
and  necessity,  but  also  on  those  of  morality  : 
"  for  it  is  perfectly  allowable,"  says  Lord 
Suffolk,  "  to  use  all  the  means  which  God  and 
nature  have  put  into  our  hands."  I  am  as- 
tonished, I  am  shocked,  to  hear  such  princi- 
ples confessed  ;  to  hear  them  avowed  in  this 
house  or  in  this  country.  My  lords,  I  did 
not  intend  to  encroach  so  much  on  your  at- 
tention ;  but  I  cannot  repress  my  indigna- 
tion,— I  feel  myself  impelled  to  speak.  My 
lords,  we  are  called  upon  as  members  of  this 
house,  as  men,  as  Christians,  to  protest 
against  such  horrible  barbarity.  "  That  God 
and  nature  have  put  into  our  hands"  !  What 
ideas  of  God  and  nature  that  noble  lord  may 
entertain  I  know  not;  but  I  know  that  such 
detestable  principles  are  equally  abhorrent 
to  religion  and  humanity.  What!  to  attrib- 
ute the  sacred  sanction  of  God  and  nature 
to  the  massacres  of  the  Indian  scalping- 
knife  !  to  the  cannibal  savage,  torturing, 
murdering,  devouring,  drinking  the  blool 
of  his  mangled  victims  !  Such  notions  shock 
every  precept  of  morality,  every  feeling  of 
humanity,  every  sentiment  of  honour.  These 
abominable  principles,  and  this  more  abomi- 
nable avowal  of  them,  demand  the  most  de- 
cisive indignation.  I  call  upon  that  right 
reverend,  and  this  most  learned  bench  to 
vindicate  the  religion  of  their  God,  to  sup- 
port the  justice  of  their  country.  I  call 
upon  the  bishops  to  interpose  the  unsullied 
sanctity  of  their  lawn  ;  upon  the  judges  to 
interpose  the  purity  of  their  ermine,  to  save 
us  from  this  pollution.  I  call  upon  the 
honour  of  your  lordships  to  reverence  the 
dignity  of  your  ancestors,  and  to  maintain 
your  own.  I  call  upon  the  spirit  and  hu- 
manity of  my  country  to  vindicate  the  na- 
tional character.  I  invoke  the  Genius  of 
the  Constitution.  From  the  tapestry  that 
adorns  these  Avails  the  immortal  ancestor  of 
this  noble  lord  frowns  with  indignation  at 
the  disgrace  of  his  country.  In  vain  did  he 
defend  the  liberty  and  establish  the  religion 
of  Britain  against  the  tyranny  of  Rome  if 
these  Avorse  than  Popish  cruelties  and  in- 
quisitorial practices  are  endured  among  us. 


LORD    GEORGE  LYTTELTON. 


To  send  forth  the  merciless  cannibal,  thirst- 
ing for  blood!  against  whom?  your  Prot- 
estant brethren  !  to  lay  waste  their  country, 
to  desolate  their  dwellings,  and  extirpate 
their  race  and  name  by  the  aid  and  instru- 
mentality of  these  horrible  hell-hounds  of 
war!  Spain  can  no  longer  boast  pre-emi- 
nence in  barbarity.  She  armed  herself  with 
blood-hounds  to  extirpate  the  wretched  na- 
tives of  Mexico  :  we,  more  ruthless,  loose 
these  dogs  of  war  against  our  countrymen  in 
America,  endeared  to  us  by  every  tie  that 
can  sanctify  humanity.  I  solemnly  call  upon 
your  lordships,  and  upon  every  order  of  men 
in  the  state,  to  stamp  upon  this  infamous 
procedure  the  indelible  stigma  of  the  public 
abhorrence.  More  particularly  I  call  upon 
the  holy  prelates  of  our  religion  to  do  away 
this  iniquity  :  let  them  perform  a  lustration, 
to  purify  the  country  from  this  deep  and 
deadly  sin.  My  lords,  I  am  old  and  weak, 
and  at  present  unable  to  say  more  ;  but  my 
feelings  and  indignation  were  too  strong  to 
have  said  less.  I  could  not  have  slept  this 
night  in  my  bed,  nor  even  reposed  my  head 
upon  my  pillow,  without  giving  vent  to  my 
eternal  abhorrence  of  such  enormous  and 
preposterous  principles. 


LORD  GEORGE  LYTTELTON, 

born  1708-9,  entered  Parliament  1730,  and 
warmly  opposed  Sir  Robert  AValpole's  admin- 
istration ;  became  a  Lord  of  the  Treasury, 
1744,  and  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer, 
1756;  created  Lord  Lyttelton,  1757;  died 
1773.  lie  was  the  author  of  Letters  from  a 
Persian  in  England  to  his  Friend  at  Ispa- 
han, vol.  5.,  Loud.,  1735.  8vo,  5th  edit.,  1744, 
12mo;  vol.  ii. ,3d  edit.,  1736,  12mo  ;  Monody 
to  the  Memory  of  a  Lady  lately  Deceased 
[his  wile],  Lond.,  1747,  fol.;  Observations 
on  the  Conversion  and  Apostleship  of  Saint 
Paul,  Lond.,  1747,  8vo,  and  in  Christian 
Evidences,  Bohn,  1850,  royal  8vo ;  Dia- 
logues of  the  Dead,  Lond.,  17<H),  8vo ;  New 
Dialogues,  1762,  8vo,  4th  edit.,  1765,  8vo  ; 
The  History  of  the  Life  of  King  Henry  the 
Second,  anil  of  the  Age  in  which  he  Lived, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1764-67,  4  vols.  4to,  Dublin, 
1768,  4  vols.  8vo,  Lond.,  1769,  6  vols.  8vo, 
1777,  6  vols.  8vo.  Miscellaneous  Works, 
Lond.,  1774.  4to,  Dubl.,  1774,  2  vols.  8vo, 
2d  edit.,  Lond.,  1,775,  4to,  3d  edit,  1776, 
3  vols.  8vo.  Poetical  Works,  Lond.,  1785, 
12mo,  Glasg.,  1787,  fol.,  1801,  1  vol.  8vo: 
and  in  Collections  of  British  Poets.  See  his 
Memoirs  and  Correspondence,  1734  to  1773, 
by  R.  Phillimore,  Lond.,  1845,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"His   Majesty   then  asked  him   [Dr.  Johnson] 
what   ho    thought  of    Lord   Lyttelton's   History, 


which  was  then  just  published.  Johnson  said  he 
thought  his  style  pretty  good,  but  that  he  had 
blunicd  Henry  the  Second  rather  too  much." — BOS- 
WELL:  Life  of  Johnson,  edit.  1848,  royal  8vo,  185. 

"  The  reader  may  consult  Lyttelton's  History — 
an  elaborate  and  valuable  work — with  advantage." 
— SHARON  TUHNKU. 

"  Pedantry  was  so  deeply  fixed  in  his  nature 
that  the  hustings,  the  Treasury,  the  Exchequer, 
the  House  of  Commons,  the  House  of  Lords,  left 
him  the  same  dreaming  school-boy  that  they  found 
him." — LORD  MACAULAY:  Edin.  Rev.,  July,  1835: 
Sir  Jamen  Mackintosh's  History  of  the  Revolution  ; 
and  in  Macanlay's  E«s«ys. 

CHARACTER  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR. 

The  character  of  this  prince  has  seldom  , 
been  set  in  its  true  light;  some  eminent 
writers  have  been  dazzled  so  much  by  the 
more  shining  parts  of  it  that  they  have 
hardly  seen  his  faults;  while  others,  out  of 
a  strong  detestation  of  tyranny,  have  been 
unwilling  to  allow  him  the  praise  he  de- 
serves. 

He  may  with  justice  be  ranked  among 
the  greatest  generals  any  age  has  produced. 
There  was  united  in  him  activity,  vigilance, 
intrepidity,  caution,  great  force  of  judgment, 
and  never  failing  presence  of  mind.  He  was 
strict  in  his  discipline,  and  kept  his  soldiers 
in  perfect  obedience ;  yet  preserved  their 
affection.  Having  been  from  his  very  child- 
hood continually  in  war,  and  at  the  head  of 
armies,  he  joined  to  nil  the  capacity  that 
genius  could  give  all  the  knowledge  and  skill 
that  experience  could  teach,  and  was  a  perfect 
master  of  the  military  art  as  it  was  practised 
in  the  times  wherein  he  lived.  His  con- 
stitution enabled  him  to  endure  any  hard- 
ships, and  very  few  were  equal  to  him  in 
personal  strength,  which  was  an  excellence 
of  more  importance  than  it  is  now.  from  the 
manner  of  fighting  then  in  use.  It  is  said 
of  him  that  none  except  himself  could  bend 
his  bow.  His  courage  was  heroic,  and  he 
possessed  it  not  only  in  the  field,  but  (which 
was  more  uncommon)  in  the  cabinet,  at- 
tempting great  things  with  means  that  to 
other  men  appeared  totally  unequal  to  such 
undertakings,  and  steadily  prosecuting  what 
he  had  boldly  resolved  ;  but  never  disturbed 
or  disheartened  by  difficulties  in  the  course 
of  his  enterprises ;  but  having  that  noble 
vigour  of  mind  which,  instead  of  bending 
to  opposition,  rises  against  it,  and  seems  to 
have  a  power  of  controlling  and  command- 
ing Fortune  herself. 

Nor  was  he  less  superior  to  pleasure  than 
to  fear:  no  luxury  softened  him,  no  riot  dis- 
ordered, no  sloth  relaxed.  ...  A  lust  of 
power,  which  no  regard  to  justice  could 
limit,  the  most  unrelenting  cruelty,  and  the 
most  insatiable  avarice,  possessed  his  soul. 
It  is  true,  indeed,  that  among  many  acts  of 


JAMES  HARRIS. 


179 


extreme  humanity  some  sinning  instances 
of  great  clemency  may  be  produced,  that 
•were  either  the  effects  of  his  policy,  which 
taught  him  this  method  of  acquiring  friends. 
or  of  his  magnanimity,  which  made  him 
slight  a  weak  and  subdued  enemy,  such  as 
was  Edgar  Articling,  in  whom  he  found 
neither  spirit  nor  talents  able  to  contend 
with  him  for  the  crown.  But  where  he  had 
no  advantage  nor  pride  in  forgiving,  his 
nature  discovered  itself  to  be  utterly  void 
of  all  sense  of  compassion  ;  and  some  bar- 
barities which  he  committed  exceeded  the 
bounds  that  even  tyrants  and  conquerors 
prescribe  to  themselves. 

Most  of  our  ancient  historians  give  him 
the  character  of  a  very  religious  prince  : 
but  his  religion  was  after  the  fashion  of 
those  times,  belief  without  examination,  and 
devotion  without  piety.  It  was  a  religion 
that  prompted  him  to  endow  monasteries, 
and  at  the  same  time  allowed  him  to  pillage 
kingdoms;  that  threw  him  on  his  knees  be- 
fore a  relic  or  cross,  but  suffered  him  unre- 
strained to  trample  upon  the  liberties  and 
rights  of  mankind. 

As  to  his  wisdom  in  government,  of 
•which  some  modern  writers  have  spoken 
very  highly,  he  was,  indeed,  so  far  wise  that 
through  a  long  unquiet  reign  he  knew  how 
to  support  oppression  by  terror,  and  employ 
the  properost  moans  for  the  carrying  on  a 
very  iniquitous  and  violent  administration. 
But  that  which  alone  deserves  the  name 
of  wisdom  in  the  character  of  a  king,  the 
maintaining  of  authority  bv  the  exercise  of 
those  virtues  which  make  the  happiness  of 
his  people,  was  what,  with  all  his  abilities, 
he  does  not  appear  to  have  possessed.  Nor 
did  he  excel  in  those  soothing  and  popular 
arts  which  sometimes  change  the  com- 
plexion of  a  tyranny,  and  give  it  a  fallacious 
appearance  of  freedom.  His  government 
was  harsh  and  despotic,  violating  even  the 
principles  of  that  constitution  which  he 
himself  had  established.  Yet  so  far  he  per- 
formed the  duty  of  a  sovereign  that  he  took 
care  to  maintain  a  good  police  in  his  realm  ; 
curbing  licentiousness  with  a  strong  hand, 
which,  in  the.  tumultuous  state  of  his  gov- 
ernment, was  a  great  and  difficult  work. 
How  well  he  performed  it  we  may  learn 
even  from  the  testimony  of  a  contemporary 
Saxon  historian,  who  says  that  during  his 
reign  a  man  might  have  travelled  in  per- 
fect security  all  over  the  kingdom  with  his 
bosom  full  of  gold,  nor  durst  any  kill  another 
in  revenge  of  the  greatest  offences,  nor  offer 
violence  to  the  chastity  of  a  woman.  But 
it  was  a  poor  compensation  that  the  high- 
ways were  safo,  when  the  courts  of  justice 
were  dens  of  thieves,  and  when  almost  every 
man  in  authority,  or  in  office,  used  his  power 


to  oppress  and  pillage  the  people.  The 
king  himself  did  not  only  tolerate,  but  en- 
courage, support,  and  even  share  these  ex- 
tortions. Though  the  greatness  of  the  an- 
cient landed  estate  of  the  crown,  and  the 
feudal  profits  to  which  he  legally  was  entitled, 
rendered  him  one  of  the  richest  monarchs 
in  Europe  he  was  not  content  with  all  that 
opulence,  but  by  authorizing  the  sheriffs 
who  collected  his  revenues  in  the  several 
counties  to  practise  the  most  grievous  vexa- 
tions and  abuses  for  the  raising  of  them 
higher  by  a  perpetual  auction  of  the  crown 
lands,  so  that  none  of  his  tenants  could  be 
secure  of  possession,  if  any  other  would  come 
and  offer  more;  by  various  iniquities  in  the 
court  of  exchequer,  which  was  entirely  Nor- 
man ;  by  forfeitures  wrongfully  taken  ;  and 
lastly,  by  arbitrary  and  illegal  taxations,  he 
drew  into  his  treasury  much  too  great  a  pro- 
portion of  the  wealth  of  his  kingdom. 

It  must,  however,  be  owned,  that  if  his 
avarice  was  insatiably  and  unjustly  rapa- 
cious, it  was  not  meanly  parsimonious,  nor 
of  that  sordid  kind  which  brings  on  a  prince 
dishonour  and  contempt.  He  supported  the 
dignity  of  his  crown  with  a  decent  magnifi- 
cence; and  though  he  never  was  lavish,  he 
sometimes  was  liberal,  especially  to  his 
soldiers  and  the  church.  But  looking  on 
money  as  a  necessary  means  of  maintaining 
and  increasing  power,  he  devised  to  accu- 
mulate as  much  as  he  could,  rather,  perhaps, 
from  an  ambitious  than  a  covetous  nature; 
at  least  his  avarice  was  subservient  to  his 
ambition,  and  he  laid  up  wealth  in  his  coffers, 
as  he  did  arms  in  his  magazines,  to  be  drawn 
out,  when  any  proper  occasion  required  it, 
for  the  enlargement  of  his  dominions. 

Upon  the  whole,  he  had  many  great  qual- 
ities, but  few  virtues;  and  if  those  actions 
that  most  particularly  distinguish  the  man 
or  the  king  are  impartially  considered,  we 
shall  find  that  in  his  character  there  is  much 
to  admire,  but  still  more  to  abhor. 

History  of  the  Life  of  King  Henry  the 
Second. 


JAMES    HARRIS,    M.P., 

born  1709,  became  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty, 
1762,  Lord  of  the  Treasury,  1763,  Secretary 
and  Comptroller  to  the  Queen.  1774,  and 
died  1780.  This  very  learned  Grecian  was 
the  author  of  Three  Treatises:  I.  Art,  II. 
Music,  Painting,  and  Poetry,  III.  Happi- 
ness, Lond.,  1744,  etc.,  8vo;  Hermes,  a 
Philosophical  Inquiry  concerning  Language 
and  Universal  Grammar,  Lond.,  1750,  etc., 
8vo ;  The  Spring,  a  Pastoral,  1762,  4to ; 
Philosophical  Arrangements,  Edin.  and 
Lond.,  1775,  8vo;  Philological  Enquiries, 


180 


JAMES  HARRIS. 


Lond.,  1780,  2  vols.  8vo,  Part  III.,  in 
French,  Paris,  1789,  l'2mo.  Works,  with 
Account  by  his  Son,  the  Earl  of  Malmes- 
bury,  Lond.,  1792,  5  vols.  8vo;  again,  1801, 
2  vols.  4to,  and  royal  4to,  and  1803,  5  vols. 
8vo;  1841,  8vo. 

"Those  who  would  enter  more  fully  into  this 
subject  [grammar]  will  find  it  fully  and  accurately 
handled,  with  the  greatest  acuteness  of  investiga- 
tion, perspicuity  of  application,  and  elegance  of 
method,  in  a  treatise  entitled  Hermes,  by  J.  Harris, 
Esq.,  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  example  of 
analysis  that  has  been  exhibited  since  the  days  of 
Aristotle." — BISHOP  LOWTH  :  Preface  to  his  L'lty- 
litth  Grannntir. 

But  Home  Tooke  ridicules  Hermes. 

ENGLISH,  ORIENTAL,  LATIN,  AND  GREEK 
LANGUAGES. 

We  Britons  in  our  time  have  been  re- 
markable borrowers,  as  our  multiform  lan- 
guage may  sufficiently  shew.  Our  terms  in 
polite  literature  prove  that  this  came  from 
Greece;  our  terms  in  music  and  painting, 
that  these  came  from  Italy  :  our  phrases  in 
cookery  and  war,  that  we  learnt  these  from 
the  French  ;  and  our  phrases  in  navigation, 
that  we  were  taught  by  the  Flemings  and 
Low  Dutch.  These  many  and  very  differ- 
ent sources  of  our  language  may  be  the 
cause  why  it  is  so  deficient  in  regularity 
and  analogy.  Yet  we  have  this  advantage 
to  compensate  the  defect,  that  what  we  want 
in  elegance  we  gain  in  copiousness,  in  which 
last  respect  few  languages  will  be  found 
superior  to  our  own. 

Let  us  pass  from  ourselves  to  the  nations 
of  the  East.  The  Eastern  world,  from  the 
earliest  days,  has  been  at  all  times  the  seat 
of  enormous  monarchy  ;  on  its  natives  fair 
liberty  never  shed  its  genial  influence.  If 
at  any  time  civil  discords  arose  among  them 
(and  arise  there  did  innumerable),  the  con- 
test was  never  about  the  form  of  their  gov- 
ernment (for  this  was  an  object  of  which 
the  combatants  had  no  conception)  ;  it  was 
all  from  the  poor  motive  of,  who  should  be 
their  master;  whether  a  Cyrus  or  an  Artax- 
erxes,  a  Mahomet  or  a  Mustapha. 

Such  was  their  condition  ;  and  what  was 
the  consequence? — Their  ideas  became  con- 
sonant to  their  servile  state,  and  their  words 
became  consonant  to  their  servile  ideas.  The 
great  distinction  forever  in  their  sight  was 
that  of  tyrant  and  slave  ;  the  most  unnatural 
one  conceivable,  and  the  most  susceptible  of 
pomp  and  empty  exaggeration.  Hence  they 
talked  of  kings  as  gods,  and  of  themselves 
as  the  meanest  and  most  abject  reptiles. 
Nothing  was  either  great  or  little  in  moder- 
ation, but  every  sentiment  was  heightened 
by  incredible  hyperbole.  Thus,  though  they 
sometimes  ascended  into  the  great  and  mag- 


nificent, they  as  frequently  degenerated  into 
the  tumid  and  bombast.  The  Greeks  too  of 
Asia  became  infected  by  their  neighbours, 
who  were  often,  at  times,  not  only  their 
neighbours,  but  their  masters ;  and  hence 
that  luxuriance  of  the  Asiatic  style,  un- 
known to  the  chaste  eloquence  and  purity 
of  Athens.  But  of  the  Greeks  we  forbear 
to  speak  now,  as  we  shall  speak  of  them 
more  fully  when  we  have  first  considered 
the  nature  or  genius  of  the  Romans. 

And  what  sort  of  people  may  we  pro- 
nounce the  Romans? — A  nation  engaged  in 
Avars  and  commotions,  some  foreign,  some 
domestic,  which  for  seven  hundred  years 
wholly  engrossed  their  thoughts.  Hence 
therefore  their  language  became,  like  their 
ideas,  copious  in  all  terms  expressive  of 
things  political,  and  well  adapted  to  the 
purposes  both  of  history  and  popular  elo- 
quence. But  what  was  their  philosophy? — 
As  a  nation  it  was  none,  if  we  may  credit 
their  ablest  writers.  And  hence  the  unfit- 
ness  of  their  language  to  this  subject;  a 
defect  which  even  Cicero  is  compelled  to 
confess,  and  more  fully  makes  appear  when 
he  writes  philosophy  himself,  from  the 
number  of  terms  which  he  is  obliged  to  in- 
vent. Virgil  seems  to  have  judged  the  most 
truly  of  his  countrymen  when,  admitting 
their  inferiority  in  the  more  elegant  arts, 
he  concludes  at  last  with  his  usual  mnjesty: 

Tu  regere  imperio  populos,  Romane,  memento, 
(lltec  tibi  erunt  artes)  pacisque  imponere  niorein, 
Parcere  subjectis,  et  debellare  superbos. 

From  considering  the  Romans,  let  us  pass 
to  the  Greeks.  The  Grecian  commonwealths, 
while  they  maintained  their  liberty,  were  the 
most  heroic  confederacy  that  ever  existed. 
They  were  the  politest,  the  bravest,  and  the 
wisest  of  men.  In  the  short  space  of  little 
more  than  a  century  they  became  such  states- 
men, warriors,  orators,  historians,  physi- 
cians, poets,  critics,  painters,  sculptors,  ar- 
chitects, and  (last  of  all)  philosophers,  that 
one  can  hardly  help  considering  that  golden 
period  as  a  providential  event  in  honour  of 
human  nature,  to  shew  to  what  perfection 
the  species  might  ascend. 

Now  the  language  of  these  Greeks  was 
truly  like  themselves;  it  was  conformable 
to  their  transcendent  and  universal  genius. 
Where  matter  so  abounded,  words  followed 
of  course,  and  those  exquisite  in  every  kind, 
as  the  ideas  for  which  they  stood.  And 
hence  it  followed  there  was  not  a  subject  to 
be  found  which  could  not  with  propriety  be 
expressed  in  Greek. 

Here  were  words  and  numbers  for  the 
humour  of  an  Aristophanes  ;  for  the  active 
elegance  of  a  Philemon  or  Menander;  for 
the  amorous  strains  of  a  Mimnermus  or 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


181 


Sappho ;  for  the  rural  lays  of  a  Theocritus 
or  Bion  ;  and  for  the  sublime  conceptions  of 
a  Sophocles  or  Homer.  The  same  in  prose. 
Here  Isoerates  was  enabled  to  display  his 
art,  in  all  the  accuracy  of  periods  and  the 
nice  counterpoise  of  diction.  Here  Demos- 
thenes found  materials  for  that  nervous 
composition,  that  manly  force  of  unaffected 
eloquence,  which  rushed  like  a  torrent,  too 
impetuous  to  be  withstood. 

Who  were  more  different  in  exhibiting 
their  philosophy  than  Xenophon,  Plato,  and 
his  disciple  Aristotle?  Different,  I  say,  in 
their  character  of  composition  ;  for  as  to 
their  philosophy  itself,  it  was  in  reality  the 
same.  Aristotle,  strict,  methodic,  and  or- 
derly ;  subtle  in  thought,  sparing  in  orna- 
ment; with  little  address  to  the  passions  or 
imagination;  but  exhibiting  the  whole  with 
such  a  pregnant  brevity  that  in  every  sen- 
tence we  seem  to  read  a  page.  How  exqui- 
sitely is  this  all  performed  in  Greek!  Let 
tlio.se  who  imagine  it  may  be  done  as  well 
in  another  language,  satisfy  themselves, 
either  by  attempting  to  translate  him,  or  by 
perusing  his  translations  already  made  by 
men  of  learning. 

On  the  contrary,  when  we  read  either 
Xenophon  or  Plato,  nothing  of  this  method 
and  strict  order  appears.  The  formal  and 
didactic  is  wholly  dropt.  Whatever  they 
may  teach,  it  is  without  professing  to  be 
teachers  ;  a  train  of  dialogue  and  truly  po- 
lite address,  in  which,  as  in  a  mirror,  we 
behold  human  life  adorned  in  all  its  colours 
of  sentiment  and  manners. 

And  yet  though  these  differ  in  this  man- 
ner from  the  Stagyrite,  how  different  are 
thcv  likewise  in  character  from  each  other! 
— Plato,  copious,  figurative,  and  majestic : 
intermixing  at  times  the  facetious  and  sa- 
tiric ;  enriching  his  works  with  tales  and 
fables,  and  the  mystic  theology  of  ancient 
times.  Xenophon,  the  pattern  of  perfect 
simplicity;  everywhere  smooth,  harmonious, 
and  pure;  declining  the  figurative,  the  mar- 
vellous, and  the  mystic;  ascending  but  rarely 
into  the  sublime  ;  nor  then  so  much  trusting 
to  the  colours  of  style  as  to  the  intrinsic  dig- 
nity of  the  sentiment  itself. 

The  language,  in  the  mean  time,  in  which 
he  and  Plato  wrote  appears  to  suit  so  accu- 
rately with  the  style  of  both,  that  when  we 
read  either  of  the  two,  we  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  it  is  he  alone  who  has  hit  its  char- 
acter, and  that  it  could  not  have  appeared 
so  elegant  in  any  other  manner. 

And   this  is  the  Greek  tongue,  from   its 
propriety  and  universality  made  for  all  that 
is  great  and  all  that  is  beautiful,  in  every 
subject  and  under  every  form  of  writing: 
Graiis  ingenium  Uraiis  dedit  ore  rotundo 
Musa  loqui. 


SAM.UEL  JOHNSON,  L.L.D., 

one  of  the  most  eminent  of  English  authors, 
was  born  in  1709,  at  Lichfield,  where  his 
father  Avas  a  bookseller,  studied  at  Pembroke 
College,  Oxford,  1728  to  1731,  and  after  an 
unsuccessful  experiment  of  teaching  school 
at  Edial,  near  Lichfield,  came  to  London  in 
1737,  and  from  that  year  until  his  death,  in 
1784,  may  be  considered  as  an  author  by 
profession.  In  1762  a  pension  of  £300,  con- 
ferred by  George  III.,  placed  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  want.  Among  his  works  are  : 
Life  of  Richard  Savage,  Lond.,  1744.  8vo ; 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  1749 ;  Irene,  a 
Tragedy,  Lond.,  1749,  8vo;  The  Rambler, 
Lond.,  1750-52.  2  vols.  fol. ;  The  Dictionary 
of  the  English  Language,  Lond.,  1755,  2 
vols.  fol.,  last  edit,  by  Todd  and  Latham, 
Lond..  1870,  4  vols.  4to ;  The  Prince  of 
Abyssinia  [Rasselas],  Lond.,  1759,  2  vols. 
I8mo;  The  Idler,  Lond.,  1761,  2  vols.  12mo; 
Preface  to  his  Edition  of  Shakspeare  [Lond., 
1705,  8  vols.  8vo],  Lond.,  1765,  8vo,  new 
edit.,  Lond.,  1858,  8vo;  A  Journey  to  the 
Western  Islands  of  Scotland,  Lond.,  1775, 
8vo;  The  Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent  Eng- 
lish Poets,  with  Critical  Observations  on 
their  Works,  Lond.,  1779-81.  10  vols.  12mo 
(being  Prefaces  to  Bell's  Poets,  75  vols. 
12mo).  See  Johnson's  Works,  Oxf.,  1825, 
11  vols.  8vo ;  Poetical  AVorks,  Lond.,  1785, 
cr.  8vo;  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  by 
Croker,  Lond.,  1848,  8vo,  or  10  vols.  fp. 
8vo. 

"  Had  Johnson  left  nothing  but  his  Dictionary 
one  might  have  traced  there  a  great  intellect,  a 
genuine  man.  Looking  to  its  clearness  of  defini- 
tion, its  general  solidity,  honesty,  insight,  and 
successful  method,  it  may  be  called  the  best  of  all 
Dictionaries.  There  is  in  it  a  kind  of  architec- 
tural nobleness;  it  stands  there  like  a  great  solid 
square-built  edifice,  finished,  symmetrically  com- 
plete: you  judge  that  a  true  Builder  did  it." — 
CARLYLE  :  Hero-  Worship. 

"  Of  the  Prefaces  to  his  own  or  other  men's 
works,  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak  in  detail.  The 
most  ambitious  is  that  to  the  Dictionary,  which  is 
powerfully  written,  but  promises  more  than  it  per- 
forms, when  it  professes  to  give  a  history  of  the 
English  language  :  for  it  does  very  little  more  than 
give  a  series  of  passages  from  the  writings  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  and  English  tongues  of  different 
ages.  The  Dictionary  itself,  with  all  its  faults, 
still  keeps  its  ground,  and  has  had  no  successor 
that  could  supplant  it.  ...  The  Preface  to  his 
Shakspeare,  certainly,  is  far  superior  to  his  other 
introductory  discourses,  both  fuller  of  matter  and 
more  elaborate.  His  remarks  on  the  great  dra- 
matist are,  generally  speaking,  sound  and  judi- 
cious; many  of  them  may  even,  on  a  subject  suffi- 
ciently hackneyed,  be  deemed  original." — LOBD 
BROUGHAM  :  Men  of  Letters  Time  of  Georije  III. 

"  He  was  certainly  unskilled  in  the  knowledge 
of  obsolete  customs  and  expressions.  His  explana- 
tory notes,  therefore,  are,  generally  speaking,  the 
most  controvertible  of  any;  but  no  future  editor 


182 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


will  discharge  his  duty  to  the  public  who  shall 
omit  a  single  sentence  of  this  writer's  masterly 
preface,  or  of  his  sound  and  tasteful  characters 
of  the  text  of  Shakspeare." — DOUCE:  llluvt.  of 
Shakxp.,  Preface. 

"  One  of  his  most  pleasing  as  well  as  most  popu- 
lar works,  The  Lives  of  the  Jiritinh  Poets,  which  he 
executed  with  a  degree  of  critical  force  and  talent 
which  has  seldom  been  concentrated." — SIR  WAL- 
TER SCOTT:  Life  of  Snmuel  Johnson. 

"Johnson  decided  literary  questions  like  a  law- 
yer, not  like  a  legislator.  He  never  examined 
foundations  where  a  point  was  already  ruled.  His 
whole  code  of  criticism  rested  on  pure  assumption, 
for  which  he  sometimes  quoted  a  precedent  or 
authority,  but  rarely  troubled  himself  to  give  a 
reason  drawn  from  the  nature  of  things." — LOUD 
MACAULAY:  Edin.  liec.,  Sept.  1831,  and  in  hit 
Essays. 

LEXICOGRAPHY. 

It  is  the  fate  of  those  who  toil  at  the  lower 
employments  of  life  to  be  rather  driven  by 
the  fear  of  evil  than  attracted  by  the  pros- 
pect of  good  ;  to  be  exposed  to  censure  with- 
out hope  of  praise  ;  to  be  disgraced  by  mis- 
carriage, or  punished  for  neglect,  where 
success  would  have  been  without  applause, 
and  diligence  without  reward. 

Among  these  unhappy  mortals  is  the 
writer  of  dictionaries;  whom  mankind  have 
considered  not  as  the  pupil,  but  the  slave  of 
science,  the  pioneer  of  literature,  doomed 
only  to  remove  rubbish  and  clear  obstruc- 
tions from  the  paths  through  which  learning 
and  genius  press  forward  to  conquest  and 
glory,  without  bestowing  a  smile  on  the 
humble  drudge  that  facilitates  their  pro- 
gress. Every  other  author  may  aspire  to 
praise  ;  the  lexicographer  can  only  hope  to 
escape  reproach,  and  even  this  negative 
recompense  has  yet  been  granted  to  very 
few. 

[We  venture  to  inquire — Who  have  been 
more  commended  for  their  labours  than 
lexicographers  ? — E.g. :  Du  Cange,  Ilickes, 
Ilaynouard,  Somner,  Suidas,  Stephens,  be- 
fore Johnson,  Adelung,  Bopp,  the  Grimms, 
Latham,  Littre,  Passow,  Roquefort,  Todd, 
Webster,  AVorcester,  since  Johnson?  To 
what,  next  to  Boswell's  pages,  does  Johnson 
himself  owe  most  of  his  reputation?  Un- 
doubtedly to  his  Dictionary. — S.  A.  A.] 

I  have,  notwithstanding  this  discourage- 
ment, attempted  a  dictionary  of  the  English 
language,  which,  while  it  was  employed  in 
the  cultivation  of  every  species  of  literature, 
has  itself  been  hitherto  neglected;  suffered 
to  spread,  under  the  direction  of  chance, 
into  wild  exuberance ;  resigned  to  the  tyr- 
anny of  time  and  fashion;  and  exposed'to 
the  corruptions  of  ignorance,  and  caprices 
of  innovation. 

No  book  was  ever  turned  from  one  lan- 
guage into  another  without  imparting  some- 
thing of  its  native  idiom  ;  this  is  the  most 


mischievous  and  comprehensive  innovation  : 
single  words  may  enter  by  thousands,  and 
the  fabric  of  the  tongue  continue  the  same; 
but  new  phraseology  changes  much  at  once  ; 
it  alters  not  the  single  stones  of  the  build- 
ing, but  the  order  of  the  columns.  If  an 
academy  should  be  established  for  the  cul- 
tivation of  our  style — which  I,  who  can 
never  wish  to  see  dependence  multiplied, 
hope  the  spirit  of  English  liberty  will  hin- 
der or  destroy — let  them,  instead  of  com- 
piling grammars  and  dictionaries,  endeav- 
our, with  all  their  influence,  to  stop  the 
license  of  translators,  whose  idleness  and 
ignorance,  if  it  be  suffered  to  proceed,  will 
reduce  us  to  babble  a  dialect  of  France. 

If  the  changes  that  we  fear  be  thus  irre- 
sistible, what  remains  but  to  acquiesce  with 
silence,  as  in  the  other  insurmountable  dis- 
tresses of  humanity.  It  remains  that  we 
retard  what  we  cannot  repel,  that  we  pal- 
liate what  we  cannot  cure.  Life  may  be 
lengthened  by  care,  though  death  cannot 
be  ultimately  defeated ;  tongues,  like  gov- 
ernments, have  a  natural  tendency  to  de- 
generation :  we  have  long  preserved  our 
constitution,  let  us  make  some  struggles  for 
our  language. 

In  hope  of  giving  longevity  to  that  which 
its  own  nature  forbids  to  be  immortal.  I 
have  devoted  this  book,  the  labour  of  years, 
to  the  honour  of  my  country,  that  we  may 
no  longer  yield  the  palm  of  philology,  with- 
out a  contest,  to  the  nations  of  the  conti- 
nent. The  chief  glory  of  every  people  arises 
from  its  authors :  whether  I  shall  add  any- 
thing by  my  own  writings  to  the  reputation 
of  English  literature  must  be  left  to  time: 
much  of  my  life  has  been  lost  by  the  press- 
ure of  disease  ;  much  has  been  trifled  away  ; 
much  has  always  been  spent  in  provision 
for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  me  ;  but  I 
shall  not  think  my  employment  useless  or  ig- 
noble, if  by  my  assistance,  foreign  nations  and 
distant  ages  gain  access  to  the  propagators  of 
knowledge,  and  understand  the  teachers  of 
truth  ;  if  my  labours  afford  light  to  the  repos- 
itories of  science,  and  add  celebrity  to  Bacon, 
to  Hooker,  to  Milton,  and  to  Boyle. 

When  I  am  animated  by  this  wish,  I  look 
with  pleasure  on  my  book,  however  defec- 
tive, and  deliver  it  to  the  world  with  the 
spirit  of  a  man  that  has  endeavoured  well. 
That  it  will  immediately  become  popular,  I 
have  not  promised  to  myself:  a  few  wild 
blunders  and  risible  absurdities,  from  which 
no  work  of  such  multiplicity  was  ever  free, 
may  for  a  time  furnish  folly  with  laughter, 
and  harden  ignorance  into  contempt;  but 
useful  diligence  will  at  last  prevail,  and 
there  never  can  be  wanting  some  who  dis- 
tinguish desert,  who  will  consider  that  no 
dictionary  of  a  living  tongue  ever  can  be 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


183 


perfect,  since,  while  it  is  hastening  to  pub- 
lication, some  words  ure  budding  and  some 
falling  away;  that  a  whole  life  cannot  be 
spent  upon  syntax  and  etymology,  and  that 
even  a  whole  life  would  not  be  sufficient; 
that  he  whose  design  includes  whatever  lan- 
guage can  express,  must  often  speak  of  what 
he  does  not  understand;  that  a  writer  will 
sometimes  be  hurried  by  eagerness  to  the 
end,  and  sometimes  faint  with  weariness 
under  a  task  which  Scaliger  compares  to  the 
labours  of  the  anvil  and  the  mine  ;  that  what 
is  obvious  is  not  always  known,  and  what  is 
known  is  not  always  present;  that  sudden 
tits  of  inadvertency  will  surprise  vigilance, 
slight  avocations  will  reduce  attention,  and 
casual  eclipses  of  the  inind  will  darken 
learning ;  and  that  the  writer  shall  often  in 
vain  trace  his  memory  at  the  moment  of 
need  for  that  which  yesterday  he  knew  with 
intuitive  readiness,  and  which  will  come 
uncalled  into  his  thoughts  to-morrow. 

In  this  work,  when  it  shall  be  found  that 
much  is  omitted,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that 
much  likewise  is  performed  ;  and  though  no 
book  was  ever  spared  out  of  tenderness  to 
the  author,  and  the  world  is  little  solicitous 
to  know  whence  proceeded  the  faults  of  that 
which  it  condemns,  yet  it  may  gratify  curi- 
osity to  inform  it,  that  the  English  dictionary 
was  written  with  little  assistance  of  the 
learned,  and  without  any  patronage  of  the 
great ;  not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of  retire- 
ment, or  under  the  shelter  of  academic 
bowers,  but  amid  inconvenience  and  dis- 
traction, in  sickness  and  in  sorrow.  It  may 
repress  the  triumph  of  malignant  criticism 
to  observe,  that  if  our  language  is  not  here 
fully  displayed,  I  have  only  failed  in  an  at- 
tempt which  no  human  powers  have  hith- 
erto completed.  If  the  lexicons  of  ancient 
tongues,  now  immutably  fixed,  and  com- 
prised in  a  few  volumes,  be  yet,  after  the 
toil  of  successive  ages,  inadequate  and  de- 
lusive ;  if  the  aggregated  knowledge  and 
co-operating  diligence  of  the  Italian  acade- 
micians did  not  secure  them  from  the  cen- 
sure of  Beni :  if  the  embodied  critics  of 
France,  when  fifty  years  had  been  spent  upon 
their  work,  were  obliged  to  change  its  econ- 
omy, and  give  their  second  edition  another 
form,  I  may  surely  be  contented  without  the 
praise  of  perfection,  which,  if  I  could  obtain 
in  this  gloom  of  solitude,  what  would  it 
avail  me?  I  have  protracted  my  work  till 
most  of  those  whom  I  wished  to  please  have 
sunk  into  the  grave,  and  success  and  mis- 
carriage are  empty  sounds.  I  therefore 
dismiss  it  with  frigid  tranquillity,  having 
little  to  fear  or  hope  from  censure  or  from 
praise. 

From  the  Preface  to  The  Dictionary  of  the 
£nylish  Language. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

Shakespeare  is,  above  all  writers,  at  least 
above  all  modern  writers,  the  poet  of  nature  ; 
the  poet  that  holds  up  to  his  readers  a  faith- 
ful mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His  char- 
acters are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of 
particular  places,  unpractised  by  the  rest  of 
the  world  ;  by  the  peculiarities  of  studies  or 
professions,  which  can  operate  but  upon 
small  numbers  ;  or  by  the  accidents  of  tran- 
sient fashions  or  temporary  opinions  :  they 
are  the  genuine  progeny  of  common  human- 
ity, such  as  the  world  will  always  supply, 
and  observation  will  always  find.  His  per- 
sons act  and  think  by  the  influence  of  those 
general  passions  and  principles  by  which  all 
minds  are  agitated,  and  the  whole  system  of 
life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the  writings 
of  other  poets  a  character  is  too  often  an 
individual ;  in  those  of  Shakespeare  it  is 
commonly  a  species. 

It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design 
that  so  much  instruction  is  derived.  It  is 
this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shakespeare 
with  practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom. 
It  was  said  of  Euripides  that  every  verse 
was  a  precept ;  and  it  may  be  said  of  Shake- 
speare that  from  his  works  may  be  collected 
a  system  of  civil  and  ceconomical  prudence. 
Yet  his  real  power  is  not  shown  in  the 
splendour  of  particular  passages,  but  by  the 
progress  of  his  fable  and  the  tenour  of  his 
dialogue ;  and  he  that  tries  to  recommend 
him  by  select  quotations  will  succeed  like  the 
pedant  in  Ilierocles,  who.  when  he  offered 
his  house  to  sale,  carried  a  brick  in  his 
pocket  as  a  specimen. 

It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much 
Shakespeare  excels  in  accommodating  his 
sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  comparing 
him  with  other  authors.  It  was  observed 
of  the  ancient  schools  of  declamation,  that 
the  more  diligently  they  were  frequented 
the  more  was  the  student  disqualified  for 
the  world,  because  he  found  nothing  there 
which  he  should  ever  meet  in  any  other 
place.  The  same  remark  maybe  applied  to 
every  stage  but  that  of  Shakespeare.  The 
theatre,  when  it  is  under  any  other  direc- 
tion, is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were 
never  seen,  conversing  in  a  language  which 
was  never  heard,  upon  topics  which  will 
never  arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind. 
But  the  dialogue  of  this  author  is  often  so 
evidently  determined  by  the  incident  which 
produces  it.  and  is  pursued  with  so  much 
ease  and  simplicity,  that  it  seems  scarcely  to 
claim  the  merit  of  fiction,  but  to  have  been 
gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of  common 
conversation  and  common  occurrences. 

Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent 
is  love,  by  whose  power  all  good  and  evil  is 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


distributed,  and  every  action  quickened  or 
retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a 
rival  into  the  fable  ;  to  entangle  them  in 
contradictory  obligations,  perplex  them  with 
oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with 
violence  of  desires  inconsistent  with  each 
other ;  to  make  them  meet  in  rapture,  and 
part  in  agony  ;  to  till  their  mouths  with  hy- 
perbolical joy  and  outrageous  sorrow ;  to 
distress  them  as  nothing  human  ever  was  dis- 
tressed ;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing  human 
ever  was  delivered  ;  is  the  business  of  a 
modern  dramatist.  For  this,  probability  is 
violated,  life  is  misrepresented,  and  language 
is  depraved.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many 
passions  :  and  as  it  has  no  greater  influence 
upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation 
in  the  dramas  of  a  poet  who  caught  his  ideas 
from  the  living  world,  and  exhibited  only 
what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew  that 
any  other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exor- 
bitant, was  a  cause  of  happiness  or  calamity. 

Characters  thus  ample  and  general  were 
not  easily  discriminated  and  preserved  ;  yet 
perhaps  no  poet  ever  kept  his  personages 
more  distinct  from  each  other.  I  will  not 
say  with  Pope,  that  every  speech  may  be  as- 
signed to  the  proper  speaker,  because  many 
speeches  there  are  which  have  nothing  char- 
acteristical :  but,  perhaps,  though  some  may 
be  equally  adapted  to  every  person,  it  will 
be  difficult  to  find  any  that  can  be  properly 
transferred  from  the  present  possessor  to 
another  claimant.  The  choice  is  right,  when 
there  is  reason  for  choice. 

Other  dramatists  can  only  gain  attention 
by  hyperbolical  or  aggravated  characters,  by 
fabulous  and  unexampled  excellence  or  de- 
pravity, as  the  writers  of  barbarous  romances 
invigorated  the  reader  by  a  giant  and  a  dwarf; 
and  he  that  should  form  his  expectations  of 
human  affairs  from  the  play,  or  from  the  tale, 
would  be  equally  deceived. 

Shakespeare  has  no  heroes;  his  scenes 
are  occupied  only  by  men  who  act  and  speak 
as  the  reader  thinks  that  he  should  himself 
have  spoken  or  acted  on  the  same  occasion  : 
even  where  the  agency  is  supernatural,  the 
dialogue  is  level  with  life.  Other  writers 
disguise  the  most  natural  passions  and  most 
frequent  incidents  ;  so  that  he  who  contem- 
plates them  in  the  book  will  not  know  them  in 
the  world  :  Shakespeare  approximates  the  re- 
mote, and  familiarizes  the  wonderful  :  the 
event  which  ho  represents  will  not  happen  ; 
but,  if  it  were  possible,  its  effects  would 
probably  be  such  as  he  has  assigned  ;  and  it 
may  be  said  that  he  has  not  only  shown 
human  nature  as  it  acts  in  real  exigencies, 
but  as  it  would  be  found  in  trials  to  which 
it  cannot  be  exposed. 

This  therefore  is  the  praise  of  Shakespeare : 
that  his  drama  is  the  mirror  of  life  ;  that  he 


who  has  mazed  his  imagination,  in  following 
the  phantoms  which  other  writers  raise  up 
before  him,  may  here  be  cured  of  his  deliri- 
ous ecstacies,  by  reading  human  sentiments 
in  human  language,  by  scenes  from  which  a 
hermit  may  estimate  the  transactions  of  the 
world,  and  a  confessor  predict  the  progress 
of  the  passions. 

His  adherence  to  general  nature  has  ex- 
posed him  to  the  censure  of  critics  who 
form  their  judgments  upon  narrower  prin- 
ciples. Dennis  and  Rymer  think  his  Romans 
not  sufficiently  Roman  ;  and  Voltaire  cen- 
sures his  kings  as  not  completely  royal. 
Dennis  is  offended  that  Menenius,  a  senator 
of  Rome,  should  play  the  buffoon  ;  and  Vol- 
taire perhaps  thinks  decency  violated  when 
the  Danish  usurper  is  represented  as  a 
drunkard.  But  Shakespeare  always  makes 
nature  predominate  over  accident ;  and  if  he 
preserves  the  essential  character  is  not  very 
careful  of  distinctions  superinduced  and  ad- 
ventitious. His  story  requires  Romans  or 
Kings,  but  he  thinks  only  on  men.  He 
knew  that  Rome,  like  every  other  city,  had 
men  of  all  dispositions;  and  wanting  a  buf- 
foon, he  went  into  the  senate-house  for  that 
which  the  senate-house  would  certainly  have 
afforded  him.  He  was  inclined  to  show  an 
usurper  and  a  murderer  not  only  odious  but 
despicable;  he  therefore  added  drunkenness 
to  his  other  qualities,  knowing  that  kings 
love  wine  like  other  men,  and  that  wine 
exerts  its  natural  power  over  kings.  These 
are  the  petty  cavils  of  petty  minds:  a  poet 
overlooks  the  casual  distinction  of  country 
and  condition,  as  a  painter,  satisfied  with  the 
figure,  neglects  the  drapery. 

The  censure  which  he  has  incurred  by 
mixing  comic  and  tragic  scenes,  as  it  extends 
to  all  his  works,  deserves  more  considera- 
tion. Let  the  fact  be  first  stated,  and  then 
examined. 

Shakespeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigor- 
ous and  critical  sense,  either  tragedies  or 
comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  distinct 
kind  :  exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary 
nature,  which  partakes  of  good  and  evil, 
joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endless  va- 
riety of  proportion,  and  innumerable  modes 
of  combination  ;  and  expressing  the  course 
of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one  is  the 
gain  of  another  ;  in  which,  at  the  same  time, 
the  reveller  is  hastening  to  his  wine,  tind  the 
mourner  burying  his  friend:  in  which  the 
malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the 
frolic  of  another  ;  and  many  mischiefs  and 
many  benefits  are  done  and  hindered  without 
design. 

Out  of  this  chaos  of  mingled  purposes 
and  casualties  the  ancient  poets,  according 
to  the  laws  which  custom  had  prescribed, 
selected  some  the  crimes  of  men,  and  some 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


185 


their  absurdities  ;  some  the  momentous  vicis- 
situdes of  life,  and  some  the  lighter  occur- 
rences; some  the  terrors  of  distress,  and  some 
the  gaieties  of  prosperity.  Thus  rose  the 
two  modes  of  imitation,  known  by  the  names 
of  tragedy  and  comedy,  compositions  intended 
to  promote  different  ends  by  contrary  means, 
and  considered  as  so  little  allied,  that  I  do 
not  recollect  among  the  Greeks  or  Romans  a 
single  writer  who  attempted  both. 

Shakespeare  has  united  the  powers  of  ex- 
citing laughter  and  sorrow,  not  only  in  one 
mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost  all 
his  plays  are  divided  between  serious  and 
ludicrous  characters ;  and  in  the  successive 
evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes  produce 
seriousness  and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity 
and  laughter. 

That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the 
rules  of  criticism  will  be  readily  allowed ; 
but  there  is  always  an  appeal  open  from 
criticism  to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is 
to  instruct ;  the  end  of  poetry  is  to  instruct 
by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled  drama  may 
convey  all  the  instruction  of  tragedy  or 
comedy  cannot  be  denied,  because  it  in- 
cludes both  in  its  alternations  of  exhibi- 
tion, and  approaches  nearer  than  either  to 
the  appearance  of  life,  by  showing  how  great 
machinations  and  slender  designs  may  pro- 
mote or  obviate  one  another,  and  the  high 
and  low  co-operate  in  the  general  system  by 
unavoidable  concatenation.  It  is  objected, 
that  by  this  change  of  scenes  the  passions 
are  interrupted  in  their  progression,  and 
that  the  principal  event,  being  not  advanced 
by  a  due  graduation  of  preparatory  incidents, 
wants  at  least  the  power  to  move,  which  con- 
stitutes the  perfection  of  dramatic  poetry. 
This  reasoning  is  so  specious  that  it  is  re- 
ceived as  true  even  by  those  who  in  daily 
experience  feel  it  to  be  false.  The  inter- 
changes of  mingled  scenes  seldom  fail  to 
produce  the  intended  vicissitudes  of  passion. 
Fiction  cannot  move  so  much  but  that  the 
attention  may  be  easily  transferred ;  and 
though  it  must  be  allowed  that  pleasing 
melancholy  be  sometimes  interrupted  by  un- 
welcome levity,  yet  let  it  be  considered  that 
melancholy  is  often  not  pleasing,  and  that 
the  disturbance  of  one  man  may  be  the  re- 
lief of  another  ;  that  different  auditors  have 
different  habitudes ;  and  that  upon  the  whole, 
all  pleasure  consists  in  variety. 

Preface  to  Johnson's  edition  of  Shake- 
speare, 1765. 

POPE'S  TRANSLATION  OF  HOMER. 
The  train  of  my  disquisition  has  now  con- 
ducted me  to  that  poetical  wonder,  the  trans- 
lation of  the  "  Iliad"  ;  a  performance  which 
no  age  nor  nation  can  pretend  to  equal.  To 
the  Greeks  translation  was  almost  unknown  ; 


it  was  totally  unknown  to  the  inhabitants 
of  Greece.  They  had  no  resource  to  the  bar- 
barians for  poetical  beauties,  but  sought  for 
everything  in  Homer,  where,  indeed,  there 
is  but  little  which  they  might  not  find.  The 
Italians  have  been  very  diligent  translators; 
but  I  can  hear  of  no  version,  unless  perhaps 
Anguillara's  Ovid  may  be  excepted,  which 
is  read  with  eagerness.  The  Iliad  of  Sal- 
vini  every  reader  may  discover  to  be  punc- 
tiliously exact;  but  it  seems  to  be  the  work 
of  a  linguist  skilfully  pedantic:  and  his 
countrymen,  the  proper  judges  of  its  power 
to  please,  reject  it  with  disgust.  Their  pre- 
decessors, the  Romans,  have  left  some  speci- 
mens of  translation  behind  them,  and  that 
employment  must  have  had  some  credit  in 
which  Tully  and  Germanicus  engaged  ;  but 
unless  we  suppose,  what  is  perhaps  true,  that 
the  plays  of  Terence  were  versions  of  Me- 
nander,  nothing  translated  seems  ever  to 
have  risen  to  high  reputation.  The  French, 
in  the  meridian  hour  of  their  learning,  were 
very  laudably  industrious  to  enricli  their  own 
language  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients ; 
but  found  themselves  reduced,  by  whatever 
necessity,  to  turn  the  Greek  and  Roman 
poetry  into  prose.  Whoever  could  read  an 
author  could  translate  him.  From  such 
rivals  little  can  be  feared. 

The  chief  help  of  Pope  in  this  audacious 
undertaking  was  drawn  from  the  versions  of 
Dryden.  Virgil  had  borrowed  much  of  his 
imagery  from  Homer;  and  part  of  the  debt 
was  now  paid  back  by  the  translator.  Pope 
searched  the  pages  of  Dryden  for  happy 
combinations  of  heroic  diction  ;  but  it  will 
not  be  denied  that  he  added  much  to  what 
he  found.  lie  cultivated  our  language  with 
so  much  diligence  and  art  that  he  has  left 
in  his  "  Homer"  a  treasure  of  poetical  ele- 
gancies to  posterity.  His  version  may  be 
said  to  have  tuned  the  English  tongue  ;  for 
since  its  appearance  no  writer,  however  de- 
ficient in  other  powers,  has  wanted  melody. 
Such  a  series  of  lines,  so  elaborately  cor- 
rected, and  so  sweetly  modulated,  took  pos- 
session of  the  public  ear:  the  vulgar  was 
enamoured  of  the  poem,  and  the  learned 
wondered  at  the  translation.  But  in  the 
most  general  applause  discordant  voices  will 
always  be  heard.  It  has  been  objected  by 
some,  who  wish  to  be  numbered  among  the 
sons  of  learning,  that  Pope's  version  of 
Homer  is  not  Homerical;  that  it  exhibits 
no  resemblance  of  the  original  and  char- 
acteristic manner  of  the  Father  of  Poetry, 
as  it  wants  his  artless  grandeur,  his  unaf- 
fected majesty. 

[Bentley  was  one  of  these.  He  and  Pope 
soon  after  the  publication  of  Homer,  met  at 
Dr.  Mead's  at  dinner ;  when  Pope,  desirous 
of  his  opinion  of  the  translation,  addressed 


186 


THOMAS  REID. 


him  thus  :  "  Dr.  Bentley,  I  ordered  my  book- 
seller to  send  you  your  books :  I  hope  you 
received  them."  Bentley,  who  had  purposely 
avoided  suying  anything  about  Homer,  pre- 
tended not  to  understand  him,  and  asked, 
'"Books!  books!'  what  books?"  "My 
Homer,"  replied  Pope,  ''  which  you  did  me 
the  honour  to  subscribe  for."  "Oh,"  said 
Bentley,  "  ay,  now  I  recollect — your  trans- 
lation :  It  is  a  pretty  poem,  Mr.  Pope:  but 
you  must  not  call  it  Homer."] 

This  cannot  be  totally  denied  :  but  it  must 
be  remembered  that  necessitas  quod  cogit  de- 
fendit :  that  may  be  lawfully  done  which 
cannot  be  forborne.  Time  and  place  will 
always  enforce  regard.  In  estimating  this 
translation  consideration  must  be  had  of  the 
nature  of  our  language,  the  form  of  our 
metre,  and,  above  all,  of  the  change  which 
two  thousand  years  have  made  in  the  modes 
of  life  and  the  habits  of  thought.  Virgil 
wrote  in  a  language  of  the  same  general 
fabric  with  that  of  Homer,  in  verses  of  the 
same  measure,  and  in  age  nearer  to  Homer's 
time  by  eighteen  hundred  years;  yet  he 
found,  even  then,  the  state  of  the  world  so 
much  altered,  and  the  demand  for  elegance 
so  much  increased,  that  mere  nature  would 
be  endured  no  longer;  and  perhaps,  in  the 
multitude  of  borrowed  passages,  very  few 
can  be  shown  which  he  has  not  embellished. 

Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent  English  Poets  : 
Pope. 

THOMAS  REID,  D.D., 

born  1710.  was  presented  to  the  living  of 
New  Machar,  Aberdeenshire,  1737,  was  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  Philosophy  in  King's  Col- 
lege, Aberdeen,  1752  to  1781,  and  died  1796. 
His  best  known  works  are  Essays  on  the  In- 
tellectual Powers  of  Man,  Edin.,  1785,4to,  and 
Essays  on  the  Active  Powers  of  Man,  Edin., 
1788,  4to  ;  both,  Dubl.,  1790,  3  vols.  8vo,  and 
other  editions.  Sir  William  Hamilton  pub- 
lished a  portion  of  Keid's  Writings,  Lond. 
and  Edin.,  184(5,  8vo,  pp.  914,  5th  edit.,  1858, 
8vo,  not  completed  in  that  shape,  but  super- 
seded by  The  Works  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.D., 
now  fully  collected,  etc.,  6th  edit.,  Edin.,  1863, 
2  vols.  8vo,  pp.  xxiii.  1034,  30*. ;  Supplement- 
ary Part,  to  complete  former  Editions,  1863, 
8vo,  5s. 

"  The  great  aim  of  Reid's  philosophy,  then,  was 
to  investigate  the  true  theory  of  perception  ;  to 
controvert  the  representiitionalist  hypothesis,  as 
held  in  one  sense  or  another  by  almost  all  pre- 
ceding philosophers;  and  to  stay  the  progress 
•which  scepticism,  aided  by  this  hypothesis,  was  so 
rapidly  making.  .  .  .  That  Reid  has  done  much 
for  the  advancement  of  mental  science  is  almost 
universally  admitted :  to  complain  thiit  he  did  not 
accomplish  more,  or  follow  out  the  track  which  he 
opened  to  its  furthest  results,  is  perhaps  unreason- 


able ;  since  we  ought  rather  to  look  for  the  com- 
pletion of  his  labours  from  the  hands  of  his  fol- 
lowers, than  demand  from  himself  at  once  the 
foundation  and  the  superstructure." — MORELL: 
Hiet.  of  Mod.  /'kilo*.,  2d  edit.,  Lond.,  1847,  i.  281- 
295.  See  also  65,  128-132;  ii.  3-5,  50,  69. 

"  Thomas  Reid,  a  sincere  inquirer  after  truth, 
who  maintained  the  existence  of  certain  principles 
of  knowledge,  independent  of  experience,  and 
treated  moral  philosophy  as  the  science  of  the 
human  mind,  allowing  it,  however,  no  other 
foundation  than  that  of  Common  Sense,  or  a 
species  of  Intellectual  Instinct." — TBXXEMAXX : 
Manual  of  The  Hist,  of  Philos.,  trans,  by  Johnson, 
Oxf.,  1832,  382. 

KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE   MIND  AND   ITS   FAC- 
ULTIES. 

Since  we  ought  to  pay  no  regard  to 
hypothesis,  and  to  be  very  suspicious  of 
analogical  reasoning,  it  may  be  asked,  from 
what  source  must  the  knowledge  of  the 
mind  and  its  faculties  be  drawn  ? 

I  answer,  the  chief  and  proper  source  of 
this  branch  of  knowledge  is  accurate  reflec- 
tion upon  the  operations  of  our  own  minds. 
Of  this  source  we  shall  speak  more  fully 
after  making  some  remarks  upon  two  others 
that  may  be  subservient  to  it.  The  first  of 
them  is  attention  to  the  structure  of  lan- 
guage. The  language  of  mankind  is  ex- 
pressive of  their  thoughts,  and  of  the  various 
operations  of  their  minds.  The  various 
operations  of  the  understanding,  will,  and 
passions,  which  are  common  to  mankind, 
have  various  forms  of  speech  corresponding 
to  them  in  all  languages,  which  are  the  signs 
of  them,  and  by  which  they  are  expressed  : 
and  a  due  attention  to  the  signs  may,  in 
many  cases,  give  considerable  light  to  the 
things  signified  by  them. 

There  are  in  all  languages  modes  of  speech 
by  which  men  signify  their  judgment,  or 
give  their  testimony ;  by  which  they  accept 
or  refuse  ;  by  which  they  ask  information  or 
advice ;  by  which  they  command,  or  threaten, 
or  supplicate;  by  which  they  plight  tlioir 
faith  in  promises  or  contracts.  If  such 
operations  were  not  common  to  mankind, 
we  should  not  find  in  all  languages  forms 
of  speech  by  which  they  are  expressed. 

All  languages,  indeed,  have  their  imper- 
fections,— they  can  never  be  adequate  to  all 
the  varieties  of  human  thought ;  and  there- 
fore things  may  be  really  distinct  in  their 
nature,  and  capable  of  being  distinguished 
by  the  human  mind,  which  are  not  distin- 
guished in  common  language.  We  can  only 
expect  in  the  structure  of  languages  those 
distinctions  which  all  mankind  in  the  com- 
mon business  of  life  have  occasion  to  make. 

There  may  be  peculiarities  in  a  particular 
language  of  the  causes  of  which  we  are 
ignorant,  and  from  which,  therefore,  we  can 


WILLIAM  MELMOTH. 


187 


draw  no  conclusion.  But  whatever  we  find 
common  to  all  languages  must  have  a  com- 
mon cause;  must  be  owing  to  some  common 
notion  or  sentiment  of  the  human  mind.  We 
gave  some  examples  of  this  before,  and  shall 
here  add  another.  All  languages  have  a 
plural  number  in  many  of  their  nouns;  from 
which  we  may  infer  that  all  men  have  no- 
tions, not  of  individual  things  only,  but  of 
attributes,  or  things  which  are  common  to 
many  individuals ;  for  no  individual  can 
have  a  plural  number. 

Another  source  of  information  in  this  sub- 
ject, is  a  due  attention  to  the  course  of 
human  actions  and  conduct.  The  actions 
of  men  are  effects ;  their  sentiments,  their 
passions,  and  their  affections  are  the  causes 
of  those  effects  ;  and  we  may,  in  many  cases, 
form  a  judgment  of  the  cause  from  the  effect. 
The  behaviour  of  parents  towards  their  chil- 
dren gives  sufficient  evidence  even  to  those 
who  never  had  children,  that  the  parental 
affection  is  common  to  mankind.  It  is  easy 
to  see  from  the  general  conduct  of  men  what 
are  the  natural  objects  of  their  esteem,  their 
admiration,  their  love,  their  approbation, 
their  resentment,  and  of  all  their  other 
original  dispositions.  It  is  obvious,  from 
the  conduct  of  all  men  in  all  ages,  that  man 
is  by  his  nature  a  social  animal  ;  that  he 
delights  to  associate  with  his  species;  to 
converse,  and  to  exchange  good  offices  with 
them. 

Not  only  the  actions  but  even  the  opin- 
ions of  men  may  sometimes  give  light  into 
the  frame  of  the  human  mind.  The  opin- 
ions of  men  may  be  considered  as  the  effects 
of  their  intellectual  powers,  as  their  actions 
are  the  effects  of  their  active  principles. 
Even  the  prejudices  and  errors  of  mankind, 
when  they  are  general,  must  have  some 
cause  no  less  general ;  the  discovery  of 
which  will  throw  some  light  upon  the  frame 
of  the  human  understanding. 

Essays  on  the  Intellectual  and  Active  Powers 
of  Man,  Essay  I.  Ch.  v. 


WILLIAM   MELMOTH, 

b'>rn  1710,  a  Commissioner  of  Bankruptcy, 
1756,  died  1790,  published  a  Translation  of 
the  Letters  of  Pliny  the  Consul,  with  Occa- 
sional Remarks,  Lond.,  1746.  2  vols.  8vo  ;  re- 
printed in  2  vols.  8vo  in  1747,  '48,  '57,  '70, 
'86,  '96,  1807  ;  Translations  of  the  Letters  of 
Cicero  to  several  of  his  Friends,  with  Re- 
marks, 1753,  3  vols.  8vo;  reprinted  in  3  vols. 
8vo.  1778  and  '79,  and  in  2  vols.  8vo,  1814; 
Translation  of  Cato;  or,  An  Essay  upon  Old 
Age,  and  Loelius,  or  An  Essay  on  Friend- 
ship, with  Remarks.  1773-77,  2  vols.  8vo  (the 
Cato  was  reprinted  1777,  '85,  8vo,  the  Laelius, 


1785,  8vo) ;  some  poems,  and  Letters  [74] 
on  Several  Subjects,  by  Sir  Thomas  Fitz- 
osborne  [William  Melmoth],  1740,  8 vo,  14th 
edit.,  1814,  8vo ;  Boston,  Mass.,  1805.  8vo. 
See  Memoirs  of  a  late  Eminent  Advocate 
[Win.  Melmoth,  K.C.]  and  Bencher,  etc., 
Lond.,  1796,  8vo,  pp.  72. 

"His  Translations  of  Cicero  and  Pliny  will  speak 
for  him  while  Roman  and  English  eloquence  can 
be  united." — MATHIAS:  Pursuits  of  Lit.,  1797,  edit. 
1812,  roy.  4to,  300,  n. 

"  A  translation  [of  Pliny]  supposed  to  equal  the 
original  both  in  beauty  and  tone." — DB.  ADAM 
CLARKE. 

"One  of  the  few  translations  that  are  better 
than  the  original." — DR.  WARTON,  in  a  note  on 
Pope's  works. 

REFLECTIONS  UPON  STYLE. 

The  beauties  of  style  seem  to  be  generally 
considered  as  below  the  attention  both  of  an 
author  and  a  reader.  I  know  not,  therefore, 
whether  I  may  venture  to  acknowledge,  that 
among  the  numberless  graces  of  your  late 
performance,  I  particularly  admired  that 
strength  and  elegance  with  which  you  have 
enforced  and  adorned  the  noblest  senti- 
ments. 

There  was  a  time,  however  (and  it  was  a 
period  of  the  truest  refinements),  when  an 
excellence  of  this  kind  was  esteemed  in  the 
number  of  the  politest  accomplishments  ;  as 
it  was  the  ambition  of  some  of  the  greatest 
names  of  antiquity  to  distinguish  themselves 
in  the  improvement  of  their  native  tongue. 
Julius  Caesar,  who  was  not  only  the  greatest 
hero,  but  the  finest  gentleman,  that  ever  per- 
haps appeared  in  the  world,  was  desirous  of 
adding  this  talent  to  his  other  most  shining 
endowments:  and  we  are  told  he  studied  the 
language  of  his  country  with  much  applica- 
tion :  as  we  are  sure  he  possessed  it  in  its 
highest  elegance.  What  a  loss,  Euphronius, 
is  it  to  the  literary  world  that  the  treatise 
which  he  wrote  upon  this  subject  is  perished, 
with  many  other  valuable  works  of  that  age  ! 
But  though  we  are  deprived  of  the  benefit 
of  his  observations,  we  are  happily  not  with- 
out an  instance  of,  their  effects  ;  and  his  own 
memoirs  will  ever  remain  as  the  best  and 
brightest  examplar,  not  only  of  true  gen- 
eralship, but  of  fine  writing.  lie  published 
them,  indeed,  only  as  materials  for  the  use 
of  those  who  should  be  disposed  to  enlarge 
upon  that  remarkable  period  of  the  Roman 
story;  yet  the  purity  and  gracefulness  of  his 
style  were  such  that  no  judicious  writer 
durst  attempt  to  touch  the  subject  after 
him. 

Having  produced  so  illustrious  an  in- 
stance in  favour  of  an  art  for  which  I  have 
ventured  to  admire  you,  it  would  be  imper- 
tinent to  add  a  second,  were  I  to  cite  a  less 


188 


WILLIAM  MELMOTH. 


authority  than  that  of  the  immortal  Tully. 
This  noble  author,  in  his  dialogue  concern- 
ing the  celebrated  Roman  orators,  frequently 
mentions  it  as  a  very  high  encomium,  that 
they  possessed  the  elegance  of  their  native 
language ;  and  introduces  Brutus  as  declar- 
ing that  he  should  prefer  the  honour  of 
being  esteemed  the  great  master  and  im- 
prover of  Roman  eloquence,  even  to  the 
glory  of  many  triumphs. 

But  to  add  reason  to  precedent,  and  to 
view  this  art  in  its  use  as  well  as  its  dig- 
nity: will  it  not  be  allowed  of  some  impor- 
tance, when  it  is  considered  that  eloquence  is 
one  of  the  most  considerable  auxiliaries  of 
truth?  Nothing,  indeed,  contributes  more 
to  subdue  the  mind  to  the  force  of  reason 
than  her  being  supported  by  the  powerful 
assistance  of  masculine  and  vigorous  ora- 
tory. As,  on  the  contrary,  the  most  legit- 
imate arguments  may  be  disappointed  of 
that  science  they  deserve  by  being  attended 
with  a  spiritless  and  enfeebled  expression. 
Accordingly,  that  most  elegant  of  writers, 
the  inimitable  Mr.  Addison,  observes,  in 
one  of  his  essays,  that  "  There  is  as  much 
difference  between  comprehending  a  thought 
clothed  in  Cicero's  language  and  that  of  an 
ordinary  writer,  as  between  seeing  an  ob- 
ject by  the  light  of  a  taper  and  the  light  of 
the  sun." 

It  is  surely  then  a  very  strange  conceit  of 
the  celebrated  Malebranche,  who  seems  to 
think  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  perus- 
ing a  well-written  piece  is  of  the  criminal 
kind,  and  has  its  source  in  the  weakness 
and  effeminacy  of  the  human  heart.  A  man 
must  have  a  very  uncommon  severity  of 
temper  indeed  who  can  find  anything  to 
condemn  in  adding  charms  to  truth,  and 
gaining  the  heart  by  captivating  the  ear  ; 
in  uniting  roses  with  the  thorns  of  science, 
and  joining  pleasure  with  instruction. 

The  truth  is,  the  mind  is  delighted  with  a 
fine  style  upon  the  same  principle  that  it 
prefers  regularity  to  confusion,  and  beauty 
to  deformity.  A  taste  of  this  sort  is  indeed 
so  far  from  being  a  mark  of  any  depravity 
of  our  nature,  that  I  should  rather  consider 
it  as  evidence,  in  some  degree,  of  the  moral 
rectitude  of  its  constitution,  as  it  is  a  proof 
of  its  retaining  some  relish  at  least  of  har- 
mony and  order. 

One  might  be  apt  indeed  to  suspect  that 
certain  writers  amongst  us  had  considered 
all  beauties  of  this  sort  in  the  same  gloomy 
view  with  Malebranche :  or,  at  least,  that 
they  avoided  every  refinement  in  style  as 
unworthy  a  lover  of  truth  and  philosophy. 
Their  sentiments  are  sunk  by  the  lowest 
expressions,  and  seem  condemned  to  the 
first  curse  of  creeping  upon  the  ground  all 
the  days  of  their  life.  Others,  on  the  con- 


trary, mistake  pomp  for  dignity;  and,  in 
order  to  raise  their  expressions  above  vul- 
gar language,  lift  them  up  beyond  common 
apprehensions,  esteeming  it  *  (one  should 
imagine)  a  mark  of  their  genius  that  it  re- 
quires some  ingenuity  to  penetrate  their 
meaning. 

But  how  few  writers,  like  Euphronius, 
know  how  to  hit  that  true  medium  which 
lies  between  those  distant  extremes!  How 
seldom  do  we  meet  with  an  author  whose  ex- 
pressions, like  those  of  my  friend,  are  glow- 
ing but  not  glaring,  whose  metaphors  are 
natural  but  not  common,  whose  periods  are- 
harmonious  but  not  poetical :  in  a  word, 
whose  sentiments  are  well  set,  and  shown 
to  the  understanding  in  their  truest  and 
most  advantageous  lustre. 

Fitzosbornds  Letters. 

Ox  THE  LOVE  OF  FAME. 

I  can  by  no  means  agree  with  you  in  think- 
ing that  the  love  of  fame  is  a  passion  which 
either  reason  or  religion  condemns.  I  con- 
fess, indeed,  there  are  some  who  have  repre- 
sented it  as  inconsistent  with  both  :  and  I 
remember,  in  particular,  the  excellent  author 
of  The  Religion  of  Nature  Delineated  has 
treated  it  as  highly  irrational  and  absurd. 
As  the  passage  falls  in  so  thoroughly  with 
your  own  turn  of  thought,  you  will  have  no 
objection,  I  imagine,  to  my  quoting  it  at 
large,  and  I  give  it  you,  at  the  same  time, 
as  a  very  great  authority  on  your  side.  "  In 
reality,"  says  that  writer,  "  the  man  is  not 
known  ever  the  more  to  posterity  because 
his  name  is  transmitted  to  them  :  he  doth 
not  live  because  his  name  does.  When  it  is 
said  Julius  Caesar  subdued  Gaul,  conquered 
Pompey,  &c.,  it  is  the  same  thing  as  to  say, 
The  conqueror  of  Pompey  was  Julius  Caesar, 
i.e.,  Caesar  and  the  conqueror  of  Pompey  is 
the  same  thing;  Caesar  is  as  much  known 
by  one  designation  as  by  the  other.  The 
amount  then  is  only  this :  that  the  conqueror 
of  Pompey  conquered  Pompey;  or,  rather, 
since  Pompoy  is  as  little  known  now  as 
Caesar,  somebody  conquered  somebody.  Such 
a  poor  business  is  this  boasted  immortality  ! 
and  such  is  the  thing  called  glory  among  us  ! 
To  discerning  men  this  fame  is  mere  air; 
and  what  they  despise,  if  not  shun." 

But  surely  '"Tvvere  to  consider  too  curi- 
ously," as  Horatio  says  to  Hamlet,  "  to  con- 
sider thus."  For  though  fame  with  posterity 
should  be.  in  the  strict  analysis  of  it,  no  other 
than  that  what  is  here  descri?jed,  a  mere  un- 
interesting proposition  amounting  to  nothing 
more  than  that  somebody  acted  meritori- 
ously, yet  it  would  not  necessarily  follow 
that  true  philosophy  would  banish  the  de- 
sire of  it  from  the  human  breast.  For  this 


DAVID  HUME. 


189 


passion  may  be  (as  most  certainly  it  is) 
wisely  implanted  in  our  species,  notwith- 
standing the  corresponding  object  should  in 
reality  be  very  different  from  what  it  appears 
in  imagination.  Do  not  many  of  our  most 
refined  and  even  contemplative  pleasures 
owe  their  existence  to  our  mistakes?  It  is 
but  extending  (I  will  not  say  improving) 
some  of  our  senses  to  a  higher  degree  of 
acuteness  than  we  now  possess  them,  to 
make  the  fairest  views  of  nature,  or  the 
noblest  productions  of  art,  appear  horrid 
and  deformed.  To  see  things  as  they  truly 
and  in  themselves  are,  would  not  always, 
perhaps,  be  of  advantage  to  us  in  the  intel- 
lectual world,  any  more  than  in  the  natural. 
But,  after  all,  who  shall  certainly  assure  us 
that  the  pleasure  of  virtuous  fame  dies  with 
its  possessor,  and  reaches  not  to  a  farther 
scene  of  existence?  There  is  nothing,  it 
should  seem,  either  absurd  or  unphilosophi- 
cal  in  supposing  it  possible,  at  least,  that 
the  praises  of  the  good  and  the  judicious, 
that  sweetest  music  to  an  honest  ear  in  this 
world,  may  be  echoed  back  to  the  mansions 
of  the  next:  that  the  poet's  description  of 
fame  may  be  literally  true,  and  though  she 
walks  upon  earth,  she  may  yet  lift  her  head 
into  heaven. 

But  can  it  be  reasonable  to  extinguish  a 
passion  which  nature  has  universally  lighted 
up  in  the  human  breast,  and  which  we  con- 
stantly find  to  burn  with  most  strength  and 
brightness  in  the  noblest  and  best  formed 
bosoms?  Accordingly,  revelation  is  so  far 
from  endeavouring  (as  you  suppose)  to  erad- 
icate the  seed  which  nature  has  thus  deeply 
planted,  that  she  rather  seems,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  cherish  and  forward  its  growth. 
To  be  exalted  with  honour,  and  to  be  had  in 
everlasting  remembrance,  are  in  the  number 
of  those  encouragements  which  the  Jewish 
dispensation  offered  to  the  virtuous ;  as  the 
person  from  whom  the  sacred  author  of  the 
Christian  system  received  his  birth,  is  her- 
self represented  as  rejoicing  that  all  genera- 
tions should  call  her  blessed. 

To  be  convinced  of  the  great  advantage 
of  cherishing  this  high  regard  to  posterity, 
this  noble  desire  of  an  after-life  in  the  breath 
of  others,  one  need  only  look  back  upon  the 
history  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans. 
What  other  principle  was  it  which  produced 
that  exalted  strain  of  virtue  in  those  days, 
that  may  well  serve  as  a  model  to  these  : 
Was  it  not  the  consentiens  laus  bonorum,  the 
incorrupta  vox  bene  judicantum  (as  Tally 
calls  it),  the  concurrent  approbation  of  the 
good,  the  uncorrupted  applause  of  the  wise, 
that  animated  their  most  generous  pursuits? 

To  confess  the  truth,  I  have  been  ever  in- 
clined to  think  it  a  very  dangerous  attempt  to 
endeavour  to  attempt  to  lessen  the  motives  of 


right  conduct,  or  to  raise  any  suspicion  con- 
cerning their  solidity.  The  temper  and  dispo- 
sitions of  mankind  are  so  extremely  different 
that  it  seems  necessary  they  should  be  called 
into  action  by  a  variety  of  incitements. 
Thus,  while  some  are  willing  to  wed  virtue 
for  her  personal  charms,  others  are  engaged 
to  take  her  for  the  sake  of  her  expected 
dowry,  and  since  her  followers  and  admirers 
have  so  little  hopes  from  her  in  present,  it 
were  pity,  methinks,  to  reason  them  out  of 
any  imagined  advantage  in  reversion. 
Fitzosbor  ue's  Letters. 


DAVID   HUME, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1711,  after  unsatisfac- 
tory experiences  of  the  study  of  law  and 
commerce,  came  to  London  in  1737,  and 
published  his  Treatise  of  Human  Nature, 
Lond.,  1739,  3  vols.  8vo;  Essays,  Moral  and 
Political,  and  Dialogues  concerning  Natural 
Religion,  1741-42-51-52-57,  5  vols.  12mo  ; 
Essays  and  Treatises,  3d  edit.,  1756,  4  vols. 
12rno ;  other  Essays  (see  his  Philosophical 
Works,  now  first  collected,  Edin.,  1826,  4 
vols.  8vo,  with  Additions,  Boston,  Mass., 
1854,  4  vols.  8vo)  ;  and  his  History  of  Eng- 
land, Lond.,  1754-62,  6  vols.  4to;  many  edi- 
tions. See  his  Life  and  Writings  by  T.  E. 
Ritchie,  Lond.,  18U7,  8vo  ;  Life  and  Corre- 
spondence, edited  by  J.  H.  Burton,  Edin., 
1847,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  Letters  of  Eminent  Per- 
sons to  David  Hume,  Edin.,  1849,  8vo. 

"It  was  in  his  twenty-seventh  year  that  Mr. 
Hume  published  at  London  the  Treatise  of  Human 
Nature,  the  first  systematic  attack  on  all  the  prin- 
ciples of  knowledge  and  belief,  and  the  most  for- 
midable, if  universal  scepticism  could  ever  be 
more  than  a  mere  exercise  of  ingenuity.  .  .  .  The 
great  speculator  did  not  in  this  work  amuse  him- 
self, like  Bayle,  with  dialectical  exercise:),  which 
only  inspire  a  disposition  towards  doubt,  by  show- 
ing in  detail  the  uncertainty  of  most  opinions.  He 
aimed  at  proving,  not  th;it  nothing  wns  known, 
but  that  nothing  could  be  known, — from  the  struc- 
ture of  the  understanding  to  demonstrate  that  we 
are  doomed  forever  to  dwell  in  absolute  and  uni- 
versal ignorance." — Sm  JAMES  MACKINTOSH  :  Din- 
sert.  on  the  Proyrest  of  Ethical  Pliilos.,  prefixed 
to  Enei/c.  Brit.,  nlsn  in  his  Mincell.  Work*, 

"  [HumeV]  Essays  on  Commerce,  Interest,  Bal- 
ance of  Trade,  Money,  Jealousy  of  Trade,  and 
Public  Ore  Jit,  display  the  same  felicity  of  style  and 
illustration  that  distinguish  the  other  works  of 
their  celebrated  author." — J.  R.  McCuLLOCH:  Lit, 
of  Potit.  Econ.,  Lond.,  1845,  8vo. 

As  an  historian  Hume's  carelessness  and 
inaccuracy  are  notorious: 

"  Hume  was  not,  indeed,  learned  and  well- 
grounded  enough  for  those  writers  and  investiga- 
tors of  history  who  judged  his  works  from  the 
usual  point  of  view,  because  he  was  not  only  neg- 
ligent in  the  use  of  the  sources  of  history,  but  also 


190 


DAVID  HUME. 


superficial." — SCHT.OSSER'S  Hist,  of  the  ISth  Cent., 
Udvison's  (ran*.,  Lond.,  1844,  ii.  78. 

"  Hume  is  convicted  [by  Mr.  Brodie]  of  so  many 
inaccuracies  and  partial  statements,  that  we  really 
think  his  credit  among  historians  for  correctness 
of  assertion  will  soon  be  nearly  as  low  as  it  has 
long  been  with  theologians  for  orthodoxy  of  belief." 
— Ed  in.  Rev.,  xi.  92-146  :  review  of  lii-odie. 

"  The  conversation  now  turned  upon  Mr.  David 
Hume's  style.  JOHNSON:  'Why,  sir,  his  style  is 
not  English;  the  structure  of  his  sentences  is 
French.  Now,  the  French  structure  and  the  Eng- 
lish structure  miiy  in  the  nature  of  things  be 
equally  good.  But  if  you  allow  that  the  English 
language  is  established,  he  is  wrong.  My  name 
might  originally  have  been  Nicholson  as  well  as 
Johnson  ;  but  were  you  to  call  me  Nicholson  now, 
you  would  call  me  very  absurdly.'  " — BOSWELL'S 
J<>hn*,,n,  edit.  1847,  150. 

"  The  perfect  composition,  the  nervous  lan- 
guage, the  well-turned  periods  of  Dr.  Robertson, 
inflamed  me  to  the  ambitious  hope  that  I  might 
one  day  tread  in  his  footsteps  :  the  calm  philoso- 
phy, the  careless  inimitable  beauties  of  his  friend 
and  rival  often  forced  me  to  close  the  volume  with 
a  mixed  sensation  of  delight  and  despair.1' — GIB- 
BON :  Autobiography,  in  his  Miscell.  Works. 

CHARACTER  OF  ALFRED,  KING  OF  ENGLAND. 
The  merit  of  this  prince,  both  in  public 
and  private  life,  may  with  advantage  be  set 
in  opposition  to  that  of  any  monarch  or 
citizen  which  the  annals  of  any  age  or 
nation  can  present  to  us.  He  seems,  in- 
deed, to  be  the  complete  model  of  that  per- 
fect character  which,  under  the  denomina- 
tion of  a  sage  or  wise  man,  the  philosophers 
have  been  fond  of  delineating,  rather  as  a 
fiction  of  their  imagination,  than  in  hopes 
of  ever  seeing  it  reduced  to  practice :  so 
happily  were  all  his  virtues  tempered  to- 
gether, so  justly  were  they  blended,  and  so 
powerfully  did  each  prevent  the  other  from 
exceeding  its  proper  bounds.  He  knew  how 
to  conciliate  the  most  enterprising  spirit 
with  the  coolest  moderation  ;  the  most  ob- 
stinate perseverance  with  the  easiest  flexi- 
bility ;  the  most  severe  justice  with  the 
greatest  lenity  ;  the  greatest  rigour  in  com- 
mand with  the  greatest  affability  of  deport- 
ment; the  highest  capacity  and  inclination 
for  science  with  the  most  shining  talents  for 
action.  His  civil  and  his  military  virtues  are 
almost  equally  the  objects  of  our  admiration, 
excepting  only,  that  the  former  being  more 
rare  among  princes,  as  well  as  more  use- 
ful, seem  chiefly  to  challenge  our  applause. 
Nature,  also,  as  if  desirous  that  so  bright  a 
production  of  her  skill  should  be  set  in  the 
fairest  light,  had  bestowed  on  him  all  bodily 
accomplishments, — vigour  of  limbs,  dignity 
of  shape  and  air,  and  a  pleasant,  engaging, 
and  open  countenance.  Fortune  alone,  by 
throwing  him  into  that  barbarous  age,  de- 
prived him  of  historians  worthy  to  transmit 
his  fame  to  posterity  ;  and  wo  wish  to  see 
him  delineated  in  more  lively  colours,  and 


with  more  particular  strokes,  that  we  may 
at  least  perceive  some  of  those  small  specks 
and  blemishes  from  which,  as  a  man,  it  is 
impossible  he  should  be  entirely  exempted. 
History  of  England. 

CHARACTER  OF  HENRY  VIII. 

It  is  difficult  to  give  a  just  summary  of 
this  prince's  qualities ;  he  was  so  different 
from  himself  in  different  parts  of  his  reign, 
that,  as  is  well  remarked  by  Lord  Herbert, 
his  history  is  his  best  character  and  descrip- 
tion. The  absolute  and  uncontrolled  author- 
ity which  he  maintained  at  home,  and  the 
regard  he  obtained  among  foreign  nations, 
are  circumstances  which  entitle  him  to  the 
appellation  of  a  great  prince;  while  his 
tyranny  and  cruelty  seem  to  exclude  him 
from  the  character  of  a  good  one. 

He  possessed,  indeed,  great  vigour  of 
mind,  which  qualified  him  for  exercising 
dominion  over  men :  courage,  intrepidity, 
vigilance,  inflexibility :  and  though  these 
qualities  lay  not  always  under  the  guidance 
of  a  regular  and  solid  judgment,  they  were 
accompanied  with  good  parts  and  an  exten- 
sive capacity ;  and  every  one  dreaded  a  con- 
test with  a  man  who  was  never  known  to 
yield  or  to  forgive ;  and  who  in  every  con- 
troversy was  determined  to  ruin  himself  or 
his  antagonist. 

A  catalogue  of  his  vices  would  compre- 
hend many  of  the  Avorst  qualities  incident 
to  human  nature  :  violence,  cruelty,  profu- 
sion, rapacity,  injustice,  obstinacy,  arro- 
gance, bigotry,  presumption,  caprice:  but 
neither  was  he  subject  to  all  these  vices  in 
the  most  extreme  degree,  nor  was  he  at 
intervals  altogether  devoid  of  virtues.  He 
was  sincere,  open,  gallant,  liberal,  and 
capable  at  least  of  a  temporary  friendship 
and  attachment.  In  this  respect  he  was 
unfcrtunate,  that  the  incidents  of  his  times 
served  to  display  his  faults  in  their  full 
light:  the  treatment  he  met  with  from  the 
court  of  Rome  provoked  him  to  violence; 
the  danger  of  a  revolt  from  his  superstitious 
subjects  seemed  to  require  the  most  extreme 
severity.  But  it  must  at  the  same  time  be 
acknowledged  that  his  situation  tended  to 
throw  an  additional  lustre  on  what  was 
great  and  magnanimous  in  his  character. 

The  emulation  between  the  Emperor  and 
the  French  King  rendered  his  alliance,  not- 
withstanding his  impolitic  conduct,  of  great 
importance  to  Europe.  The  extensive  powers 
of  his  prerogative,  and  the  submission,  not 
to  say  slavish  disposition  of  his  parliament, 
made  it  more  easy  for  him  to  assume  and 
maintain  that  entire  dominion  by  which  his 
reign  is  so  much  distinguished  in  English 
history. 

It  may  seem  a  little  extraordinary  that 


DAVID   HUME. 


191 


notwithstanding  his  cruelty,  his  extortion, 
his  violence,  his  arbitrary  administration, 
this  prince  not  only  acquired  the  regard  of 
his  subjects,  but  never  was  the  object  of  their 
hatred  :  he  seems  even,  in  some  degree,  to 
have  possessed  their  love  and  affection.  His 
exterior  qualities  were  advantageous,  and  fit 
to  captivate  the  multitude  ;  his  magnificence 
and  personal  bravery  rendered  him  illustri- 
ous to  vulgar  eyes;  and  it  may  be  said  with 
truth,  that  the  English  in  that  age  were  so 
thoroughly  subdued  that,  like  eastern  slaves, 
they  were  inclined  to  admire  even  those  acts 
of  violence  and  tyranny  which  were  exer- 
cised over  themselves,  and  at  their  own  ex- 
pense. 

History  of  England. 

CHARACTER  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

Some  incidents  happened  which  revived 
her  tenderness  for  Essex,  and  filled  her  with 
the  deepest  sorrow  for  the  consent  which  she 
had  unwarily  given  to  his  execution. 

The  Earl  of  Essex,  after  his  return  from 
the  fortunate  expedition  against  Cadiz,  ob- 
serving the  increase  of  the  queen's  fond 
attachment  towards  him,  took  occasion  to 
regret  that  the  necessity  of  the  service  re- 
quired him  often  to  be  absent  from  her  per- 
son, and  exposed  him  to  all  those  ill  offices 
which  his  enemies,  more  assiduous  in  their 
attendance,  could  employ  against  him.  She 
was  moved  with  this  tender  jealousy ;  and 
making  him  the  present  of  a  ring,  desired 
him  to  keep  that  pledge  of  her  affection, 
and  assured  him  that  into  whatever  disgrace 
he  should  full,  whatever  prejudices  she  might 
be  induced  to  entertain  against  him,  yet  if 
he  sent  her  that  ring,  she  would  immediately 
upon  sight  of  it  recall  her  former  tenderness, 
would  afford  him  a  patient  hearing,  and 
would  lend  a  favourable  ear  to  his  apology. 
Essex,  notwithstanding  all  his  misfortunes, 
reserved  this  precious  gift  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity ;  but  after  his  trial  and  condemna- 
tion he  resolved  to  try  the  experiment,  and 
he  committed  the  ring  to  the  Countess  of 
Nottingham,  whom  he  desired  to  deliver  it 
to  the  queen.  The  countess  was  prevailed 
on  by  her  husband,  the  mortal  enemy  of 
Essex,  not  to  execute  the  commission;  and 
Elizabeth,  who  still  expected  that  her  fa- 
vourite would  make  this  last  appeal  to  her 
tenderness,  and  who  ascribed  the  neglect  of 
it  to  his  invincible  obstinacy,  was,  after  much 
delay  and  many  internal  combats,  pushed  by 
resentment  and  policy  to  sign  the  warrant 
for  his  execution.  The  Countess  of  Notting- 
ham falling  into  sickness,  and  affected  with 
the  near  approach  of  death,  was  seized  with 
remorse  for  her  conduct ;  and  having  ob- 
tained a  visit  from  the  queen,  she  craved 
her  pardon,  and  revealed  to  her  the  fatal 


secret.  The  queen,  astonished  with  this  in- 
cident, burst  into  a  furious  passion:  she 
shook  the  dying  countess  in  her  bed  ;  and 
crying  to  her  that  Goil  might  pardon  her, 
but  she  never  could,  she  broke  from  her, 
and  thenceforth  resigned  herself  over  to  the 
deepest  and  most  incurable  melancholy.  She 
rejected  all  consolation  :  she  even  refused 
food  and  sustenance  ;  and,  throwing  herself 
on  the  floor,  she  remained  sullen  and  im- 
movable, feeding  her  thoughts  on  her  afflic- 
tions, and  declaring  life  and  existence  an 
insufferable  burden  to  her.  Few  words  she 
uttered  ;  and  they  were  all  expressive  of 
some  inward  grief  which  she  cared  not  to 
reveal :  but  sighs  and  groans  were  the  chief 
vent  which  she  gave  to  her  despondency,  and 
which,  though  they  discovered  her  sorrows, 
were  never  able  to  ease  or  assuage  them. 
Ten  days  and  nights  she  lay  upon  the 
carpet,  leaning  on  cushions  which  her  maids 
brought  her ;  and  her  physicians  could  not 
persuade  her  to  allow  herself  to  be  put  to 
bed,  much  less  to  make  trial  of  any  remedies 
which  they  prescribed  to  her.  Her  anxious 
mind  at  last  had  so  long  preyed  on  her  frail 
body,  that  her  end  was  visibly  approaching; 
and  the  council  being  assembled,  sent  the 
keeper,  admiral,  and  secretary  to  know  her 
will  with  regard  to  her  successor.  She  an- 
swered with  a  faint  voice  that  as  she  had 
held  a  regal  sceptre,  she  desired  no  other 
than  a  royal  successor.  Cecil  requesting 
her  to  explain  herself  more  particularly, 
she  subjoined  that  she  would  have  a  king 
to  succeed  her;  and  who  should  that  be  but 
her  nearest  kinsman,  the  King  of  Scots? 
Being  then  advised  by  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury  to  fix  her  thoughts  upon  God, 
she  replied  that  she  did  so,  nor  did  her  mind 
in  the  least  wander  from  him.  Her  voice 
soon  after  left  her;  her  senses  failed;  she 
fell  into  a  lethargic  slumber,  which  con- 
tinued some  hours,  and  she  expired  gently, 
without  farther  struggle  or  convulsion 
(March  24),  in  the  seventieth  year  of  her 
age  and  forty-fifth  of  her  reign.  So  dark  a 
cloud  overcast  the  evening  of  that  day  which 
had  shone  out  with  a  mighty  lustre  in  the 
eyes  of  all  Europe !  There  are  few  great 
personages  in  history  who  have  been  more 
exposed  to  the  calumny  of  enemies  and  the 
adulation  of  friends  than  Queen  Elizabeth  ; 
and  yet  there  is  scarcely  any  whose  reputa- 
tion has  been  more  certainly  determined  by 
the  unanimous  consent  of  posterity.  The 
unusual  length  of  her  administration,  and 
the  strong  features  of  her  character,  were 
able  to  overcome  all  prejudices  ;  and  oblig- 
ing her  detractors  to  abate  much  of  their 
invectives,  and  her  admirers  somewhat  of 
their  panegyrics,  have  at  last,  in  spite  of  po- 
litical factions  and,  what  is  more,  of  religious 


192 


JEAN  JA  CQ  UES  R  0  USSEA  U. 


animosities,  produced  a  uniform  judgment 
•with  regard  to  her  conduct.  Her  vigour, 
her  constancy,  her  magnanimity,  her  pene- 
tration, vigilance,  nnd  address,  are  allowed 
to  merit  the  highest  praises,  and  appear  not 
to  have  been  surpassed  by  any  person  that 
ever  filled  a  throne:  a  conduct  less  rigorous, 
less  imperious,  more  sincere,  more  indulgent 
to  her  people,  would  have  been  requisite  to 
form  a  perfect  character.  By  the  force  of 
her  mind  she  controlled  all  her  more  active 
and  stronger  qualities,  and  prevented  them 
from  running  into  excess  :  her  heroism  was 
exempt  from  temerity,  her  frugality  from 
avarice,  her  friendship  from  partiality,  her 
active  temper  from  turbulency  and  vain 
ambition.  She  guarded  not  herself  with 
equal  care  or  equal  success  from  lesser  in- 
firmities,— the  rivalship  of  beauty,  the  desire 
of  admiration,  the  jealousy  of  love,  and  the 
sallies  of  anger. 

Her  singular  talents  for  government  were 
founded  equally  on  her  temper  and  on  her 
capacity.  Endowed  with  a  great  command 
over  herself,  she  soon  obtained  an  uncon- 
trolled ascendant  over  her  people;  and 
while  she  merited  all  their  esteem  by  her 
real  virtues,  she  also  engaged  their  affections 
hy  her  pretended  ones.  Few  sovereigns  of 
England  succeeded  to  the  throne  in  more 
diilicult  circumstances;  and  none  ever  con- 
ducted the  government  with  such  uniform 
success  and  felicity.  Though  unacquainted 
with  the  practice  of  toleration, — the  true 
secret  fur  maintaining  religious  factions, — 
she  preserved  her  people,  by  her  superior 
prudence,  from  those  confusions  in  which 
theological  controversy  had  involved  all  the 
neighbouring  nations :  and  though  her  ene- 
mies were  the  most  powerful  princes  of  Eu- 
rope, the  most  active,  the  most  enterprising, 
the  least  scrupulous,  she  was  able  by  her 
vigour  to  make  deep  impressions  on  their 
states ;  her  own  greatness  meanwhile  re- 
mained untouched  and  unimpaired. 

The  wise  ministers  and  brave  warriors 
who  flourished  under  her  reign  share  the 
praise  of  her  success ;  but  instead  of  lessen- 
ing the  applause  due  to  her,  they  make  great 
addition  to  it.  They  owed,  all  of  them,  their 
advancement  to  her  choice;  they  were  sup- 
ported by  her  constancy,  and  with  all  their 
abilities,  they  were  never  able  to  acquire 
any  undue  ascendant  over  her.  In  her 
family,  in  her  court,  in  her  kingdom,  she 
remained  equally  mistress:  the  force  of  the 
tender  passions  was  great  over  her,  but  the 
force  of  her  mind  was  still  superior ;  and 
the  combat  which  her  victory  visibly  cost 
her,  serves  only  to  display  the  firmness  of 
her  resolution,  and  the  loftiness  of  her  am- 
bitious sentiments. 

The  fame  of  this  princess,  though  it  has 


surmounted  the  prejudices  both  of  faction 
and  bigotry,  yet  lies  still  exposed  to  another 
prejudice,  which  is  more  durable  because 
more  natural,  and  which,  according  to  the 
different  views  in  which  we  survey  her,  is 
capable  either  of  exalting  beyond  measure 
or  diminishing  the  lustre  of  her  character. 
This  prejudice  is  founded  on  the  considera- 
tion of  her  sex.  When  we  contemplate  her 
as  a  woman,  we  are  apt  to  be  struck  with  the 
highest  admiration  of  her  great  qualities 
and  extensive  capacity  ;  but  we  are  also  apt 
to  require  some  more  softness  of  disposition, 
some  greater  lenity  of  temper,  some  of  those 
amiable  weaknesses  by  which  her  sex  is  dis- 
tinguished. But  the  true  method  of  esti- 
mating her  merit  is  to  lay  aside  all  these 
considerations,  and  consider  her  merely  as  a 
rational  being  placed  in  authority,  and  in- 
trusted with  the  government  of  mankind. 
We  may  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  our 
fancy  to  her  as  a  wife  or  a  mistress  ;  but  her 
qualities  as  a  sovereign,  though  with  some 
considerable  exceptions,  are  the  object  of 
undisputed  applause  and  approbation. 
History  of  England. 


JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU, 

born  at  Geneva,  Switzerland,  1712,  died 
1778,  was  the  author  of  many  works,  of 
which,  and  of  the  career  of  their  author,  we 
shall  make  no  attempt  to  give  a  description 
in  a  volume  of  English  selections.  A  speci- 
men of  his  style,  so  far  as  that  can  be  judged 
of  in  a  translation  (which  we  find  in  Knight's 
Half-Hours  with  the  Best  Authors,  vol.  ii, 
276-280),  we  herewith  present. 

"  Here  the  self-torturing  sophist,  wild  Rousseau, 
The  npostle  of  affliction,  he  who  threw 
Enchnntment  over  passion,  and  from  woe 
Wrung  overwhelming  eloquence,  first  drew 
The  breath  which  made  him  wretched;  yet  he 

knew 

How  to  make  madness  beautiful,  and  cast 
O'er  erring  deeds  and  thoughts  a  heavenly  hue 
Of  words,  like  sunbeams,  dnzzling  ns  they  pass'd 
The  eyes  which  o'er  them  shed  tears  feelingly  and 

fast. 
«*  «•  •*.-.#.••.« 

His  life  was  one  long  war  with  self-sought  foes, 
Or  friends  by  him  self-banished  :  for  his  mind 
Had  grown  Suspicion's  sanctuary,  and  chose 
For  its  own  cruel  sacrifice  the  kind, 
'Gainst  whom  he  raged  with  fury  strange  and 

blind: 
But   he   was   phrenzied, — wherefore,  who   may 

know? 
Since  cause  might  be  which  skill  could  never 

find: 

But  he  was  frenzied  by  disease  or  woe 
To  that  worst  pitch  of  all,  which  wears  a  reasoning 

show." 

— Chilile  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  Hi.,  stanzas 
Ivii.,  Ixxx. 


JEAN  JACQUES  ROUSSEAU. 


193 


"Though  I  see  some  tincture  of  extravagance 
in  all  his  writings,  I  also  think  I  see  so  much  elo- 
quence nnd  force  of  imagination,  such  an  energy 
of  expression,  and  such  a  boldness  of  conception,  as 
entitle  him  to  a  place  amongst  the  first  writers  of 
his  age." — DAVID  HUME.  (Quoted  in  Ein-i/c.  Brit.) 

THE  HAPPINESS   OF  SOLITUDE. 

I  can  hardly  tell  you,  sir,  how  concerned 
I  have  been  to  see  that  you  consider  me  the 
most  miserable  of  men.  The  world,  no 
doubt,  thinks  as  you  do,  and  that  also  dis- 
tresses me.  Oil  !  why  is  not  the  existence  I 
have  enjoyed  known  to  the  whole  universe  ! 
every  one  would  wish  to  procure  for  himself 
a  similar  lot,  peace  would  reign  upon  the 
earth,  man  would  no  lunger  think  of  injur- 
ing his  fellows,  and  the  wicked  would  no 
longer  be  found,  for  none  would  have  an 
interest  in  being  wicked.  But  what  then 
did  I  enjoy  when  I  was  alone?  Myself;  the 
entire  universe;  all  that  is;  all  that  can  be; 
all  that  is  beautiful  in  the  world  of  sense: 
all  that  is  imaginable  in  the  world  of  intel- 
lect. I  gathered  around  me  all  that  could 
delight  my  heart;  my  desires  were  the 
limit  of  my  pleasures.  No,  never  have  the 
voluptuous  known  such  enjoyments ;  and  I 
have  derived  a  hundred  times  more  hap- 
piness from  my  chimeras  than  they  from 
their  realities. 

When  my  sufferings  make  me  measure 
sadly  the  length  of  the  night,  and  the  agita- 
tion of  fever  prevents  me  from  enjoying  a 
single  instant  of  sleep,  I  often  divert  my 
mind  from  my  present  state  in  thinking  of 
the  various  events  of  my  life;  and  repent- 
ance, sweet  recollections,  regrets,  emotions, 
help  to  make  me  for  some  moments  forget 
my  sufferings.  What  period  do  you  think, 
sir,  I  recall  most  frequently  and  most  will- 
ingly in  my  dreams?  Not  the  pleasures  of 
my  youth  :  they  were  too  rare,  too  much 
mingled  with  bitterness,  and  are  now  too 
distant.  I  recall  the  period  of  my  seclu- 
sion, of  my  solitary  walks,  of  the  fleeting 
but  delicious  days  that  I  have  passed  entirely 
by  myself,  with  my  good  and  simple  house- 
keeper, with  my  beloved  dog,  my  old  cat, 
with  the  birds  of  the  field,  the  hinds  of  the 
forest,  with  all  nature,  and  her  inconceiv- 
able Author.  In  getting  up  before  the  sun 
to  contemplate  its  rising  from  my  garden, 
when  a  beautiful  day  was  commencing,  my 
first  wish  was  that  no  letters  or  visits  might 
come  to  disturb  the  charm.  After  having 
devoted  the  morning  to  various  duties,  that 
I  fulfilled  with  pleasure,  because  I  could 
have  put  them  off  to  another  time,  I  hast- 
ened to  dine,  that  I  might  escape  from 
importunate  people,  and  insure  a  longer 
afternoon.  Before  one  o'clock,  even  on  the 
hottest  days,  I  started  in  the  heat  of  the  sun 
with  my  faithful  Achates,  hastening  my 
13 


steps  in  the  fear  that  some  one  would  take 
possession  of  me  before  I  could  escape ;  but 
when  once  I  could  turn  a  certain  corner, 
with  what  a  beating  heart,  with  what  a 
flutter  of  joy,  I  began  to  breathe,  as  I  felt 
that  I  was  safe  ;  and  I  said,  Here  no\v  am  I 
my  own  master  for  the  rest  of  the  day  !  I 
went  on  then  at  a  more  tranquil  pace  to 
seek  some  wild  spot  in  the  forest,  some 
desert  place,  where  nothing  indicating  the 
hand  of  man  announced  slavery  and  power, 
— some  refuge  to  which  I  could  believe  I 
was  the  first  to  penetrate,  and  where  no 
wearying  third  could  step  in  to  interpose 
between  nature  and  me.  It  was  there  that 
she  seemed  to  display  before  my  eyes  an 
ever  new  magnificence.  The  gold  of  the 
broom,  and  the  purple  of  the  heath,  struck 
my  sight  with  a  splendour  that  touched  my 
heart.  The  majesty  of  the  trees  that  covered 
me  with  their  shadow,  the  delicacy  of  the 
shrubs  that  flourished  around  me.  the  .aston- 
ishing variety  of  the  herbs  and  flowers  that 
I  crushed  beneath  my  feet,  kept  my  mind 
in  a  continued  alternation  of  observing  and 
of  admiring.  This  assemblage  of  so  many 
interesting  objects  contending  for  my  atten- 
tion, attracting  me  incessantly  from  one  to 
the  other,  fostered  my  dreamy  and  idle 
humour,  and  often  made  me  repeat  to  my- 
self, No,  "even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was 
not  arrayed  like  one  of  these." 

The  spot  thus  adorned  could  not  long  re- 
main a  desert  to  my  imagination.  I  soon 
peopled  it  with  beings  after  my  own  heart,, 
and  dismissing  opinion,  prejudice,  and  all 
factitious  passions,  I  brought  to  these  sanc- 
tuaries of  nature  men  worthy  of  inhabiting, 
them.  I  formed  with  these  a  charming: 
society,  of  which  I  did  not  feel  myself  un- 
worthy. I  made  a  golden  age  according  to- 
my  fancy,  and,  filling  up  these  bright  days 
with  alTthe  scenes  of  my  life  that  had  left 
the  tenderest  recollections,  and  with  all  that 
my  heart  still  longed  for,  I  affected  myself 
to  tears  over  the  true  pleasures  of  humanity. 
— pleasures  so  delicious,  so  pure,  and  yet  so> 
far  from  men  !  Oh,  if  in  these  moments  any. 
ideas  of  Paris,  of  t4ie  age,  and  of  my  little 
author  vanity,  disturbed  my  reveries,  with 
what  contempt  I  drove  them  instantly  awayr 
to  give  myself  up  entirely  to  the  exquisite 
sentiments  with  which  my  soul  was  filled. 
Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  thin,  I  confess  the 
nothingness  of  my  chimeras  would  some- 
times appear,  and  sadden  me  in  a  moment. 
If  all  my  dreams  had  turned  to  reality,  they 
would  not  have  sufficed, — I  should  still  have 
imagined,  dreamed,  desired.  I  discovered 
in  myself  an  inexplicable  void  that  nothing 
could  have  filled, — a  certain  yearning  of  my 
heart  towards  another  kind  of  happiness, 
of  which  I  had  no  definite  idea,  but  of  which 


194 


LAURENCE  STERNE. 


I  felt  the  want.  Ah,  sir,  this  even  was  an 
enjoyment,  for  I  was  filled  with  a  lively 
sense  of  what  it  was,  and  with  a  delightful 
sadness  of  which  I  should  not  have  wished 
to  be  deprived. 

From  the  surface  of  the  earth  I  soon 
raised  my  thoughts  to  all  the  beings  of 
Nature,  to  the  universal  system  of  tilings. 
to  the  incomprehensible  Being  who  enters 
into  all.  Then,  as  my  mind  was  lost  in 
this  immensity,  I  did  not  think,  I  did  not 
reason,  I  did  not  philosophize.  I  felt,  with 
a  kind  of  voluptuousness,  as  if  bowed  down 
by  the  weight  of  this  universe ;  I  gave  my- 
self up  with  rapture  to  this  confusion  of 
grand  ideas.  I  delighted  in  imagination 
to  lose  myself  in  space;  my  heart,  confined 
within  the  limits  of  the  mortal,  found  not 
room  :  I  was  stifled  in  the  universe  ;  I  would 
have  sprung  into  the  infinite.  I  think  that, 
could  I  have  unveiled  all  the  mysteries  of 
Nature,  my  sensations  would  have  been  less 
delicious  than  was  this  bewildering  ecstasy, 
to  which  my  mind  abandoned  itself  without 
control,  and  which,  in  the  excitement  of 
my  transports,  made  me  sometimes  exclaim, 
"  Oh,  Great  Being!  oh,  Great  Being!"  with- 
out being  able  to  say  or  think  more.  Thus 
glided  on  in  a  continued  rapture  the  most 
charming  days  that  ever  human  creature 
passed  ;  and  when  the  setting  sun  made  me 
think  of  retiring,  astonished  at  the  flight  of 
time,  I  thought  I  had  not  taken  sufficient  ad- 
vantage of  my  day  :  I  fancied  I  might  have 
enjoyed  it  more ;  and,  to  regain  the  lost 
time,  I  said — I  will  come  back  to-morrow. 

I  returned  slowly  home,  my  head  a  little 
fatigued,  but  my  heart  content.  I  reposed 
agreeably  on  my  return,  abandoning  myself 
to  the  impression  of  objects,  but  without 
thinking,  without  imagining,  without  doing 
anything  beyond  feeling  the  calm  and  the 
happiness  of  my  situation.  I  found  the 
cloth  laid  upon  the  terrace:  I  supped  with 
a  good  appetite,  amidst  my  little  household. 
No  feeling  of  servitude  or  dependence  dis- 
turbed the  good  will  that  united  us  all.  My 
dog  himself  was  my  friend,  not  my  slave. 
We  had  always  the  same  wish  ;  but  he  never 
obeyed  me.  My  gaiety  during  the  whole 
evening  testified  to  my  having  been  alone 
the  whole  day.  I  was  very  different  when 
I  had  seen  company.  Then  I  was  rarely 
contented  with  others,  and  never  with  my- 
self. In  the  evening  I  was  cross  and  taci- 
turn. Tin's  remark  was  made  by  my  house- 
keeper; and  since  she  has  told  me  so  I  have 
always  found  it  true,  when  I  watched  my- 
self. Lastly,  after  having  again  taken  in 
the  evening  a  few  turns  in  my  garden,  or 
sung  an  air  to  my  spinnet,  I  found  in  iny 
bed  repose  of  body  and  soul  a  hundred  times 
sweeter  than  sleep  itself. 


These  were  the  days  that  have  made  the 
true  happiness  of  my  life, —  a  happiness 
without  bitterness,  without  weariness,  with- 
out regret,  and  to  which  I  would  willingly 
have  limited  my  existence.  Yes,  sir,  let 
such  days  as  these  fill  up  my  eternity ;  I 
do  not  ask  for  others,  nor  imagine  that  I 
am  much  less  happy  in  these  exquisite  con- 
templations than  the  heavenly  spirits.  But 
a  suffering  body  deprives  the  mind  of  its 
liberty:  henceforth  I  arn  not  alone;  I  have 
a  guest  who  importunes  me;  I  must  free 
myself  of  it  to  be  myself.  The  trial  that 
I  have  made  of  these  sweet  enjoyments 
serves  only  to  make  me  with  less  alarm 
await  the  time  when  I  shall  taste  them 
without  interruption. 

Letter  to  the  President  de  Maleshei-bes,  1762. 


LAURENCE   STERNE, 

born  1713,  on  leaving  Cambridge  obtained 
the  living  of  Sutton,  Yorkshire,  and  Jan. 
16,  1740-41,  a  prebend  in  York  Cathedral, 
and  subsequently  the  living  of  Stillington, 
Yorkshire;  curate  of  Coxwold,  Yorkshire, 
1760;  resided  chiefly  in  France,  1762-17<>7  : 
died  in  London,  1768.  He  was  the  author  of 
The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy, 
1759-1767,  9  vols.  12mo,  and  later  editions  ; 
A  Sentimental  Journey  through  France  and 
Italy,  by  Mr.  Yorick.  1768,  2  vols.  12mo; 
Sermons  collected,  1760-1769.  7  vols.,  and 
again,  1775,  6  vols.  12mo,  1777,  6  vols.  Ii2mo, 
etc.  Several  collections  of  his  Letters  were 
published,  1775,  3  vols.  12mo,  etc. :  and  col- 
lective editions  of  his  Works  appeared  1780, 
10  vols.  crown  8vo,  etc. ;  seeBohn's  Lowndcs, 
2509-251 1.  The  edition  before  us  boars  date, 
Lond.,  II.  G.  Bohn,  1853, 8vo.  His  Tristram 
Shandy  and  the  Sentimental  Journey  are  dis- 
tinguished for  wit  and  indecency. 

"  His  style  is  ...  at  times  the  most  rapid,  the 
most  haj>py,  the  most  idiomatic,  of  any  that  is  to 
be  found.  It  is  the  pure  essence  of  English  con- 
versational style.  His  works  consist  only  of  w<,r- 
ceaity, — of  brilliant  passages.  I  wonder  that  Gold- 
smith, who  ought  to  have  known  better,  rlnuM 
call  him  a  'dull  fellow.'  His  wit  is  poignant, 
though  artificial ;  and  his  characters  (though  the 
ground  work  of  some  of  them  had  boon  laid  be- 
fore) have  yet  invaluable  original  differences;  and 
the  spirit  of  the  execution,  the  master-strokes  con- 
stantly thrown  into  them,  are  not  to  be  surpassed. 
It  is  sufficient  to  name  them  : — Yorick,  Dr.  Slop,  Mr. 
Shandy,  My  Uncle  Toby,  Trim,  Susanna,  and  tho 
Widow  W adman." — HAZLITT:  Lectt.un  the  Eiiyli*h 
Comic  Writer*,  Le.ct.  VI. :  On  the  En<jlink  Kui-eli*!*. 

"  Sterne  may  be  recorded  as  at  once  one  of  the 
most  affected,  and  one  of  the  most  simple  of  writers, 
— as  one  of  the  greatest  plagiarists,  and  one  of  the 
most  ori ginal  gen  i uses,  that  Englan  d  has  produced." 
— Sm  WALTKII  SCOTT. 

"  He  fatigues  me  with  his  perpetual  disquiet, 
and  his  uneasy  appeals  to  my  risible  or  sentimental 


JOHN  HAWKESWORTH. 


195 


faculties.  lie  is  always  looking  in  my  face,  watch- 
ing his  effect,  uncertain  whether  I  think  him  an 
impostor  or  not;  posture-making,  coaxing,  and 
imploring  me.  '  See  what  sensibility  I  have — own 
now  that  I  am  very  clever — do  cry  now;  you  can't 
resist  this.'" — THACKERAY  :  Eiifjlixh  Humourists  of 
the  EiyhteeHth  Cent.,  Lect.  VI.  ;  and  see  his  Lect.  an 
C/Kiriti/  and  Humour,  his  Roundabout  Papers,  Dec. 
1862,  crown  8vo,  and  Loud.  Athen.,  1862,  ii.  739. 

Ox  NAMES. 

I  would  sooner  undertake  to  explain  the 
hardest  problem  in  Geometry  than  pretend 
to  account  for  it  that  a  gentleman  of  my 
father's  great  good  sense — knowing  as  the 
reader  must  have  observed  him,  and  curious 
too  in  philosophy, — wise  also  in  political  rea- 
soning,— and  in  polemical  (us  he  will  find) 
no  way  ignorant — could  be  capable  of  en- 
tertaining a  notion  in  his  head,  so  out  of  the 
common  track, — that  I  fear  the  reader,  when 
I  come  to  mention  it  to  him,  if  he  is  of  the 
least  of  a  choleric  temper,  will  immediately 
throw  the  book  by  ;  if  mercurial,  he  will 
laugh  most  heartily  at  it ; — and  if  he  is  of 
a  grave  and  saturnine  cast,  he  will,  at  first 
sight,  absolutely  condemn  it  as  fanciful  and 
extravagant;  and  that  was  in  respect  to  the 
choice  and  imposition  of  Christian  names, 
on  which  he  thought  a  great  deal  more  de- 
pended than  what  superficial  minds  were 
capable  of  conceiving. 

His  opinion  in  this  matter  was,  That  there 
was  a  strange  kind  of  magic  basis,  which 
good  or  bad  names,  as  he  called  them,  irre- 
sistibly impressed  upon  our  characters  and 
conduct. 

The  hero  of  Cervantes  argued  not  the 
point  with  more  seriousness, — nor  had  he 
more  faith  or  more  to  say — on  the  powers  of 
Necromancy  in  dishonouring  his  deeds, — or 
on  DULCEXIA'S  name  in  shedding  lustre  upon 
them,  than  my  father  had  on  those  of  TRIS- 
MAGISTUS  OR  ARCHIMEDES,  on  the  one  hand, 
or  of  NYKY  and  SIMKIX  on  the  other.  How 
many  CAESARS  and  POMPEYS.  he  would  say, 
by  mere  inspiration  of  the  names  have  been 
rendered  worthy  of  them  !  And  how  many, 
he  would  add,  are  there  who  might  have  done 
exceedingly  well  in  the  world  hud  not  their 
characters  and  spirits  been  totally  depressed 
and  NICODEMUS'D  into  nothing! 

I  see  plainly,  Sir,  by  your  looks  (or  as  the 
case  happened),  my  father  would  say, — that 
you  do  not  heartily  subscribe  to  this  opinion 
of  mine, — which  to  those,  he  would  add, 
who  have  not  carefully  sifted  it  to  the  bot- 
tom,— I  own  has  an  air  more  of  fancy  than 
of  solid  reasoning  in  it; — and  yet,  my  dear 
Sir,  if  I  may  presume  to  know  your  char- 
acter, I  am  morally  assured  I  should  hazard 
little  in  stating  a  case  to  you — nut  as  a  party 
in  the  dispute,  but  as  a  judge,  and  trusting 
my  appeal  upon  it  to  your  own  good  sense 


and  candid  disquisition  in  this  matter. — You 
are  a  person  free  from  as  many  narrow 
prejudices  of  education  as  most  men;  and 
— if  I  may  presume  to  penetrate  farther  into 
you — of  a  liberality  of  genius  above  bearing 
down  an  opinion  merely  because  it  wants 
friends.  Your  son  ! — your  dear  son — from 
whose  sweet  and  open  temper  you  have  so 
much  to  expect, — your  BII.LY,  Sir, — would 
you  for  the  world  have  called  him  JUDAS? 
.  .  .  Would  you,  my  dear  Sir,  he  would  sav, 
laying  his  hand  upon  your  breast  with  the 
genteelest  address, — and  in  that  soft  .and  ir- 
resistible piano  of  voice,  which  the  nature 
of  the  argument  um  ad  hominem  absolutely 
requires, — Would  you,  Sir,  if  a  Jew  of  a 
godfather  had  proposed  the  name  of  your 
child,  and  offered  you  his  purse  along  with 
it,  would  you  have  consented  to  such  a  dese- 
cration of  him? — .  .  .  . 

Your  greatness  of  mind  in  this  action, 
which  I  admire,  with  that  generous  contempt 
of  money  which  you  show  me  in  the  whole 
transaction,  is  really  noble;  —  and  what 
renders  it  more  so  is  the  principle  of  it; 
— the  workings  of  a  parent's  love  upon  the 
truth  and  conviction  of  this  very  hypothesis, 
namely,  that  was  your  son  called  JUDAS, — 
the  sordid  and  treacherous  idea  so  insepara- 
ble from  the  name  would  have  accompanied 
him  through  life  like  his  shadow,  and,  in  the 
end,  made  a  miser  and  a  rascal  of  him,  in 
spite,  Sir.  of  your  example. 

Life  and  Opinions  of  Tristram  Shandy, 
Ch.  xix. 


JOHN    HAWKESWORTH, 
LL.D., 

born  about  1715  to  1719,  died  1773,  was  the 
editor  of  The  Adventurer  (1752-1754),  and 
author  of  70  or  72  of  its  140  numbers ;  pub- 
lished some  Tales. — Edgar  and  Emmeline, 
and  Almoran  and  Hamet, — 1761  :  edited 
Swift's  Works  and  Letters,  with  his  Life 
(see  Bohn's  Lowndes,  2557) ;  was  author  of 
Zimri,  and  other  plays,  of  a  translation  of 
Telemachus,  and  ,c>f  papers  in  The  Gentle- 
man's Magazine;  and  in  1773  (3  vols.  4to) 
gave  to  the  world  an  Account  of  the  Voyages 
of  Byron,  AVallis,  Cartaret,  and  Cook,  by 
which  he  gained  £6000. 

"His  imagination  was  fertile  and  brilliant,  his 
diction,  pure,  elegant,  and  unaffected.  .  .  .  His 
manners  were  polished  and  affable,  and  his  conver- 
sation has  been  described  as  uncommonly  fascinat- 
ing."— DR.  DRAKE  :  Literary  Life  of  Dr.  haickea- 
woi-th  :  Dr.  Drake's  Essays,  vol.  v.,  q.  v. 

Ox  NARRATIVE. 

No  species  of  writing  affords  so  general 
entertainment  as  the  relation  of  events;  but 


196 


JOHN  HAWKESWORTH. 


all  relations  of  events  do  not  entertain  in 
the  same  degree. 

It  is  always  necessary  that  facts  should 
appear  to  be  produced  in  a  regular  and  con- 
nected series,  that  they  should  follow  in  a 
quick  succession,  and  yet  that  they  should 
be  delivered  with  discriminating  circum- 
stances. If  they  have  not  a  necessary  and 
apparent  connexion,  the  ideas  which  they 
excite  obliterate  each  other,  and  the  mind  is 
tantalized  with  an  imperfect  glimpse  of  innu- 
merable objects  that  just  appear  and  vanish  ; 
if  they  are  too  minutely  related  they  become 
tiresome;  and  if  divested  of  all  their  cir- 
cumstances, insipid  :  for  who  that  reads  in  a 
table  of  chronology,  or  an  index,  that  a  city 
was  swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake,  or  a 
kingdom  depopulated  by  a  pestilence,  finds 
either  his  attention  engaged  or  his  curiosity 
gratified  ? 

Those  narratives  are  most  pleasing  which 
not  only  excite  and  gratify  curiosity,  but 
engage  the  passions. 

History  is  a  relation  of  the  most  natural 
and  important  events:  history,  therefore, 
gratifies  curiosity,  but  it  does  not  often  ex- 
cite either  terror  or  pity  ;  the  mind  feels 
not  that  tenderness  for  a  falling  state  which 
it  feels  for  an  injured  beauty;  nor  is  it  so 
much  alarmed  at  the  migration  of  barba- 
rians who  mark  their  way  with  desolation 
and  fill  the  world  with  violence  and  rapine, 
as  at  the  fury  of  a  husband,  who,  deceived 
into  jealousy  by  false  appearances,  stabs  a 
faithful  and  affectionate  wife,  kneeling  at  his 
feet,  and  pleading  to  be  heard. 

Voyages  and  travels  have  nearly  the  same 
excellences,  and  the  same  defects  :  no  passion 
is  strongly  excited  except  wonder;  or  if  we 
feel  any  emotion  at  the  danger  of  the  trav- 
eller, it  is  transient  and  languid,  because  his 
character  is  not  rendered  sufficiently  impor- 
tant :  he  is  rarely  discovered  to  have  any 
excellencies  but  daring  curiosity  ;  he  is 
never  the  object  of  admiration  and  seldom 
of  esteem. 

Biography  would  always  engage  the  pas- 
sions if  it  could  sufficiently  gratify  curiosity  : 
but  there  have  been  few  among  the  whole 
human  species  whose  lives  would  furnish  a 
single  adventure:  I  mean  such  a  complica- 
tion of  circumstances  as  hold  the  mind  in  an 
anxious  yet  pleasing  suspense,  and  gradually 
unfold  in  the  production  of  some  unforeseen 
and  important  event :  much  less  such  a  series 
of  facts  as  will  perpetually  vary  the  scene, 
and  gratify  the  fancy,  with  new  views  of  life. 

But  nature  is  now  exhausted  :  all  her  won- 
ders have  been  accumulated,  every  recess  has 
been  explored,  deserts  have  been  traversed, 
Alps  climbed,  and  the  secrets  of  the  deep  dis- 
closed ;  time  has  been  compelled  to  restore 
the  empires  and  the  heroes  of  antiquity  ;  all 


have  passed  in  review  ;  yet  fancy  requires 
new  gratifications,  and  curiosity  is  still  un- 
satisfied. 

The  resources  of  Art  yet  remain  :  the 
simple  beauties  of  nature,  if  they  cannot  be 
multiplied,  may  be  compounded,  and  an  in- 
finite variety  produced,  in  which  by  the 
union  of  different  graces  both  may  be  height- 
ened, and  the  coalition  of  different  powers 
may  produce  a  proportionate  effect. 

The  Epic  Poem  at  once  gratifies  curiosity 
and  moves  the  passions;  the  events  are 
various  and  important;  but  it  is  not  the 
fate  of  a  nation,  but  of  the  hero,  in  which 
they  terminate,  and  whatever  concerns  the 
hero  engages  the  passions:  the  dignity  of 
his  character,  his  merit,  and  his  importance, 
compel  us  to  follow  him  with  reverence  and 
solicitude,  to  tremble  when  he  is  in  danger, 
to  weep  when  he  suffers,  and  to  burn  when 
he  is  wronged :  with  the  vicissitudes  of  pas- 
sion every  heart  attends  Ulysses  in  his  wan- 
derings and  Achilles  to  the  field. 

Upon  this  occasion  the  Old  Romance  may 
be  considered  as  a  kind  of  Epic,  since  it  was 
intended  to  produce  the  same  effect  upon 
the  mind  nearly  by  the  same  means. 

In  both  these  species  of  writing  truth  is 
apparently  violated:  but  though  the  events 
are  not  always  produced  by  probable  means, 
yet  the  pleasure  arising  from  the  story  is  not 
much  lessened;  for  fancy  is  still  captivated 
with  variety,  and  passion  has  scarce  leisure 
to  reflect  that  she  is  agitated  with  the  fate 
of  imaginary  beings,  and  interested  in  events 
that  never  happened. 

The  Novel,  though  it  bears  a  near  resem- 
blance to  truth,  has  yet  less  power  of  enter- 
tainment; for  it  is  confined  within  the  nar- 
rower bounds  of  probability,  the  number  of 
incidents  is  necessarily  diminished,  and  if  it 
deceives  us  more,  it  surprises  us  less.  The 
distress  is  indeed  frequently  tender,  but  the 
narrative  often  stands  still ;  the  lovers  com- 
pliment each  other  in  tedious  letters  and  set 
speeches;  trivial  circumstances  are  enumer- 
ated with  a  minute  exactness,  and  the  reader 
is  wearied  with  languid  descriptions  and  im- 
pertinent declamations. 

But  the  most  extravagant,  and  yet  per- 
haps the  most  generally  pleasing,  of  all 
literary  performances  are.  those  in  which 
supernatural  events  are  every  moment  pro- 
duced by  Genii  and  Fairies:  such  are  the 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment,  the  Tales 
of  the  Countess  d'Anois,  and  many  others 
of  the  same  class.  It  may  be  thought 
strange  that  the  mind  should  with  pleasure 
acquiesce  in  the  open  violation  of  the  most 
known  and  obvious  truths;  and  that  rela- 
tions which  contradict  all  experience,  and 
exhibit  a  series  of  events  that  are  not  only 
impossible  but  ridiculous,  should  be  read  by 


JOHN  II A  WKES  WOR  TIL 


197 


almost  every  taste  and  capacity  with  equal 
eagerness  and  delight.  .  .  . 

Dramatic  Poetry,  especially  tragedy,  seems 
to  unite  all  that  pleases  in  each  of  these 
species  of  writing,  with  a  stronger  resem- 
blance of  truth,  and  a  closer  imitation  of 
nature :  the  characters  are  such  as  excite 
attention  and  solicitude ;  the  action  is  im- 
portant, its  progress  is  intricate  yet  natural, 
and  the  catastrophe  is  sudden  and  striking  ; 
and  as  we  are  present  to  every  transaction, 
the  images  are  more  strongly  impressed,  and 
the  passions  more  forcibly  moved. 

The  Adventurer,  No.  4,  Saturday,  Novem- 
ber 18,  1752. 

HAPPINESS  AND  MISERY,  VIRTUE  AND  VICE. 

Among  other  favourite  and  unsuspected 
topics  is  the  excellency  of  virtue.  Virtue 
is  said  necessarily  to  produce  its  own  happi- 
ness, and  to  be  constantly  and  adequately 
its  own  reward ;  as  vice,  on  the  contrary, 
never  fails  to  produce  misery,  and  inflict 
upon  itself  the  punishment  it  deserves:  prop- 
ositions of  which  every  one  is  ready  to 
affirm  that  they  may  be  admitted  without 
scruple  and  believed  without  danger.  But 
from  hence  it  is  inferred  that  future  rewards 
and  punishments  are  not  necessary  either  to 
furnish  adequate  motives  to  the  practice  of 
virtue,  or  to  justify  the  ways  of  God.  In 
consequence  of  their  being  not  necessary, 
they  become  doubtful :  the  Deity  is  less  and 
less  the  object  of  fear  and  hope ;  and  as  vir- 
tue is  said  to  be  that  which  produces  ulti- 
mate good  below,  whatever  is  supposed  to 
produce  ultimate  good  below  is  said  to  be 
virtue:  right  cind  wrong  are  confounded, 
because  remote  consequences  cannot  per- 
fectly be  known  ;  the  principal  barrier  by 
which  appetite  and  passion  is  restrained  is 
broken  down ;  the  remonstrances  of  con- 
science are  overborne  by  sophistry;  and  the 
acquired  and  habitual  shame  of  vice  is  sub- 
dued by  the  perpetual  efforts  of  vigorous 
resistance. 

But  the  inference  from  which  these  dread- 
ful consequences  proceed,  however  plausi- 
ble, is  not  just;  nor  does  it  appear  from  ex- 
perience that  the  premises  are  true.  That 
li  virtue  alone  is  happiness  below,"  is  indeed 
a  maxim  in  speculative  morality,  which  all 
the  treasures  of  learning  have  been  lavished 
to  support,  and  all  the  flowers  of  wit  col- 
lected to  recommend ;  it  has  been  the  fa- 
vourite of  some  among  the  wisest  and  best 
of  mankind  in  every  generation  ;  and  is  at 
once  venerable  for  its  age  and  lovely  in  the 
bloom  of  a  new  youth.  And  yet  if  it  be  al- 
lowed that  they  who  languish  in  disease  and 
indigence,  who  suffer  pain,  hunger,  and 
nakedness,  in  obscurity  and  solitude,  are  less 


happy  than  those  who,  with  the  same  degree 
of  virtue,  enjoy  health,  and  ease,  and  plenty, 
who  are  distinguished  by  fame,  and  courted 
by  society  ;  it  follows  that  virtue  alone  is  not 
efficient  of  happiness,  because  virtue  cannot 
always  bestow  those  things  upon  which  hap- 
piness is  confessed  to  depend. 

It  is  indeed  true  that  virtue  in  prosperity 
enjoys  more  than  vice,  and  that  in  adversity 
she  suffers  less:  if  prosperity  and  adversity, 
therefore,  were  merely  accidental  to  virtue 
and  vice,  it  might  be  granted  that  setting 
aside  those  things  upon  which  moral  con- 
duct has  no  influence,  as  foreign  to  the 
question,  every  man  is  happy,  either  nega- 
tively or  positively,  in  proportion  as  he  is 
virtuous  :  though  it  were  denied  that  virtue 
alone  could  put  into  his  possession  all  that 
is  essential  to  human  felicity. 

But  prosperity  and  adversity,  affluence 
and  want,  are  not  independent  upon  moral 
conduct :  external  advantages  are  frequently 
obtained  by  vice,  and  forfeited  by  virtue  ; 
for  as  an  estate  may  be  gained  by  secreting 
a  will,  or  loading  a  die,  an  estate  may  also 
be  lost  by  withholding  a  vote,  or  rejecting 
a  job.  .  .  . 

If  it  be  possible  by  a  single  act  of  vice  to 
increase  happiness  upon  the  whole  of  life, 
from  what  rational  motives  can  the  tempta- 
tion to  that  act  be  resisted?  From  none, 
surely,  but  such  as  arise  from  the  belief  of 
a  future  state  in  which  virtue  will  be  re- 
warded and  vice  punished  :  for  to  what  can 
happiness  be  wisely  sacrificed  but  to  greater 
happiness  ?  and  how  can  the  ways  of  God 
be  justified,  if  a  man  by  the  irreparable  in- 
jury of  his  neighbour  becomes  happier  upon 
the  whole,  than  he  would  have  been  if  he 
had  observed  the  eternal  rule,  and  done  to 
another  as  he  would  that  another  should  do 
to  him?  Perhaps  I  may  be  told  that  to  talk 
of  sacrificing  happiness  to  greater  happiness, 
as  virtue,  is  absurd  ;  and  that  he  who  is  re- 
strained from  fraud  or  violence  merely  by 
the  fear  of  hell,  is  no  more  virtuous  than  he 
who  is  restrained  merely  by  the  fear  of  the 
gibbet. 

But  supposing  this  to  be  true,  yet  with 
respect  to  society  mere  external  rectitude 
answers  all  the  purposes  of  virtue  ;  and  if  I 
travel  without  being  robbed,  it  is  of  little 
consequence  to  me  whether  the  persons 
whom  I  meet  on  the  road  were  restrained 
from  attempting  to  invade  my  property  by 
the  fear  of  punishment  or  the  abhorrence  of 
vice:  so  that  the  gibbet,  if  it  does  not  pro- 
duce virtue,  is  yet  of  such  incontestable 
utility,  that  I  believe  those  gentlemen  would 
be  very  unwilling  that  it  should  be  removed, 
who  are,  notwithstanding,  so  zealous  to 
steel  every  breast  against  the  fear  of  damna- 
tion :  nor  would  they  be  content,  however 


198 


JOHN  HAWKESWORTH. 


negligent  of  their  souls,  that  their  property 
should  be  no  otherwise  secured  than  by  the 
power  of  Moral  Beauty,  and  the  prevalence 
of  ideal  enjoyments. 

The  Adventurer,  No.  10,  Saturday,  Decem- 
ber- 9,  1752. 

THE  POSITIVE  DUTIES  OF   RELIGION  AND 
MORAL  CONDUCT. 

Of  the  duties  and  the  privileges  of  reli- 
gion, prayer  is  generally  acknowledged  to 
be  the  chief :  and  yet  I  am  afraid  that  there 
are  few  who  will  not  be  able  to  recollect 
some  seasons  in  which  their  unwillingness 
to  pray  has  been  more  than  in  proportion  to 
the  labour  and  the  time  that  it  required ; 
seasons  in  which  they  would  have  been  less 
willing  to  repeat  a  prayer  than  any  other 
composition;  and  rather  than  have  spent 
five  minutes  in  an  address  to  God,  would 
have  devoted  an  equal  space  of  time  wholly 
to  the  convenience  of  another,  without  any 
enjoyment  or  advantage  to  themselves.  .  .  . 

A  man  who  lives  apparently  without  re- 
ligion declares  to  the  world  that  he  is  with- 
out virtue,  however  he  may  otherwise  con- 
ceal his  vices :  for  when  the  obstacles  to 
virtue  are  surmounted,  the  obstacles  to  re- 
ligion are  few.  AVhat  should  restrain  him 
who  has  broken  the  bonds  of  appetite  from 
rising  at  the  call  to  devotion  ?  Will  not  he 
who  has  accomplished  a  work  of  difficulty 
secure  his  reward  at  all  events,  when  to  se- 
cure it  is  easy?  Will  not  he  that  has  panted 
in  the  race  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  receive 
the  prize  ? 

It  may,  perhaps,  be  expected  that  from 
this  general  censure  I  should  except  those 
who  believe  that  all  religion  is  the  contri- 
vance of  tyranny  and  cunning;  and  that 
every  human  action  which  has  Deity  for  its 
object  is  enthusiastic  and  absurd.  But  of 
these  there  are  few  who  do  not  give  other 
evidence  of  their  want  of  virtue  than  their 
neglect  of  religion  ;  and  even  of  this  few  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  they  have  not 
equal  motives  to  virtue,  and  therefore  to  say 
that  they  have  not  equal  virtue,  is  only  to 
affirm  that  effects  are  proportionate  to  their 
causes  :  a  proposition  which,  I  am  confident, 
no  philosopher  will  deny. 

By  these  motives  I  do  not  mean  merely 
the  hope  and  fear  of  future  reward  and  pun- 
ishment; but  such  as  arise  from  the  exer- 
cise of  religious  duties,  both  in  public  and 
private,  and  especially  of  prayer. 

I  know  that  concerning  the  operation  and 
effects  of  prayer  there  has  been  much  doubt- 
ful disputation,  in  which  innumerable  meta- 
physical subtilties  have  been  introduced, 
and  the  understanding  has  been  bewildered 
in  sophistry,  and  affronted  with  jargon. 


Those  who  have  no  other  proof  of  the  fit- 
ness and  advantage  of  a  prayer  than  are 
to  be  found  among  these  speculations  are 
but  little  acquainted  with  the  practice. 

He  who  has  acquired  an  experimental 
knowledge  of  this  duty  knows  that  nothing 
so  forcibly  restrains  from  ill  as  the  remem- 
brance of  a  recent  address  to  Heaven  for 
protection  and  assistance.  After  having 
petitioned  for  power  to  resist  temptation, 
there  is  so  great  an  incongruity  in  not  con- 
tinuing the  struggle,  that  we  blush  at  the 
thought,  and  persevere,  lest  we  lose  all  rever- 
ence for  ourselves.  After  fervently  devot- 
ing our  souls  to  God,  we  start  with  horror 
at  immediate  apostacy.  Every  act  of  delib- 
erate wickedness  is  then  complicated  with 
hypocrisy  and  ingratitude :  it  is  a  mockery 
of  the  Father  of  Mercy ;  the  forfeiture  of 
that  peace  in  which  we  closed  our  address, 
and  a  renunciation  of  the  hope  which  it 
inspired. 

For  a  proof  of  this,  let  every  man  ask 
himself,  as  in  the  presence  of  "  Him  who 
searches  the  heart,"  whether  he  has  never 
been  deterred  from  prayer  by  his  fondness 
for  some  criminal  gratification  which  he 
could  not  with  sincerity  profess  to  give  up, 
and  which  he  knew  he  could  not  afterward 
repeat  without  greater  compunction.  If 
prayer  and  immorality  appear  to  be  thus 
incompatible,  prayer  should  not  surely  be 
lightly  rejected  by  those  who  contend  that 
moral  virtue  is  the  summit  of  human  per- 
fection ;  nor  should  it  be  encumbered  with 
such  circumstances  as  must  inevitably  render 
it  less  easy  and  less  frequent.  It  should  be 
considered  as  the  wings  of  the  soul,  and 
should  be  always  ready  when  a  sudden 
impulse  prompts  her  to  spring  up  to  God. 
We  should  not  think  it  always  necossury 
to  be  either  in  a  church,  or  in  our  closet,  to 
express  joy,  love,  desire,  trust,  reverence,  or 
complacency,  in  the  fervour  of  a  silent  ejacu- 
lation. Adoration,  hope,  and  even  a  petition, 
may  be  conceived  in  a  moment;  and  the 
desire  of  the  heart  may  ascend,  without 
words,  to  "Him  to  whom  our  thoughts  are 
known  afar  off."  He  who  considers  him- 
self as  perpetually  in  the  presence  of  the 
Almighty  need  not  fear  that  gratitude  or 
homage  can  ever  be  ill-timed,  or  that  it  is 
profane  thus  to  worship  in  any  circum- 
stances that  are  not  criminal. 

There  is  no  preservative  from  vice  equal 
to  this  habitual  and  constant  intercourse 
with  God:  neither  does  anything  equally 
alleviate  distress  or  heighten  prosperity  :  in 
distress,  it  sustains  us  with  hope;  and  in 
prosperity,  it  adds  to  every  other  enjoyment 
the  delight  of  gratitude. 

The  Adventurer,  Saturday,  February  10, 
1753. 


ELIZABETH  CARTER. 


199 


ELIZABETH    CARTER, 

born  1717,  died  1806,  published  in  1738 
Poems  upon  Several  Occasions,  Lond.,  4to, 
some  of  which  were  republished,  1762,  new 
editions,  1776,  1789,  8vo ;  and  subsequently 
gave  to  the  world  translations  from  Anac- 
reon,  Cronsaz,  and  Algorotti  ;  but  her  great 
work  was  All  the  Works  of  Epictetus  which 
are  now  Extant,  with  an  Introduction  and 
Notes  by  the  Translator,  Lond.,  1758,  4to, 
4th  edit,  Lond.,  1807,  2  vols.  8vo.  This  is 
an  excellent  translation.  Miss  Carter  was 
acquainted  with  Hebrew,  Greek,  Latin,  Ital- 
ian, Spanish,  French,  and  German.  See 
Memoirs  of  her  Life,  by  the  Rev.  M.  Penn- 
ington,  Lond.,  1807,  4to,  etc.  ;  her  Letters 
to  Miss  Talbot  and  Mrs.  Vesey,  1808,  2  vols. 
4to,  and  to  Mrs.  Montagu.  18l7,  3  vols.  8vo. 
Dr.  Johnson  (see  Boswell's  Johnson)  was  a 
great  admirer  of  this  learned  and  excellent 
woman. 

STOICISM  AND  CHRISTIANITY. 

Stoicism  is  indeed  in  many  points  inferior 
to  the  doctrine  of  Socrates,  which  did  not 
teach  that  all  externals  were  indifferent; 
which  did  teach  a  future  state  of  recompense  ; 
and  agreeably  to  that,  forbade  suicide.  It 
doth  not  belong  to  the  present  subject  to 
show  how  much  even  this  best  system  is 
excelled  by  Christianity.  It  is  sufficient 
just  to  observe,  that  the  author  of  it  died  in 
a  profession  which  he  had  always  made  of 
his  belief  in  the  popular  deities,  whose  su- 
perstitious and  impure  worship  were  the 
great  source  of  corruption  in  the  heathen 
world  ;  and  the  last  words  he  uttered  were 
a  direction  to  a  friend  for  the  performance 
of  an  idolatrous  ceremony.  This  melancholy 
instance  of  ignorance  and  error  in  the  most 
illustrious  character  for  wisdom  and  virtue 
in  all  heathen  antiquity  is  not  mentioned 
as  a  reflection  on  his  memory,  but  as  a  proof 
of  human  weakness  in  general.  Whether 
reason  could  have  discovered  the  great  truths 
which  in  these  days  are  ascribed  to  it,  be- 
cause now  seen  so  clearly  by  the  light  of 
the  Gospel,  may  be  a  question;  but  that  it 
never  did,  is  an  undeniable  fact ;  and  that 
is  enough  to  teach  us  thankfulness  for  the 
blessing  of  a  better  information.  Socrates, 
who  had,  of  all  mankind,  the  fairest  preten- 
sions to  set  up  for  an  instructor  and  reformer 
of  the  world,  confessed  that  he  knew  nothing, 
referred  to  tradition,  and  acknowledged  the 
want  of  a  superior  guide:  and  there  is  a 
remarkable  passage  in  Epictetus  in  which 
he  represents  it  as  the  office  of  his  supreme 
God,  or  of  one  deputed  by  him,  to  appear 
among  mankind  as  a  teacher  and  example. 

Upon    the   whole,   the    several    sects    of 


heathen  philosophy  serve  as  so  many 
striking  instances  of  the  imperfection  of 
human  wisdom  ;  and  of  the  extreme  need 
of  a  divine  assistance,  to  rectify  the  mistakes 
of  depraved  reason,  and  to  replace  natural 
religion  on  its  true  foundation.  The  Stoics 
every  where  testify  the  noblest  zeal  for  virtue 
and  the  honour  of  God ;  but  they  attempted 
to  establish  them  on  principles  inconsistent 
with  the  nature  of  man,  and  contradictory 
to  truth  and  experience.  By  a  direct  con- 
sequence of  these  principles  they  were  lia- 
ble to  be  seduced,  and  in  fact  they  were 
seduced,  into  pride,  hard-heartedness,  and 
the  last  dreadful  extremity  of  human  guilt, 
self-murder. 

But  however  indefensible  the  philosophy 
of  the  Stoics  in  several  instances  may  be, 
it  appears  to  have  been  of  very  important 
use  in  the  Heathen  world  ;  and  they  are, 
on  many  accounts,  to  be  considered  in  a  very 
respectable  light. 

Their  doctrine  of  evidence  and  fixed  prin- 
ciples was  an  excellent  preservative  from 
the  mischiefs  that  might  have  arisen  from 
the  scepticism  of  the  Academics  and  Pyr- 
rhonists,  if  unopposed  ;  and  their  zealous 
defence  of  a  particular  providence,  a  valu- 
able antidote  to  the  atheistical  scheme  of 
Epicurus.  To  this  may  be  added,  that  their 
strict  notions  of  virtue  in  most  points  (for 
tney  sadly  failed  in  some),  and  the  lives  of 
several  among  them,  must  contribute  a 
great  deal  to  preserve  luxurious  states  from 
an  absolutely  universal  dissoluteness,  and 
the  subjects  of  arbitrary  government  from  a 
wretched  and  contemptible  pusillanimity. 

Even  now,  their  compositions  may  be 
read  with  great  advantage,  as  containing 
excellent  rules  of  self-government  and  of 
social  behaviour ;  of  a  noble  reliance  on 
the  aid  and  protection  of  heaven,  and  of  a 
perfect  resignation  and  submission  to  the 
divine  will :  points  which  are  treated  with 
great  clearness,  and  with  admirable  spirit, 
in  the  lessons  of  the  Stoics:  and  though 
their  directions  are  seldom  practicable,  their 
principles,  in  trying  cases,  may  be  rendered 
highly  useful  in  subordination  to  Christian 
reflections. 

If  among  those  who  are  so  unhappy  as  to 
remain  unconvinced  of  the  truth  of  Chris- 
tianity, any  are  prejudiced  against  it  by  the 
influence  of  unwarran  table  inclinations,  such 
persons  will  find  very  little  advantage  in  re- 
jecting the  doctrines  of  the  New  Testament 
for  those  of  the  Portico;  unless  they  think 
it  an  advantage  to  be  laid  under  moral  re- 
straints almost  equal  to  those  of  the  Gospel, 
while  they  are  deprived  of  its  encourage- 
ments and  supports.  Deviations  from  the 
rules  of  sobriety,  justice,  and  piety  meet 
with  small  indulgence  in  the  stoic  writings ; 


200 


HORACE    WALPOLE. 


and  they  who  profess  to  admire  Epictetus, 
unless  they  pursue  that  severely  virtuous 
conduct  which  he  every  where  proscribes 
will  find  themselves  treated  by  him  with 
the  utmost  degree  of  scorn  and  contempt. 
An  immoral  character  is,  indeed,  more  or 
less,  the  outcast  of  all  sects  of  philosophy ; 
and  Seneca  quotes  even  Epicurus  to  prove 
the  universal  obligation  of  a  virtuous  life. 
Of  this  great  truth  God  never  left  himself 
without  witness.  Persons  of  distinguished 
talents  and  opportunities  seem  to  have  been 
raised,  from  time  to  time,  by  Providence,  to 
check  the  torrent  of  corruption,  and  to  pre- 
serve the  sense  of  moral  obligations  on  the 
minds  of  the  multitude,  to  whom  the  various 
occupations  of  life  left  but  little  leisure  to 
form  deductions  of  their  own.  But  then 
they  wanted  a  proper  commission  to  enforce 
their  precepts;  they  intermixed  with  them, 
through  false  reasoning,  many  gross  mis- 
takes; and  their  unavoidable  ignorance,  in 
several  important  points,  entangled  them 
with  doubts  which  easily  degenerated  into 
pernicious  errors. 

If  there  are  others,  who  reject  Christianity 
from  motives  of  dislike  to  its  peculiar  doc- 
trines, they  will  scarcely  fail  of  entertaining 
more  favourable  impressions  of  it,  if  they 
can  be  prevailed  on,  with  impartiality,  to 
compare  the  Holy  Scriptures,  from  whence 
alone  the  Christian  religion  is  to  be  learned, 
with  the  stoic  writings ;  and  then  fairly  to 
consider  whether  there  is  anything  to  be 
met  with  in  the  discoveries  of  our  blessed 
Saviour,  in  the  writings  of  his  apostles,  or 
even  in  the  obscurest  parts  of  the  prophetic 
books,  by  which,  equitably  interpreted, 
either  their  senses  or  their  reason  are  con- 
tradicted, as  they  are  by  the  paradoxes  of 
these  philosophers ;  and  if  not,  whether 
notices  from  above  of  things  in  which, 
though  we  comprehend  them  but  imper- 
fectly, we  are  possibly  much  more  interested 
than  at  present  we  discern,  ought  not  to  be 
received  with  implicit  veneration  ;  as  useful 
exercises  and  trials  of  that  duty  which  finite 
understandings  owe  to  infinite  wisdom. 


HORACE   WALPOLE, 

born  1717,  became  fourth  Earl  of  Orford 
1791,  and  died  1797.  He  was  the  author 
of  ./Edes  Walpolianae,  Lond..  1747.  4to ; 
Fugitive  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  Straw- 
berry Hill,  1758,  8vo ;  Catalogue  of  the 
Royal  and  Noble  Authors  of  England, 
Strawberry  Hill,  1758,  2  vols.  sin.  8vo,  by 
T.  Park.  Lond.,  180(5,  5  vols.  8vo  ;  Anecdotes 
of  Painting  in  England,  from  the  MSS.  of 
George  Virtue,  Strawberry  Hill,  1702-71 , '63, 


5  vols.  4to,  by  R.  N.  Wornum,  Esq.,  Lond., 
1839,  etc.,  3  vols.  8vo ;  The  Castle  of  Otranto, 
Lond.,  1765.  8vo;  The  Mysterious  Mother, 
a  Tragedy,  Strawberry  Ili'll,  1768,  8vo;  His- 
toric I'oubts  on  the  Life  and  Reign  of  King 
Richard  the  Third.  Lond.,  1768,  4to ;  Me- 
moirs of  the  Last  Ten  Years,  1751-1760,  of 
the  Reign  of  King  George  II.,  Lond.,  1822, 
2  vols.  royal  4to ;  Memoirs  of  the  Reign  of 
King  George  III.,  Lond.,  1845,  4  yols.  8vo ; 
Journal  of  the  Reign  of  King  George  the 
Third,  Lond.,  1859,2  vols.  demy  8vo :  and 
other  works  (see  Bonn's  Lowndes,  2818- 
2823).  A  collective  edition  of  his  Letters, 
by  Peter  Cunningham,  wras  published,  Lond., 
Bentley,  1857-59,  9  vols.  8vo,  Bohn,  1861, 
9  vols.  demy  8vo.  A  collective  edition  of 
his  Works,  edited  by  Robert  Berry  (and 
Agnes  and  Mary  Berry),  was  published, 
Lond.,  1795,  5  vols.  4  to. 

"Walpole's  '  Letters'  are  generally  considered  as 
his  best  performances,  and,  we  think,  with  reason. 
His  faults  are  far  less  offensive  to  us  in  his  cor- 
respondence than  in  his  books.  His  wild,  absurd, 
and  ever-chnnging  opinions  about  men  and  things 
are  easily  pardoned  in  familiar  letters.  His  bitter, 
scoffing,  depreciating  disposition  does  not  show 
itself  in  so  unmitigated  a  manner  as  in  his  '  Me- 
moirs.' A  writer  of  letters  must  be  civil  and 
friendly  to  his  correspondent,  at  least,  if  to  no 
other  person." — LORD  MACAULAY  :  Edi*.  Jtev., 
Iviii.  240,  and  in  his  Essays. 

TIIE  SCOTTISH  REBELLIOX. 

The  rebels  are  come  into  England  :  for 
two  days  we  believed  them  near  Lancaster, 
but  the  ministry  must  own  that  they  don't 
know  if  they  have  passed  Carlisle.  Some 
think  that  they  will  besiege  that  town, 
which  has  an  old  wall,  and  all  the  militia 
in  it  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  ;  but 
as  they  can  pass  by  it,  I  don't  see  why  they 
should  take  it,  for  they  are  not  strong  enough 
to  leave  garrisons.  Several  desert  them  as 
they  advance  south  ;  and  altogether,  good 
men  and  bad,  nobody  believes  them  ten 
thousand.  By  their  marching  westward  to 
avoid  Wade,  it  is  evident  that  they  are  not 
strong  enough  to  fight  him. 

They  may  yet  retire  back  into  their  moun- 
tains, but  if  once  they  get  to  Lancaster  their 
retreat  is  cut  off;  for  Wade  will  not  stir  from 
Newcastle  till  he  has  embarked  them  deep 
into  England,  and  then  he  will  be  behind 
them.  He  has  sent  General  Ilandasyde  from 
Berwick  with  two  regiments  to  take  posses- 
sion of  Edinburgh.  The  rebels  are  certainly 
in  a  very  desperate  situation  :  they  dared  not 
meet  Wade  ;  and  if  they  had  waited  for  him 
their  troops  would  have  deserted.  Unless 
they  meet  with  great  risings  in  their  favour 
in  Lancashire,  I  don't  see  what  they  can 
hope,  except  from  a  continuation  of  our 
neglect.  That,  indeed,  has  nobly  exerted 


HORACE    W ALP  OLE. 


201 


itself  for  them.  They  were  suffered  to 
inarch  the  whole  length  of  Scotland,  and 
take  possession  of  the  capital,  without  a 
man  appearing  against  them.  Then  two 
thousand  sailed  to  them,  to  run  from  them. 
Till  the  flight  of  Cope's  army,  Wade  was 
not  sent.  Two  roads  still  lay  into  England, 
and  till  they  had  chosen  that  which  Wade 
had  not  taken,  no  army  was  thought  of  being 
sent  to  secure  the  other.  Now  Ligonier,  with 
seven  old  regiments,  and  six  of  the  new,  is 
ordered  to  Lancashire ;  before  this  first  di- 
vision of  the  army  could  get  to  Coventry, 
they  are  forced  to  order  it  to  halt,  for  fear 
the  enemy  should  be  up  with  it  before  it 
was  all  assembled.  It  is  uncertain  if  the 
rebels  will  march  to  the  north  of  AVales,  to 
Bristol,  or  towards  London.  If  to  the  latter, 
Ligonier  must  fight  them  ;  if  to  either  of 
the  other,  which  I  hope,  the  two  armies  may 
join  and  drive  them  into  a  corner,  where 
they  must  all  perish.  They  cannot  subsist 
in  Wales,  but  by  being  supplied  by  the 
Papists  in  Ireland.  The  best  is,  that  we 
are  in  no  fear  from  France  ;  there  is  no  prep- 
aration for  invasions  in  any  of  their  ports. 
Lord  Clantary,  a  Scotchman  [Irishman]  of 
great  parts,  but  mad  and  drunken,  and 
whose  family  forfeited  £90.000  a  year  for 
King  James,  is  made  vice-admiral  at  Brest. 
The  Duke  of  Bedford  goes  in  his  little  round 
person  with  his  regiment ;  he  now  takes  to 
the  land,  and  says  he  is  tired  of  being  a  pen- 
and-ink-man.  Lord  Gower  insisted,  too,  upon 
going  with  his  regiment,  but  is  laid  up  with 
the  gout. 

With  the  rebels  in  England  you  may  im- 
agine we  have  no  private  news,  nor  think  of 
foreign.  From  this  account  you  may  judge 
that  our  case  is  far  from  desperate,  though 
disagreeable.  The  prince  [Ferdinand  of 
Wales],  while  the  princess  lies-in,  has  taken 
to  give  dinners,  to  which  he  asks  two  of  the 
ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  two  of  the  maids 
of  honour,  &c.,  by  turns,  and  five  or  six 
Others. 

To  Sir  Horace  Mann,  Nov.  15,  1743. 

LONDOX  EARTHQUAKES,  ETC. 

"  Portents  and  prodigies  arc  grown  so  frequent 
That  they  have  lost  their  name." — DRYDEN. 

My  text  is  not  literally  true  ;  but  as  far  as 
earthquakes  go  towards  lowering  the  price 
of  wonderful  commodities,  to  be  sure  we 
are  overstocked.  We  have  had  a  second, 
much  more  violent  than  the  first;  and  you 
must  not  be  surprised  if,  by  next  post,  you 
hear  of  a  burning  mountain  sprung  up  in 
Smitlifield.  In  the  night  between  Wednes- 
day and  Thursday  last  (exactly  a  month 
since  the  first  shock),  the  earth  had  a  shiv- 
ering fit  between  one  and  two,  but  so  slight 


that,  if  no  more  had  followed,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  would  have  been  noticed.  I  had 
been  awake,  and  had  scarce  dozed  again — 
on  a  sudden  I  felt  my  bolster  lift  up  my 
head  :  I  thought  somebody  was  getting  from 
under  my  bed,  but  soon  found  it  was  a  strong 
earthquake  that  lasted  near  half  a  minute, 
with  a  violent  vibration  and  great  roaring. 
I  rang  my  bell ;  my  servant  came  in,  fright- 
ened out  of  his  senses :  in  an  instant  we 
heard  all  the  windows  in  the  neighbourhood 
flung  up.  I  got  up  and  found  people  run- 
ning into  the  streets,  but  saw  no  mischief 
done  :  there  has  been  some  :  two  old  houses 
flung  down,  several  chimneys,  and  much 
china-ware.  The  bells  rung  in  several 
houses.  Admiral  Knowles,  who  has  lived 
long  in  Jamaica,  and  felt  seven  there,  says 
this  was  more  violent  than  any  of  them : 
Francesco  prefers  it  to  the  dreadful  one  at 
Leghorn.  The  wise  say,  that  if  we  have 
not  rain  soon,  we  shall  certainly  have  more. 
Several  people  are  going  out  of  town,  for  it 
has  nowhere  reached  above  ten  miles  from 
London.  ...  A  parson  who  came  into  White's 
the  morningof  earthquake  the  first,  and  heard 
bets  laid  on  whether  it  was  an  earthquake  or 
the  blowing  up  of  powder-mills,  went  away 
exceedingly  scandalized,  and  said,  "  I  pro- 
test they  are  such  an  impious  set  of  people, 
that  I  believe  if  the  last  trumpet  was  to 
sound  they  would  bet  puppet-show  against 
Judgment."  If  we  get  any  nearer  still  to 
the  torrid  zone,  I  shall  pique  myself  on 
sending  you  a  present  of  cedrati  and  orange- 
flower  water.  I  am  already  planning  a  ter- 
reno  for  Strawberry  Hill.  ...  I  will  jump 
to  another  topic  ;  I  find  all  this  letter  will 
be  detached  scraps;  I  can't  at  all  contrive 
to  hide  the  seams.  But  I  don't  care.  I 
began  my  letter  merely  to  tell  you  of  the 
earthquake,  and  I  don't  pique  myself  upon 
doing  any  more'than  telling  you  what  you 
would  be  glad  to  have  told  you.  1  told  you. 
too,  how  pleased  I  was  with  the  triumphs 
of  another  old  beauty,  our  friend  the  prin- 
cess [Croon].  Do  you  know,  I  have  found 
a  history  that  has  great  resemblance  to  hers  ; 
that  is,  that  will  be  very  like  hers,  if  hers  is 
but  like  it.  I  will  tell  it  you  in  as  few  words 
as  I  can.  Madame  la  Marechale  de  I'Hopital 
[Mary  Mignot]  was  the  daughter  of  a  semp- 
stress; a  young  gentleman  fell  in  love  with 
her,  and  was  going  to  be  married  to  her, 
but  the  match  was  broken  off.  An  old  fer- 
mier-general,  who  had  retired  into  the  prov- 
ince where  this  happened,  hearing  the  story, 
had  a  curiosity  to  see  the  victim  :  lie  liked 
her,  married  her,  died,  and  left  her  enough 
not  to  care  for  her  inconstant.  She  came  to 
Paris,  where  the  Mnrechal  de  I'llopital  mar- 
ried her  for  her  riches.  After  the  Maro- 
chal's  death,  Casimir,  the  abdicated  king  of 


202 


HUGH  BLAIR. 


Poland,  who  was  retired  into  France,  fell  in 
love  with  the  Marechale,  and  privately  mar- 
ried her.  If  the  event  ever  happens,  I  shall 
certainly  travel  to  Nancy,  to  hear  her  talk 
of  ma  helle  fille  la  Heine  de  France. 
To  Sir  Horace  Mann,  March  11,  1750. 


HUGH  BLAIR,  D.D., 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1718,  minister  of  Coles- 
sie,  Fifeshire,  1742-1743,  of  the  Canongate 
of  Edinburgh,  1743-1754,  and  of  the  High 
Church  of  Edinburgh,  1758  until  his  death 
in  18UO,  was  the  author  of  some  famous 
Sermons,  Edin.  and  Lond.,  1788-18U1,  5 
vols.  8vo,  many  editions,  and  of  Lectures  on 
llhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres,  Lond.,  1783,  2 
vols.  4to  ;  again,  Lond.,  1798,  3  vols.  8vo,  and 
later. 

"  Dr.  Blair's  sermons  are  now  universally  com- 
mended, but  let  him  think  that  I  had  the  honour 
of  first  finding  and  first  praising  his  excellencies. 
I  did  not  stay  to  add  my  voice  to  that  of  the  pub- 
lic."— DR.  JOHNSON  TO  BOSWELL,  1777:  Dosicell's 
Juhnnoii ;  where  see  Johnson  and  Domcell  on 
lilalr's  Lectures  on  llhetoric  and  Helles-Lettres. 

Ox  THE  CULTIVATION  OF  TASTE. 

Such  studies  have  this  peculiar  advantage, 
that  they  exercise  our  reason  without  fa- 
tiguing it.  They  lead  to  inquiries  acute, 
but  not  painful;  profound,  but  not  dry  or 
abstruse.  They  strew  flowers  in  the  path 
of  science,  and  while  they  keep  the  mind 
bent  in  some  degree  and  active,  they  relieve 
it  at  the  same  time  from  that  more  toilsome 
labour  to  which  it  must  submit  in  the  acqui- 
sition of  necessary  erudition  or  the  investi- 
gation of  abstract  truth. 

The  cultivation  of  taste  is  further  recom- 
mended by  the  happy  effects  which  it  nat- 
urally tends  to  produce  on  human  life.  The 
most  busy  man  in  the  most  active  sphere 
cannot  be  always  occupied  by  business.  Men 
of  serious  professions  cannot  always  be  on 
the  stretch  of  anxious  thought.  Neither 
can  the  most  gay  and  flourishing  situations 
of  fortune  afford  cany  man  the  power  of  fill- 
ing all  his  hours  with  pleasure.  Life  must 
always  languish  in  the  hands  of  the  idle. 
It  will  frequently  languish  even  in  the 
hands  of  the  busy,  if  they  have  not  some 
employment  subsidiary  to  that  which  forms 
their  main  pursuit.  How,  then,  shall  these 
vacant  spaces,  those  unemployed  intervals, 
which  more  or  less  occur  in  the  life  of  every 
one,  be  filled  up?  How  can  we  contrive  to 
dispose  of  them  in  any  way  that  shall  be 
more  agreeable  in  itself,  or  more  consonant 
to  the  dignity  of  the  human  mind,  than  in 
the  entertainments  of  taste,  and  the  study 


of  polite  literature  ?  He  who  is  so  happy 
as  to  have  acquired  a  relish  for  these,  has 
always  at  hand  an  innocent  and  irreproach- 
able amusement  for  his  leisure  hours,  to  save 
him  from  the  danger  of  many  a  pernicious 
passion.  lie  is  not  in  hazard  of  being  a 
burden  to  himself.  He  is  not  obliged  to  fly 
to  low  company,  or  to  court  the  riot  of  loose 
pleasures,  in  order  to  cure  the  tediousness 
of  existence. 

Providence  seems  plainly  to  have  pointed 
out  this  useful  purpose  to  which  the  pleas- 
ures of  taste  may  be  applied,  by  interposing 
them  in  a  middle  station  between  the  pleas- 
ures of  sense  and  those  of  pure  intellect. 
We  were  not  designed  to  grovel  always 
amohg  objects  so  low  as  the  former  ;  nor  are 
we  capable  of  dwelling  constantly  in  so  high 
a  region  as  the  latter.  The  pleasures  of 
taste  refresh  the  mind  after  the  toils  of  the 
intellect  and  the  labours  of  abstract  study  ; 
and  they  gradually  raise  it  above  the  at- 
tachments of  sense,  and  prepare  it  for  the 
enjoyments  of  virtue. 

So  consonant  is  this  to  experience,  that 
in  the  education  of  youth  no  object  has  in 
every  age  appeared  more  important  to  wise 
men  than  to  tincture  them  early  with  a 
relish  for  the  entertainments  of  taste.  The 
transition  is  commonly  made  with  ease  from 
these  to  the  discharge  of  the  higher  and  more 
important  duties  of  life.  Good  hopes  may 
be  entertained  of  those  whose  minds  have 
this  liberal  and  elegant  turn.  It  is  favour- 
able to  many  virtues.  Whereas,  to  be  en- 
tirely devoid  of  relish  for  eloquence,  poetry, 
or  any  of  the  fine  arts,  is  justly  construed  to 
bean  unpromising  symptom  of  earth  ;  and 
raises  suspicions  of  their  being  prone  to  low 
gratifications,  or  destined  to  drudge  in  the 
more  vulgar  and  illiberal  pursuits  of  life. 

Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres. 

ON  STYLE. 

It  is  not  easy  to  give  a  precise  idea  of 
what  is  meant  by  Style.  The  best  defini- 
tion I  can  give  of  it  is,  the  peculiar  manner 
in  which  a  man  expresses  his  conceptions, 
by  means  of  language.  It  is  different  from 
mere  language  or  words.  The  words  which 
an  author  employs  may  be  proper  and  fault- 
less ;  and  his  Style  may,  nevertheless,  have 
great  faults ;  it  may  be  dry,  or  stiff,  or 
feeble,  or  affected.  Style  has  always  some 
reference  to  an  author's  manner  of  thinking. 
It  is  a  picture  of  the  ideas  which  rise  in  his 
mind,  and  of  the  manner  in  which  they  rise 
there;  and  hence,  when  we  are  examining 
an  author's  composition,  it  is,  in  many 
cases,  extremely  difficult  to  separate  the 
Style  from  the  sentiment.  No  wonder  these 
two  should  be  so  intimately  connected,  as 
Style  is  nothing  else  than  that  sort  of  ex- 


ELIZABETH  MONTAGU. 


203 


pression  winch  our  thoughts  most  readily 
assume.  Hence  different  countries  have 
been  noted  for  peculiarities  of  Style  suited 
to  their  different  temper  and  genius.  The 
eastern  nations  animated  their  style  with 
the  most  strong  and  hyperbolical  figures. 
The  Athenians,  a  polished  and  acute  people, 
formed  a  Style  accurate,  clear,  and  neat. 
The  Asiatics,  gay,  and  loose  in  their  man- 
ners, affected  a  Style  florid  and  diffuse.  The 
like  sort  of  characteristical  differences  are 
commonly  remarked  in  the  Style  of  the 
French,  the  English,  and  the  Spaniards.  In 
giving  the  general  characters  of  Style  it  is 
usual  to  talk  of  a  nervous,  a  feeble,  or  a 
spirited  Style;  which  are  plainly  the  char- 
acters of  a  writer's  manner  of  thinking,  as 
well  as  of  expressing  himself:  so  difficult  it 
is  to  separate  these  two  things  from  one 
another.  Of  the  general  characters  of  Style 
I  am  afterwards  to  discourse,  but  it  will  be 
necessary  to  begin  with  examining  the  more 
simple  qualities  of  it;  from  the  assemblage 
of  which  its  more  complex  denominations, 
in  a  great  measure,  result.  All  the  quali- 
ties of  a  good  Style  may  be  ranged  under 
two  heads,  Perspicuity  and  Ornament.  For 
all  that  can  possibly  be  required  of  Lan- 
guage is,  to  convey  our  ideas  clearly  to  the 
minds  of  others,  and  at  the  same  time  in 
such  address  as,  by  pleasing  and  interesting 
them,  shall  most  effectually  strengthen  the 
impressions  which  we  seek  to  make.  When 
both  these  ends  are  answered,  we  certainly 
accomplish  every  purpose  for  which  we  use 
Writing  and  Discourse. 

Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles- Lettres. 

Ox  PURITY  AND  PROPRIETY. 

Purity  and  Propriety  of  Language  are 
often  used  indiscriminately  for  each  other ; 
and.  indeed,  they  are  very  nearly  allied. 
A  distinction,  however,  obtains  between 
them.  Purity  is  the  use  of  such  words, 
and  such  constructions,  as  belong  to  the 
idiom  of  the  Language  which  we  speak, 
in  opposition  to  words  and  phrases  that 
are  imported  from  other  Languages,  or 
that  are  obsolete  or  new  coined  or  used 
without  proper  authority.  Propriety  is  the 
selection  of  such  words  in  the  Language  as 
the  best  and  most  established  usage  has 
appropriated  to  those  ideas  which  we  intend 
to  express  by  them.  It  implies  the  correct 
and  happy  application  of  them,  according 
to  that  usage,  in  opposition  to  vulgarisms, 
or  low  expressions ;  and  to  words  and 
phrases  which  would  be  less  significant  of 
the  ideas  that  we  mean  to  convey.  Style 
may  be  pure,  that  is,  it  may  all  be  strictly 
English,  without  Scotticisms  or  Gallicisms, 
or  ungrammatical,  irregular  expressions  of 
any  kind,  and  may,  nevertheless,  be  defi- 


cient in  propriety.  The  words  may  be  ill- 
chosen  ;  not  adapted  to  the  subject,  nor 
fully  expressive  of  the  author's  sense.  lie 
has  taken  all  his  words  and  phrases  from 
the  general  mass  of  English  language ;  but 
he  has  made  his  selection  among  these  words 
unhappily.  Whereas  Style  cannot  be  proper 
without  being  also  pure ;  and  where  both 
Purity  and  Propriety  meet,  besides  making 
Style  perspicuous,  they  also  render  it  grace- 
ful. There  is  no  standard,  either  of  Purity 
or  of  Propriety,  but  the  practice  of  the  best 
writers  and  speakers  in  the  country. 

When  I  mentioned  obsolete  or  new-coined 
words  as  incongruous  with  Purity  of  Style, 
it  will  be  easily  understood  that  some  ex- 
ceptions are  to  be  made.  On  certain  occa- 
sions they  may  have  grace.  Poetry  admits 
of  greater  latitude  than  prose,  with  respect 
to  coining  or,  at  least,  new-compounding 
words;  yet,  even  here,  this  liberty  should 
be  used  with  a  sparing  hand.  In  prose, 
such  innovations  are  more  hazardous,  and 
have  a  worse  effect.  They  are  apt  to  give 
Style  an  affected  and  conceited  air ;  and 
should  never  be  ventured  upon  except  by 
such  whose  established  reputation  gives 
them  some  degree  of  dictatorial  power  over 
Language.  The  introduction  of  foreign  and 
learned  words,  unless  where  necessity  re- 
quires them,  should  always  be  avoided.  Bar- 
ren Languages  may  need  such  assistances  ; 
but  ours  is  not  one  of  these.  Dean  Swift,  one 
of  our  most  correct  writers,  valued  himself 
much  on  using  no  words  but  such  as  were 
of  native  growth  :  and  his  Language  may, 
indeed,  be  considered  as  a  standard  of  the 
strictest  Purity  and  Propriety  in  the  choice 
of  words.  At  present,  we  seem  to  be  depart- 
ing from  this  standard.  A  multitude  of 
Latin  words  have,  of  late,  been  poured  in 
upon  us.  On  some  occasions,  they  give  an 
appearance  of  elevation  and  dignity  to  Style. 
But  often,  also,  they  render  it  stiff  and 
forced:  and,  in  general,  a  plain  native  Style, 
as  it  is  more  intelligible  to  all  readers,  so, 
by  a  proper  management  of  words,  it  may 
be  made  equally  strong  and  expressive  with 
this  latinized  English. 

Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres. 


ELIZABETH  MONTAGU, 

born  1720,  was  married  in  1742  to  Edward 
Montagu,  cousin  of  Edward  Wortley  Mon- 
tagu, the  husband  of  Lady  Mary.  Left 
a  widow  of  fortune  in  1775,  she  became 
famous  for  her  hospitalities  to  the  leaders  of 
fashion  and  letters.  Died  1800. 

"  Mrs.  Montagu  had  built  a  superb  new  house 
[Portuian  Square,  London],  which  was   magnifi- 


204 


RICHARD  HURD. 


cently  fitted  up,  and  appeared  to  be  rather  appro- 
priate for  princes,  nobles,  and  courtiers  than  for 
poet*,  philosophers,  and  blue-stocking  votaries." 
— MADAME  D'AUBLAY  :  Diary. 

"  These  were  the  members  of  that  brilliant 
society  which  quoted,  criticised,  and  ex- 
changed repartees  under  the  rich  peacock- 
hangings  of  Mrs.  Montagu."  She  was  the 
author  of  Three  Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  in 
the  4th  edition  of  Lord  Lyttelton's  New 
Dialogues  of  the  Dead,  Lond.,  1765,  8vo ; 
An  Essay  on  the  Writings  and  Genius  of 
Shakespear,  etc.,  1769,  8  vo.  See  The  Letters 
of  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Montagu,  Lond.,  1809-13, 
4  vols.  8vo. 

Ox  VANITY. 

ALLERTIIORPE,  Nov.  19,  1742. 
MADAM, — "What  prophets  are  my  fears ! 
they  whispered  to  me  your  grace  was  not 
well,  and  I  find  their  suggestions  were  true. 
Hard  state  of  things,  that  one  may  believe 
one's  fears,  but  cannot  rely  upon  one's  hopes! 
I  imagined  concern  would  have  an  ill  effect 
on  your  constitution  :  1  know  you  have  many 
pledges  in  the  hands  of  fate,  and  I  feared  for 
you,  and  every  thing  that  was  near  and  dear 
to  you.  I  am  sensible  your  regard  and  ten- 
derness for  Lady  Oxford  will  make  you  suf- 
fer extremely  when  you  see  her  ill:  she  has 
there  fore  a  double  portion  of  my  good  wishes, 
on  her  own  and  your  grace's  account.  When 
sensibility  of  heart  and  head  makes  you  feel 
all  the  outrages  that  fortune  and  folly  offer, 
why  do  you  not  envy  the  thoughtless  giggle 
and  unmeaning  smile?  "In  Folly's  cup 
still  laughs  the  bubble  Joy."  Wisdom's  cup 
is  often  dashed  with  sorrow,  but  the  nepenthe 
of  stupidity  is  the  only  medicine  of  life: 
fools  neither  are  troubled  with  fear  nor 
doubt.  What  did  the  wisdom  of  the  wisest 
man  teach  him  ?  Verily,  that  all  was  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit!  A  painful  lesson 
fools  will  never  learn,  for  they  are  of  all 
vanities  most  vain.  And  there  is  not  so 
sweet  a  companion  as  that  same  vanity  : 
when  we  go  into  the  world  it  leads  us  by  the 
hand;  if  we  retire  from  it,  it  follows  us;  it 
meets  us  at  court,  and  finds  us  in  the  coun- 
try; commends  the  hero  that  gains  the 
world,  arid  the  philosopher  that  forsakes  it; 
praises  the  luxury  of  the  prodigal,  and  the 
prudence  of  the  penurious;  feasts  with  the 
voluptuous,  fasts  with  the  abstemious,  sits 
on  the  pen  of  the  author,  and  visits  the  paper 
of  the  critic;  reads  dedications,  and  writes 
them  :  makes  court  to  superiors,  receives 
homage  of  inferiors:  in  short,  it  is  useful, 
it  is  agreeable,  and  the  very  thing  needful  to 
happiness.  Had  Solomon  felt  some  inward 
vanity,  sweet  sounds  had  been  ever  in  his 
ears  without  the  voices  of  men-singers,  or 
women-singers:  he  had  not  then  said  of 


laughter,  What  is  it?  and  of  mirth,  What 
doeth  it?  Vanity  and  a  good  set  of  teeth 
would  have  taught  him  the  ends  and  pur- 
poses of  laughing,  that  fame  may  be  ac- 
quired by  it,  where,  like  the  proposal  for  the 
grinning  wager, 

"The  frightfulest  grinner 
Is  the  winner." 

Did   not  we  think  Lady  C would  get 

nothing  by  that  broad  grin  but  the  tooth- 
ache? But  vanity,  profitable  vanity,  was 
her  better  counsellor;  and  as  she  always 
imagined  the  heart  of  a  lover  was  caught 
between  her  teeth,  I  cannot  say  his  delay  is 
an  argument  of  her  charms,  or  his  gallantry, 
but  she  has  him  secure  by  an  old  proverb, 
that  what  is  bred  in  the  bone  will  never  out 
of  the  flesh,  and  no  doubt  but  this  love  was 
bred  in  the  bone,  even  in  the  jaw-bone.  No 
wonder  if  tame  weak  man  is  subdued  by  that 
weapon  with  which  Samson  killed  the  mighty 
lion. 

To  the  Duchess  of  Portland. 


RICHARD    HURD,    D.D., 

born  1720,  Preacher  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  1765, 
Archdeacon  of  Gloucester,  1767,  Bishop  of 
Lichfield  and  Coventry,  1775,  and  of  Worces- 
ter, 1781,  declined  the  Archbishopric  of  Can- 
terbury, 1783,  died  1808.  He  published: 
Commentary  on  Horace's  Ars  Poetica,  1749, 
4th  edit.,  1763,  3  vols.  8vo;  Commentary  on 
Horace's  Epistola  ad  Augustum,  etc.,  1751, 
new  edit.,  Lond.,  1776,  3  vols.  cr.  8vo ;  Dia- 
logues on  Sincerity,  Retirement,  etc.,  1759, 
8vo  ;  with  his  Letters  on  Chivalry  and  Ro- 
mance (1762,  8vo),  and  Dialogues  on  Foreign 
Travel  (1764,  8vo),  under  the  title  of  Dia- 
logues, Moral  and  Political,  1765,  3  vols.  8vo, 
3d  edit.,  1771,  3  vols.  stn.  8vo ;  again,  1788, 
3  vols.  8vo ;  Select  Works  of  Cowley,  1769, 
2  vols.  8vo;  An  Introduction  to  the  Study 
of  the  Prophecies,  1772,  8vo,  1778,  2  vols. 
8vo  ;  Sermons  Preached  at  Lincoln's  Inn, 
1776-1780,  3  vols.  8vo,  1785,  3  vols.  8vo; 
Sermons  Preached  before  the  Lords.  1777, 
4to ;  Works  of  Bishop  Warhurton,  1788,  7 
vols.  4to,  new  edit.,  1811,  12  vols.  8vo,  and 
Life  of  Warburton,  1794,  4to;  Addison's 
Works,  1810.  C  vols.  8vo. 

"  Kurd  has,  perhaps,  the  merit  of  being  the  first 
who,  in  this  country,  aimed  at  philosophical  criti- 
cism :  he  had  great  ingenuity,  a  good  deal  of  read- 
ing, and  a  felicity  in  applying  it;  but  he  did  not 
feel  very  deeply,  was  somewhat  of  a  coxcomb,  and 
having  always  before  his  eyes  a  model  neither 
good  in  itself,  nor  made  for  him  to  emulate,  he 
assumes  a  dogmatic  arrogance,  which,  as  it  always 
offends  the  reader,  so  for  the  most  part  stands  in 
the  way  of  the  author's  own  search  for  truth." — 
HALLAJI  :  Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe,  4th  ed.,  iii.  475,  n. 


RICHARD  HURD. 


205 


TRUE  AXD  FALSE  POLITENESS. 

It  is  evident  enough  that  the  moral  and 
Christian  duty  of  preferring  one  another  in 
honour  respects  only  social  peace  and  char- 
ity, and  terminates  in  the  good  and  edifica- 
tion of  our  Christian  brother.  Its  use  is  to 
soften  the  minds  of  men,  and  to  draw  them 
from  that  savage  rusticity  which  engenders 
many  vices,  and  discredits  the  virtuous  them- 
selves. But  when  men  had  experienced  the 
benefit  of  this  complying  temper,  and  further 
saw  the  ends,  not  of  charity  only,  but  of 
self-interest,  that  might  be  answered  liy  it, 
they  considered  no  longer  its  just  purpose 
and  application,  but  stretched  it  to  that  of- 
ficious sedulity  and  extreme  servility  of  adu- 
lation which  we  too  often  observe  and  lament 
in  polished  life. 

Hence  that  infinite  attention  and  consid- 
eration, which  is  so  rigidly  exacted  and  so 
duly  paid,  in  the  commerce  of  the  world : 
hence  that  prostitution  of  mind,  which  leaves 
a  man  no  will,  no  sentiment,  no  principle, 
no  character  ;  all  which  disappear  under  the 
uniform  exhibition  of  good  manners:  hence 
those  insidious  arts,  those  studied  disguises, 
those  obsequious  flatteries,  nay,  those  multi- 
plied and  nicely-varied  forms  of  insinuation 
and  address,  the  direct  aim  of  which  may 
be  to  acquire  the  fame  of  politeness  and 
good-breeding,  but  the  certain  effect,  to  cor- 
rupt every  virtue,  to  soothe  every  vanity, 
and  to  inflame  every  vice,  of  the  human 
heart. 

These  fatal  mischiefs  introduce  themselves 
under  the  pretence  and  semblance  of  that 
humanity  which  the  Scriptures  encourage 
and  enjoin  :  but  the  genuine  virtue  is  easily 
distinguished  from  the  counterfeit,  and  by 
the  following  plain  signs. 

True  politeness  is  modest,  unpretending, 
and  generous.  It  appears  as  little  as  may 
be  ;  and  when  it  does,  a  courtesy  would  will- 
ingly conceal  it.  It  chooses  silently  to 
forego  its  own  claims,  not  officiously  to  with- 
draw them.  It  engages  a  man  to  prefer  his 
neighbour  to  himself,  because  he  really 
esteems  him  ;  because  he  is  tender  of  his 
reputation  ;  because  he  thinks  it  more  inanlv, 
more  Christian,  to  descend  a  little  himself 
than  to  degrade  another.  It  respects,  in  a 
word,  the  credit  and  estimation  of  his  neigh- 
bour. 

The  mimic  of  this  amiable  virtue,  false 
politeness,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  ambitious, 
servile,  timorous.  It  affects  popularity :  is 
solicitous  to  please,  and  to  he  taken  notice  of. 
The  man  of  this  character  does  not  offer, 
but  obtrudes,  his  civilities ;  because  he  would 
merit  by  his  assiduity  ;  because  in  despair 
of  winning  regard  by  any  worthier  qualities, 
he  would  be  sure  to  make  the  most  of  this ; 


and  lastly,  because  of  all  things  he  would 
dread,  by  the  omission  of  any  punctilious 
observance,  to  give  offence.  In  a  word,  this 
sort  of  politeness  respects,  for  its  immediate 
object,  the  favour  and  consideration  of  our 
neighbour. 

Again  :  the  man  who  governs  himself  by 
the  spirit  of  the  Apostle's  precept,  expresses 
his  preference  of  another  in  such  a  way  as 
is  worthy  of  himself:  in  all  innocent  com- 
pliances, in  all  honest  civilities,  in  all  decent 
and  manly  condescensions. 

On  the  contrary,  the  man  of  the  world, 
who  rests  in  the  letter  of  this  command,  is 
regardless  of  the  means  by  which  he  con- 
ducts himself,  lie  respects  neither  his  own 
dignity,  nor  that  of  human  nature.  Truth, 
reason,  virtue,  are  all  equally  betrayed  by  this 
supple  impostor.  He  assents  to  the  errors, 
though  the  most  pernicious ;  he  applauds 
the  follies,  though  the  most  ridiculous ;  he 
soothes  the  vices,  though  the  most  flagrant, 
of  other  men.  He  never  contradicts,  though 
in  the  softest  form  of  insinuation  ;  he  never 
disapproves,  though  by  a  respectful  silence  ; 
he  never  condemns,  though  it  be  only  by  a 
good  example.  In  short,  he  is  solicitous  for 
nothing  but  by  some  studied  devices  to  hide 
from  others,  and,  if  possible,  to  palliate  to 
himself,  the  grossness  of  his  illiberal  adu- 
lation. 

Lastly  :  we  may  be  sure  that  the  uUimat", 
ends  for  which  these  different  objects  are 
pursued,  and  by  so  different  means,  must 
also  lie  wide  of  each  other. 

Accordingly,  the  true  polite  man  would, 
by  all  proper  testimonies  of  respect,  pro- 
mote the  credit  and  estimation  of  his  neigh- 
bour ;  because  he  sees  that,  by  this  generous 
consideration  of  each  other,  the  peace  of  the 
world  is,  in  a  good  degree,  preserved  ;  be- 
cause he  knows  that  these  mutual  attentions 
prevent  animosities,  soften  the  fierceness  of 
men's  manners,  and  dispose  them  to  all  the 
offices  of  benevolence  and  charity ;  because, 
in  a  word,  the  interests  of  society  are  best 
served  by  this  conduct ;  and  because  he 
understands  it  to  be  his  duty  to  love  his 
neighbour. 

The  falsely  polite,  on  the  contrary,  are 
anxious,  by  all  means  whatever  to  procure 
the  favour  and  consideration  of  those  they 
converse  with  ;  because  they  regard,  ulti- 
mately, nothing  more  than  their  private 
interest :  because  they  perceive  that  their 
own  selfish  designs  are  best  carried  on  by 
such  practices  ;  in  a  word,  because  they  love 
themselves. 

Thus  we  see  that  genuine  virtue  consults 
the  honour  of  others  by  worth y  means,  and 
for  the  noblest  purposes ;  the  counterfeit 
solicits  their  favour  by  dishonest  compli- 
ances, and  for  the  basest  end. 


206 


CATHERINE   TALBOT. 


CATHERINE  TALBOT, 

horn  1720,  died  1770,  was  the  author  of 
Reflections  on  the  Seven  Days  of  the  Week, 
1770,  Oth  edit,  Lond.,  1771,  12mo;  Essays, 
1772,  2  vols.  12mo;  Letters  to  a  Friend  on 
a  Future  State  ;  Dialogues,  and  other  works 
in  prose  and  verse.  Collective  edition  of 
her  Works  hy  £.  Carter,  new  edit.,  1795, 
8vo;  by  Rev.  M.  Pennington,  A.M.,  1809, 
8vo,  9th  edit.,  1819,  8vo. 

"So  excellent  are  the  compositions  of  Miss 
Talbot  which  have  come  down  to  us,  that  it  i8  to 
be  greatly  regretted  that  she  did  not  devote  more 
time  to  writing." — MRS.  ELLWOOD  :  Lit.  Ladies  of 
Eng.,  i.  143. 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  SUNDAY. 

MR.  RAMBLER, — There  are  few  tasks  more 
ungrateful  than  for  persons  of  modesty  to 
speak  their  own  praises.  In  some  cases, 
however,  this  must  be  done  for  the  general 
good,  and  a  generous  spirit  will  on  such 
occasions  assert  its  merit,  and  vindicate 
itself  with  becoming  warmth. 

My  circumstances,  Sir,  are  very  hard  and 
peculiar.  Could  the  world  be  brought  to 
treat  me  as  I  deserve,  it  would  be  a  public 
benefit.  This  makes  me  apply  to  you,  that 
iny  case  being  fairly  stated  in  a  paper  so 
generally  esteemed,  I  may  suffer  no  longer 
from  ignorant  and  childish  prejudices. 

My  elder  brother  was  a  Jew.  A  very 
respectable  person,  but  somewhat  austere  in 
his  manner  ;  highly  and  deservedly  valued 
by  his  near  relations  and  intimates,  but 
utterly  unfit  for  mixing  in  a  larger  society, 
or  gaining  a  general  acquaintance  with 
mankind.  In  a  venerable  old  age  he  re- 
tired from  the  world,  and  I.  in  the  bloom 
of  youth,  carne  into  it,  succeeding  him  in 
all  his  dignities,  and  formed,  as  I  might 
reasonably  natter  myself,  to  be  the  object 
of  universal  love  and  esteem.  Joy  and 
gladness  were  born  with  me  ;  cheerfulness, 
good  humour,  and  benevolence  always  at- 
tended and  endeared  my  infancy.  That  time 
is  long  past.  So  long,  that  idle  imagina- 
tions arc  apt  to  fancy  me  wrinkled,  old,  and 
disagreeable:  but  unless  my  looking-glass 
deceives  me,  1  have  not  yet  lost  one  charm, 
one  beauty,  of  my  earliest  years.  However, 
thus  far  it  is  too  certain  I  am  to  every  body 
just  what  they  choose  to  think  me,  so  that 
to  very  few  1  appear  in  my  right  shape; 
and  though  naturally  I  am  the  friend  of 
human  kind,  to  few,  very  few,  comparatively, 
am  I  useful  or  agreeable. 

This  is  the  more  grievous,  as  it  is  utterly 
impossible  for  me  to  avoid  being  in  all  sorts 
of  places  and  companies ;  and  I  am  there- 
fore liable  to  meet  with  perpetual  affronts 


and  injuries.  Though  I  have  as  natural  an 
antipathy  to  cards  and  dice  as  some  people 
have  to  a  cnt,  many  and  many  an  assembly 
am  I  forced  to  endure ;  and  though  rest  and 
composure  are  my  peculiar  joy,  am  worn 
out  and  harassed  to  death  with  journeys 
by  men  and  women  of  quality,  who  never 
take  one  but  when  I  can  be  of  the  party. 
Some,  on  a  contrary  extreme,  will  never  re- 
ceive me  but  in  bed,  where  they  spend  at 
least  half  of  the  time  I  have  to  stay  with 
them  ;  and  others  are  so  monstrously  ill- 
bred  as  to  take  physic  on  purpose  when  they 
have  reason  to  expect  me.  Those  who  keep 
upon  terms  of  more  politeness  with  me  are 
generally  so  cold  and  constrained  in  their 
behaviour  that  I  cannot  but  perceive  my- 
self an  unwelcome  guest;  and  even  among 
persons  deserving  of  my  esteem,  and  who 
certainly  have  a  value  for  me,  it  is  too  evi- 
dent that  generally,  whenever  I  come,  I 
throw  a  dulness  over  the  whole  company, 
that  I  am  entertained  with  a  formal  stiff 
civility,  and  that  they  are  glad  when  I  am 
fairly  gone.  How  bitter  must  this  kind  of 
reception  be  to  one  formed  to  inspire  de 
light,  admiration,  and  love !  To  one  capa- 
ble of  answering  and  rewarding  the  greatest 
warmth  and  delicacy  of  sentiments! 

I  was  bred  up  among  a  set  of  excellent 
people,  who  affectionately  loved  me.  and 
treated  me  with  the  utmost  honour  and  re- 
spect. It  would  be  tedious  to  relate  the 
variety  of  my  adventures,  and  strange  vicis- 
situdes of  my  fortune  in  many  different  coun- 
tries. Here  in  England  there  was  a  time 
when  I  lived  according  to  my  heart's  desire. 
Whenever  I  appeared,  public  assemblies  ap- 
pointed for  my  reception  were  crowded  with 
persons  of  quality  and  fashion,  early  dressed 
as  for  a  court,  to  pay  me  their  devoirs. 
Cheerful  hospitality  every  where  crowned 
my  board,  and  I  was  looked  upon  in  every 
country  parish  as  a  kind  of  social  bond  be- 
tween the  squire,  the  parson,  and  the  ten- 
ants. The  laborious  poor  every  where  blest 
my  appearance:  they  do  so  still,  and  keep 
their  best  clothes  to  do  me  honour  ;  though 
as  much  as  I  delight  in  the  honest  country 
folks,  they  do  now  and  then  throw  a  pot  of 
ale  at  my  head,  and  sometimes  an  unlucky 
boy  will  drive  his  cricket-ball  in  my  face. 

Even  in  these  my  best  days  there  were 
persons  who  thought  me  too  demure  and 
grave.  I  must  forsooth  by  all  means  be  in- 
structed by  foreign  masters,  and  taught  to 
dance  and  "piny-  This  method  of  education 
was  so  contrary  to  my  genius,  formed  for 
much  nobler  entertainment,  that  it  did  not 
succeed  at  all. 

I  fell  next  into  the  hands  of  a  very  differ- 
ent set.  They  were  so  excessively  scandal- 
ized at  the  gaiety  of  iny  appearance,  as  not 


JAMES    USHER. 


207 


only  to  despoil  me  of  the  foreign  fopperies, 
the  paint  arid  the  patches  that  I  had  been 
tricked  outwith  by  my  last  misj  adding  tutors, 
but  they  robbed  me  of  every  innocent  orna- 
ment I  had  from  my  infancy  been  used  to 
gather  in  the  fields  and  gardens ;  nay,  they 
blacked  my  face,  and  covered  me  all  over 
with  a  habit  of  mourning,  and  that  too  very 
coarse  and  awkward.  I  was  now  obliged  to 
spend  my  whole  life  in  hearing  sermons,  nor 
permitted  so  much  as  to  smile  upon  any  occa- 
sion. 

In  this  melancholy  disguise  I  became  a 
perfect  bugbear  to  all  children  and  young 
folks.  Wherever  I  came  there  was  a  gen- 
eral hush,  an  immediate  stop  to  all  pleasant- 
ness of  look  or  discourse ;  and  not  being 
permitted  to  talk  with  them  in  my  own  lan- 
guage at  that  time,  they  took  such  a  disgust 
to  me  in  those  tedious  hours  of  yawn  ing, 
that  having  transmitted  it  to  their  children, 
I  cannot  now  be  heard,  though  it  is  long 
since  I  have  recovered  my  natural  form  and 
pleasing  tone  of  voice.  Would  they  but 
receive  my  visits  kindly,  and  listen  to  what 
I  could  tell  them — let  me  say  it  without 
vanity — how  charming  a  companion  should 
I  be  !  to  every  one  could  I  talk  on  the  sub- 
jects most  interesting  and  most  pleasing. 
With  the  great  and  Jimbitious  I  would  dis- 
course of  honours  and  advancements,  of 
distinctions  to  which  the  whole  world  should 
be  witness,  of  unenvied  dignities  and  dura- 
ble preferments.  To  the  rich  I  would  tell 
of  inexhaustible  treasures,  and  the  sure 
method  to  attain  them.  I  would  teach 
them  to  put  out  their  money  on  the  best 
interest,  and  instruct  the  lovers  of  pleasure 
how  to  secure  and  improve  it  to  the  highest 
degree.  The  beauty  should  learn  of  me 
how  to  preserve  an  everlasting  bloom.  To 
the  afflicted  I  would  administer  comfort, 
and  relaxation  to  the  busy. 

As  I  dare  promise  myself  you  will  attest 
the  truth  of  all  I  have  advanced,  there  is  no 
doubt  but  many  will  be  desirous  of  improv- 
ing their  acquaintance  with  me;  and  that  I 
may  not  be  thought  too  difficult.  I  will  tell 
you,  in  short,  how  I  wish  to  be  received. 

You  must  know  I  equally  hate  lazy  idle- 
ness and  hurry.  I  would  every  where  be 
welcomed  at  a  tolerably  early  hour  with 
decent  good  humour  and  gratitude.  I  must 
be  attended  in  the  great  halls  peculiarly 
appropriated  to  me  with  respect;  but  I  do 
not  insist  upon  finery:  propriety  of  appear- 
ance and  perfect  neatness  is  all  I  require. 
I  must  at  dinner  be  treated  with  a  temper- 
ate, but  cheerful,  social  meal ;  both  the 
neighbours  and  the  poor  should  be  the  bet- 
ter for  me.  Some  time  I  must  have  a  tete- 
a-tete  with  my  kind  entertainers,  and  the 
rest  of  my  visit  should  be  spent  in  pleasant 


walks  and  airings  among  sets  of  agreeable 
people,  in  such  discourse  as  I  shall  natu- 
rally dictate,  or  in  reading  some  few  selected 
out  of  those  numberiess  books  that  are  dedi- 
cated to  me,  and  go  by  my  name.  A  name 
that,  alas!  as  the  world  stands  at  present, 
makes  them  oftener  thrown  aside  than  taken 
up.  As  those  conversations  and  books  should 
be  both  well  chosen,  to  give  some  advice  on 
that  head  may  possibly  furnish  you  with  a 
future  paper,  and  any  thing  you  shall  offer 
on  my  behalf  will  be  of  great  service  to, 
good  Mr.  Rambler, 

Your  faithful  friend  and  servant, 

"  SUNDAY." 

The  Rambler,  No.  30,  Saturday,  Jane  30, 
1750. 


JAMES   USHER, 

a  descendant  of  Archbishop  Usher,  born 
about  1720,  was  successively  a  farmer,  a 
linen-draper,  a  priest  of  the  Church  of  Rome, 
and  a  school-teacher;  died  1772.  He  was 
the  author  of  New  System  of  Philosophy, 
Lond.,  1764,  8vo  ;  Clio ;  or  a  Discourse  on 
Taste,  Lond.,  1772,  2  vols.  8vo;  An  Elegy, 
sine  anno;  privately  printed:  1860,  with 
MS.  notes  by  Professor  Porson,  £3  10s. 
Usher  contributed  to  The  Public  Ledger. 

THOUGHTS  ON  ELEGANCE. 

When  we  take  a  view  of  the  separate  parts 
that  constitute  personal  elegance,  we  imme- 
diately know  the  seeds  that  are  proper  to  be 
cherished  in  the  infant  mind  to  bring  forth 
the  beauteous  production.  The  virtues 
should  be  cultivated  early  with  sacred  care. 
Good  nature,  modesty,  affability,  and  a  kind 
concern  for  others,  should  be  carefully  in- 
culcated; and  an  easy  unconstrained  do- 
minion acquired  by  habit  over  the  passions. 
A  mind  thus  finally  prepared  is  capable  of 
the  highest  lustre  of  elegance ;  which  is 
afterwards  attained  with  as  little  labour  as 
our  first  language,  by  only  associating  with 
graceful  people  of  different  characters,  from 
whom  an  habitual  gracefulness  will  be  ac- 
quired, that  will  bear  the  natural  unaffected 
stamp  of  our  minds:  in  short,  it  will  be  our 
own  character  and  genius  stripped  of  its 
native  rudeness,  and  enriched  with  beauty 
and  attraction. 

Nature,  that  bestows  her  favours  without 
respect  of  persons,  often  denies  to  the  great 
the  capacity  of  distinguished  elegance,  and 
flings  it  away  in  obscure  villages.  You 
sometimes  see  it  at  a  country  fair  spread  an 
amiableness  over  a  sun-burnt  girl,  like  the 
light  of  the  moon  through  a  mist:  but  such, 
madam,  is  the  necessity  of  habitual  elegance 


208 


JAMES   USHER. 


acquired  by  education  and  converse,  that 
even  if  you  were  born  in  that  low  class,  you 
could  be  no  more  than  the  fairest  damsel  at 
the  May-pole,  and  the  object  of  the  hope  and 
jealousy  of  a  few  rustics. 

People  are  rendered  totally  incapable  of 
elegance  by  the  want  of  good-nature,  and 
the  other  gentle  passions;  by  the  want  of 
modesty  and  sensibility ;  and  by  a  want  of 
that  noble  pride  which  arises  from  a  con- 
sciousness of  lofty  and  generous  sentiments. 
The  absence  of  these  native  charms  is  gen- 
erally supplied  by  a  brisk  stupidity,  an  impu- 
dence unconscious  of  defect,  a  cast  of  malice, 
and  an  uncommon  tendency  to  ridicule:  as 
if  nature  had  given  these  her  step-children 
an  instinctive  intelligence  that  they  can  rise 
out  of  contempt  only  by  the  depression  of 
others.  For  the  same  reason  it  is,  that  per- 
sons of  true  and  finished  taste  seldom  affect 
ridicule,  because  they  are  conscious  of  their 
own  superior  merit.  Pride  is  the  cause  of 
ridicule  in  the  one.  as  it  is  of  candour  in  the 
other;  but  the  effects  differ  as  the  studied 
parade  of  poverty  does  from  the  negligent 
grandeur  of  riches.  You  will  see  nothing 
more  common  in  the  world,  than  for  people, 
who  by  stupidity  and  insensibility  are  in- 
capable of  the  graces,  to  commence  wits  on 
the  strength  of  the  petite  talents  of  mimicry, 
and  the  brisk  tartness  that  ill-nature  never 
fails  to  supply. 

From  what  I  have  said  it  appears  that  a 
sense  of  elegance  is  a  sense  of  dignity,  of 
virtue,  and  innocence,  united.  Is  it  not 
natural  then  to  expect  that,  in  the  course  of 
a  liberal  education,  men  should  cultivate  the 
generous  qualities  they  approve  and  assume  ? 
But  instead  of  them,  men  only  aim  at  the 
appearances,  which  require  no  self-denial ; 
and  thus  without  acquiring  the  virtues,  they 
sacrifice  their  honesty  and  sincerity  :  whence 
it  comes  to  pass  that  there  is  often  the  least 
virtue  where  is  the  greatest  appearance  of  it, 
and  that  the  polished  part  of  mankind  only 
arrive  at  the  subtle  corruption  of  uniting 
vice  with  the  dress  and  complexion  of  virtue. 

I  have  dwelt  on  personal  elegance,  because 
the  ideas  and  principles  in  this  part  of  good 
taste  are  more  familiar  to  you.  We  may 
then  take  them  for  a  foundation  in  our 
future  observations,  since  the  same  prin- 
ciples of  easy  grace  and  simple  grandeur 
will  animate  our  ideas  with  an  unstudied 
propriety,  and  enlighten  our  judgments  in 
beauty,  in  literature,  in  sculpture,  painting, 
and  other  departments  of  fine  taste. 

ON  PERSONAL  BEAUTT. 

I  shall  but  slightly  touch  on  our  taste  of 
personal  beauty,  because  it  requires  no  direc- 
tions to  be  known.  To  ask  what  is  beauty, 
says  a  philosopher,  is  the  question  of  a  blind 


man.  I  shall  therefore  only  make  a  few  re- 
flections on  this  head,  that  lie  out  of  the 
common  track.  But,  prior  to  what  I  have 
to  say,  it  is  necessary  to  make  some  obser- 
vations on  physiognomy. 

There  is  an  obvious  relation  between  the 
mind  and  the  turn  of  the  features,  so  well 
known  by  instinct,  that  every  one  is  more 
or  less  expert  at  reading  the  countenance. 
We  look  as  well  as  speak  our  minds ;  and 
amongst  people  of  little  experience,  the  look 
is  generally  most  sincere.  This  is  so  well 
understood,  that  it  becomes  a  part  of  educa- 
tion to  learn  to  disguise  the  countenance, 
which  yet  requires  a  habit  from  early  youth, 
and  the  continual  practice  of  hypocrisy,  to 
deceive  an  intelligent  eye.  The  natural 
virtues  and  vices  not  only  have  their  places 
in  the  aspect;  even  acquired  habits  that 
much  affect  the  mind  settle  there;  contem- 
plation, in  length  of  time,  gives  a  cast  of 
thought  on  the  countenance. 

Now  to  come  back  to  our  subject.  The 
assemblage  called  beauty  is  the  image  of 
noble  sentiments  and  amiable  passions  in 
the  face;  but  so  blended  and  confused  that 
we  are  not  able  to  separate  and  distinguish 
them.  The  mind  has  a  sensibility,  and  clear 
knowledge,  in  many  instances,  without  re- 
flection, or  even  the  power  of  reasoning 
upon  its  own  perceptions.  We  can  no  more 
account  for  the  relation  between  the  passions 
of  the  mind  and  a  set  of  features  than  we 
can  account  for  the  relation  between  the 
sounds  of  music  and  the  passions :  the  eye 
is  judge  of  the  one  without  principles  or 
rules,  as  the  ear  is  of  the  other.  It  is  im- 
possible you  should  not  take  notice  of  the 
remarkable  difference  of  beauty  in  the  same 
face,  in  a  good  and  in  ill  humour;  and  if 
the  gentle  passions  in  an  indifferent  face  do 
not  change  it  to  perfect  beauty,  it  is  because 
nature  did  not  originally  model  the  features 
to  the  just  and  familiar  expression  of  those 
passions,  and  the  genuine  expressions  of 
nature  can  never  be  wholly  obliterated.  .  .  . 

Complexion  is  a  kind  of  beauty  that  is 
only  pleasing  by  association.  The  brown, 
the  fair,  the  black,  are  not  any  of  them 
original  beauty  ;  but  when  the  complexion 
is  united  in  one  picture  on  the  imagination, 
with  the  assemblage  that  forms  the  image 
of  the  tender  passion,  with  gentle  smiles 
and  kind  endearments,  it  is  then  inseparable 
from  our  ideas  of  beauty,  and  forms  a  part 
of  it. 

From  the  same  cause,  a  national  set  of 
features  appear  amiable  to  the  inhabitants, 
who  have  been  accustomed  to  see  the  amiable 
dispositions  through  them. 

This  observation  resolves  a  difficulty  that 
often  occurs  in  the  reflections  of  men  on  our 
present  subject.  We  all  speak  of  beauty  as 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


209 


if  it  were  acknowledged  and  settled  by  a 
public  standard  ;  yet  we  find,  in  fact,  that 
people  in  placing  their  affections  often  have 
little  regard  to  the  common  notions  of 
beauty.  The  truth  is,  complexion  and  form 
being  the  charms  that  are  visible  and  con- 
spicuous, the  common  standard  of  beauty  is 
generally  restrained  to  those  general  attrac- 
tions :  but  since  personal  grace  and  the  en- 
gaging passions,  although  they  cannot  be 
delineated,  have  a  more  universal  and  uni- 
form power,  it  is  no  wonder  people,  in  re- 
signing their  hearts,  so  often  contradict  the 
common  received  standard.  Accordingly, 
as  the  engaging  passions  and  the  address 
are  discovered  in  conversation,  the  tender 
attachments  of  people  are  generally  fixed  by 
an  intercourse  of  sentiment,  and  seldom  by 
a  transient  view,  except  in  romances  and. 
novels.  It  is  further  to  be  observed  that 
when  once  the  affections  are  fixed,  a  new 
face  with  a  higher  degree  of  beauty  will  not 
always  have  a  higher  degree  of  power  to 
remove  them,  because  our  affections  arise 
from  a  source  within  ourselves,  .as  well  as 
from  external  beauty  ;  and  when  the  tender 
passion  is  attached  by  a  particular  object, 
the  imagination  surrounds  that  object  with 
a  thousand  ideal  embellishments  that  exist 
only  in  the  mind  of  the  lover. 

Ox  CONVERSATION. 

From  external  beauty  we  come  to  the 
charms  of  conversation  and  writing.  Words, 
by  representing  ideas,  become  the  picture  of 
our  thoughts,  and  communicate  them  with 
the  greatest  fidelity.  But  they  are  not  only 
the  signs  of  sensible  ideas,  they  exhibit  the 
very  image  and  distinguishing  likeness  of 
the  mind  that  uses  them. 

Conversation  does  not  require  the  same 
merit  to  please  that  writing  does.  The  hu- 
man soul  is  endued  with  a  kind  of  natural 
expression,  which  it  does  not  acquire.  The 
expression  I  speak  of  consists  in  the  signifi- 
cant modulations  and  tones  of  voice,  accom- 
panied, in  unaffected  people,  by  a  propriety 
of  gesture.  This  native  language  was  not 
intended  by  nature  to  represent  the  transi- 
tory ideas  that  come  by  the  senses  to  the 
imagination,  but  the  passions  of  the  mind 
and  its  emotions  only:  therefore  modulation 
and  gesture  give  life  and  passion  to  words  ; 
their  mighty  force  in  oratory  is  very  con- 
spicuous:  but  although  their  effects  be 
milder  in  conversation,  yet  they  are  very 
sensible;  they  agitate  the  soul  by  a  variety 
of  gentle  sensations,  and  help  to  form  that 
sweet  charm  that  makes  the  most  trifling 
subjects  engaging.  This  fine  expression, 
which  is  not  learned,  is  not  so  much  taken 
notice  of  as  it  deserves,  because  it  is  much 
superseded  by  the  use  of  artificial  and  ac- 
14 


quired  language.  The  modern  system  of 
philosophy  has  also  concurred  to  shut  it  out 
from  our  reflections. 

It  is  in  conversation  people  put  on  all 
their  graces,  and  appear  in  the  lustre  of 
good-breeding.  It  is  certain,  good-breeding, 
that  sets  so  great  a  distinction  between  in- 
dividuals of  the  same  species,  creates  nothing 
new  (I  mean  a  good  education),  but  only 
draws  forth  into  prospect,  with  skill  and 
address,  the  .agreeable  dispositions  and  sen- 
timents that  lay  latent  in  the  mind.  You 
may  call  good-breeding  artificial;  but  it  is 
like  the  art  of  a  gardener,  under  whose  hand 
a  barren  tree  puts  forth  its  own  bloom,  and 
is  enriched  with  its  specific  fruit.  It  is  scarce 
possible  to  conceive  any  scene  so  truly  agree- 
able as  an  assembly  of  people  elaborately 
educated,  who  assume  a  character  superior 
to  ordinary  life,  and  support  it  with  ease 
and  familiarity. 

The  heart  is  won  in  conversation  by  its 
own  passions.  Its  pride,  its  grandeur,  its 
affections,  lay  it  open  to  the  enchantment  of 
an  insinuating  address.  Flattery  is  a  gross 
charmer,  but  who  is  proof  against  a  gentle 
and  yielding  disposition,  that  infers  your 
superiority  with  a  delicacy  so  fine  that  you 
cannot  see  the  lines  of  which  it  is  composed  ? 
Generosity,  disinterestedness,  a  noble  love 
of  truth  that  will  not  deceive,  a  feeling  of 
the  distresses  of  others,  and  greatness  of 
soul,  inspires  us  with  admiration  along  with 
love,  and  takes  our  affections  as  it  were  by 
storm;  but,  above  all,  we  are  seduced  by  a 
view  of  the  tender  and  affectionate  passions  : 
they  carry  a  soft  inflection,  and  the  heart  is 
betrayed  to  them  by  its  own  forces.  If  we 
are  to  judge  from  symptoms,  the  soul  that 
engages  us  so  powerfully  by  its  reflected 
glances  is  an  object  of  infinite  beauty.  I 
observed  before,  that  the  modulations  of  the 
human  voice  that  express  the  soul  move  us 
powerfully ;  and  indeed  we  are  affected  by 
the  natural  emotions  of  the  mind  expressed 
in  the  simplest  language:  in  short,  the  happy 
art  that,  in  conversation  and  the  intercourse 
of  life,  lays  hold  upon  our  affections,  is  but 
a  just  address  to  the  engaging  passions  in  the 
human  breast.  But  this  syren  power,  like 
beauty,  is  the  gift  of  nature. 

"  Soft  pleasing  speech  and  graceful  outward  show, 
No  arts  can  gain  them,  but  the  gods  bestow." 

Pope's  Homer. 


WILLIAM    ROBERTSON,    D.D., 

born  1721,  minister  of  Gladsmuir,  1743,  and 
from  1759  until  his  death,  in  1793,  one  of 
the  ministers  (Dr.  John  Erskine  was  his  col- 
league) of  the  Old  Grey-Friars'  Church,  Edin- 
burgh, was  for  thirty  years,  1762-1792,  Prin- 


210 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


cipal  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 
for  the  same  period  the  controlling  spirit 
of  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland.  He  was  the  author  of  The  Situ- 
ation of  the  World  at  the  Time  of  Christ's 
Appearance,  and  its  Connection  with  the 
Success  of  his  Religion  Considered,  a  Ser- 
mon, Edin..  1755,  8vo  ;  The  History  of  Scot- 
land during  the  Reigns  of  Queen  Mary  and 
of  King  James  VI.  till  his  Succession  to  the 
Crown  of  England,  etc.,  Lond.,  1758-59,  2 
vo!s.  4to,  17th  edit.,  1806.  3  vols.  8vo ;  The 
History  of  the  Reign  of  the  Emperor  Charles 
V.,  etc.,  Lond.,  1709,  3  vols.  4to,  lUth  edit., 
1802,  4  vols.  8vo ;  the  History  of  America, 
Books  I.-VIIL,  Lond.,  1777,  2  vols.  4to, 
Books  IX.  and  X.,  Lond.,  1796,  4to  and 
8vo  ;  An  Historical  Disquisition  Concerning 
the  Knowledge  which  the  Ancients  had  of 
India,  etc.,  Lond.,  1791,  4to.  Collective  edi- 
tions of  Robertson's  Works  have  frequently 
been  published  (most  of  them  with  Stewart's 
Life  of  Robertson).  Among  the  last  editions 
are  those  of  London.  1828,  9  vols.  8vo,  1840, 
8  vols.  8vo,  1860,  imp.  8vo,  1865,  imp.  8vo. 

"  Inferior  probably  to  Mr.  Gibbon  in  the  vigour 
of  his  powers,  unequal  to  him  perhaps  in  compre- 
hension of  intellect  and  variety  of  knowledge,  the 
Scottish  historian  has  far  surpassed  him  in  sim- 
plicity and  perspicuity  of  narrative,  in  picturesque 
and  pathetic  description,  in  the  sober  use  of  figura- 
tive language,  and  in  the  delicate  perception  of 
that  scarcely  discernible  boundary  which  separates 
ornament  from  exuberance  and  elegance  from  af- 
fectation."— Sin  J.  MACKINTOSH  :  Lond.  Month. 
lieeiew. 

''  Robertson's  style,  Mr.  Prescott  remarked,  was 
that  of  a  schoolmistress.  He  thought  him  greatly 
wanting  in  narrative  power,  and  in  the  faculty  of 
picturesque  description.  He  instanced  the  bald 
and  commonplace  account  of  the  battle  of  Pavia 
as  a  specimen  of  Robertson's  inability  to  do  jus- 
tice to  a  great  and  splendid  subject.  At  the  same 
time  he  did  justice  to  that  historian's  eminent  qual- 
ities of  another  kind, — to  his  clearness,  penetra- 
tion, and  philosophic  tone.  He  attributed  his  de- 
fects of  style  to  his  age  rather  than  to  any  defect 
in  himself." — Recollections  of  Prescnlt  by  JU'K  former 
Secretary:  Prescott  Memorial,  1859,  pp.21,  22. 

CHARACTER  OF  MARY,  QUEEX  OF  SCOTS. 

To  all  the  charms  of  beauty  and  the  utmost 
elegance  of  external  form  she  added  those 
accomplishments  which  render  their  impres- 
sion irresistible.  Polite,  affable,  insinuating, 
sprightly,  and  capable  of  speaking  and  of 
writing  with  equal  ease  and  dignity.  Sud- 
den, however,  and  violent  in  all  her  attach- 
ments, because  her  heart  was  warm  and  un- 
suspicious. Impatient  of  contradiction,  lie- 
cause  she  had  been  accustomed  from  her 
infancy  to  be  treated  as  a  queen.  No 
stranger,  on  some  occasions,  to  dissimula- 
tion, which  in  that  perfidious  court  where 
she  received  her  education  was  reckoned 


among  the  necessary  arts  of  government. 
Not  insensible  of  flattery,  or  unconscious 
of  that  pleasure  with  which  almost  every 
woman  beholds  the  influence  of  her  own 
beauty.  Formed  with  the  qualities  which 
we  love,  not  with  the  talents  that  we  admire, 
she  was  an  agreeable  woman  rather  than  an 
illustrious  queen.  The  vivacity  of  her  spirit, 
not  sufficiently  tempered  with  sound  judg- 
ment, and  the  warmth  of  her  heart,  which  was 
not  at  all  times  under  the  restraint  of  dis- 
cretion, betrayed  her  both  into  errors  and 
into  crimes. 

To  say  that  she  was  always  unfortunate 
will  not  account  for  that  long  and  almost 
uninterrupted  succession  of  calamities  which 
befell  her:  we  must  likewise  add  that  she 
was  often  imprudent.  Her  passion  for  Darn- 
ley  was  rash,  youthful,  and  excessive.  And 
though  the  sudden  transition  to  the  opposite 
extreme  was  the  natural  effect  of  her  ill-re- 
quited love,  and  of  his  ingratitude,  insolence, 
and  brutality,  yet  neither  these  nor  Both- 
well's  .artful  address  and  important  services 
can  justify  her  attachment  to  that  nobleman. 
Even  the  manners  of  the  age,  licentious  as 
they  were,  are  no  apology  for  this  unhappy 
passion  ;  nor  can  they  induce  us  to  look  on 
that  tragical  and  infamous  scene  which  fol- 
lowed upon  it  with  less  abhorrence.  Hu- 
manity will  draw  a  veil  over  this  part  of  her 
character  which  it  cannot  approve,  .and  may, 
perhaps,  prompt  some  to  impute  her  actions 
to  her  situation,  more  than  to  her  disposi- 
tions, and  to  lament  the  unhappiness  of  the 
former,  rather  than  accuse  the  perverseness 
of  the  latter.  Mary's  sufferings  exceed, 
both  in  degree  and  in  duration,  those  tragi- 
cal distresses  which  fancy  has  feigned  to 
excite  sorrow  and  commiseration  ;  and 
while  we  survey  them,  we  are  apt  altogether 
to  forget  her  frailties  ;  we  think  of  her  faults 
with  less  indignation,  and  approve  of  our 
tears  as  if  they  were  shed  for  a  person  who 
had  attained  much  nearer  to  pure  virtue. 

With  regard  to  the  queen's  person,  a  cir- 
cumstance not  to  be  omitted  in  writing  the 
history  of  a  female  reign,  all  contemporary 
authors  agree  in  ascribing  to  Mary  the  ut- 
most beauty  of  countenance  and  elegance  of 
shape  of  which  the  human  form  is  capable. 
Her  hair  was  black,  though,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  that  age,  she  frequently  wore  bor- 
rowed locks,  and  of  different  colours.  Her 
eyes  were  a  dark  grey,  her  complexion  was 
exquisitely  fine,  and  her  hands  and  arms 
remarkably  delicate,  both  as  to  shape  and 
colour.  Her  stature  was  of  a  height  that 
rose  to  the  majestic.  She  danced,  she  walked, 
and  rode  witli  equal  grace.  Her  taste  for 
music  was  just,  and  she  both  sung  and 
played  upon  the  lute  with  uncommon  skill. 
Towards  the  end  of  her  life  she  began  to 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


211 


grow  fat,  and  her  long  confierr.ent  and  the 
coldness  of  the  houses  in  which  she  had  been 
imprisoned,  b  rough  Jon  a  rheumatism,  which 
deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her  limbs.  '•  No 
man,''  says  Brantome,  "  ever  beheld  her 
person  without  admiration  and  love,  or  will 
read  her  history  without  sorrow." 
History  of  Scotland. 

CHARACTER  OF  CHARLES  V. 

As  Charles  was  the  first  prince  of  his  age 
in  rank  and  dignity,  the  part  which  he  acted, 
whether  we  consider  the  variety,  or  the 
success  of  his  undertaking,  was  the  most 
conspicuous.  It  is  from  an  attentive  obser- 
vation to  his  conduct,  not  from  the  exag- 
gerated praises  of  the  Spanish  historians,  or 
the  undistinguishing  censure  of  the  French, 
that  a  just  idea  of  Charles's  genius  and  abili- 
ties is  to  be  collected.  He  possessed  quali- 
ties so  peculiar,  as  strongly  mark  his  char- 
acter, and  not  only  distinguish  him  from  the 
princes  who  were  his  contemporaries,  but 
account  for  that  superiority  over  them  which 
he  so  long  maintained.  In  forming  his 
schemes  he  was,  by  nature  as  well  as  by 
habit,  cautious  and  considerate.  Born  with 
talents  which  unfolded  themselves  slowly, 
and  were  late  in  attaining  maturity,  he  was 
accustomed  to  ponder  every  subject  that  de- 
manded his  consideration  with  a  careful  and 
deliberate  attention.  He  bent  the  whole 
force  of  his  mind  towards  it,  and  dwelling 
upon  it  with  serious  application,  undi- 
verted by  pleasure,  and  hardly  relaxed  by 
any  amusement,  he  revolved  it  in  silence  in 
his  own  breast:  he  then  communicated  the 
matter  to  his  ministers;  .and  after  hearing 
their  opinions  took  his  resolution  with  a  de- 
cisive firmness  which  seldom  follows  such 
slow  consultations.  In  consequence  of  this, 
Charles's  measures,  instead  of  resembling 
the  desultory  and  irregular  sallies  of  Henry 
VIII.,  or  Francis  I.,  had  the  appearance  of 
a  consistent  system,  in  which  all  the  parts 
were  arranged,  the  effects  were  foreseen, 
and  the  accidents  were  provided  for.  His 
promptitude  in  execution  was  no  less  re- 
markable than  his  patience  in  deliberation. 
He  consulted  with  phlegm,  but  he  acted 
with  vigour;  and  did  not  discover  greater 
sagacity  in  his  choice  of  the  measures  which 
it  was  proper  to  pursue,  than  fertility  of 
genius  in  finding  out  the  means  for  rendering 
his  pursuit  of  them  successful.  Though  he 
had  naturally  so  little  of  the  martial  turn 
that  during  the  most  ardent  and  bustling 
period  of  life  he  remained  in  the  cabinet  in- 
active, yet  when  he  chose  at  length  to  ap- 
pear at  the  head  of  his  armies,  his  mind  was 
so  formed  for  vigorous  exertions  in  every  di- 
rection, that  he  acquired  such  knowledge  in 
the  art  of  war,  and  such  talents  for  com- 


mand, as  rendered  him  equal  in  reputation 
and  success  to  the  most  able  generals  of 
the  age.  But  Charles  possessed  in  the  most 
eminent  degree  the  science  which  is  of 
greatest  importance  to  a  monarch,  that  of 
knowing  men,  and  of  adapting  their  talents 
to  the  various  departments  which  he  allotted 
to  them  Fom  the  death  of  Chievres  to  the 
end  of  his  reign,  he  employed  no  general  in 
the  field,  no  minister  in  the  cabinet,  no  am- 
bassador to  a  foreign  court,  no  governor  of 
a  province,  whose  abilities  were  inadequate 
to  the  trust  which  he  reposed  in  them. 

Though  destitute  of  that  bewitching  affa- 
bility of  manner  which  gained  Francis  the 
hearts  of  all  who  approached  his  person,  he 
was  no  stranger  to  the  virtues  which  secured 
fidelity  and  attachment.  He  placed  un- 
bounded confidence  in  his  generals  ;  he  re- 
warded their  services  with  munificence;  he 
neither  envied  their  fame,  nor  discovered 
any  jealousy  of  their  power.  Almost  all 
the  generals  who  conducted  his  armies  may 
be  placed  on  a  level  with  those  illustrious 
personages  who  have  attained  the  highest 
eminence  of  military  glory  :  and  his  advan- 
tages over  his  rivals  are  to  be  ascribed  so 
manifestly  to  the  superior  abilities  of  the 
commanders  whom  he  set  in  opposition  to 
them,  that  this  might  seem  to  detract,  in 
some  degree,  from  his  own  merit,  if  the 
talent  of  discovering  and  employing  such 
instruments  were  not  the  most  undoubted 
proof  of  his  capacity  for  government. 

There  were,  nevertheless,  defects  in  his 
political  character  which  must  considerably 
abate  the  admiration  due  to  his  extraor- 
dinary talents.  Charles's  ambition  was  in- 
satiable ;  and  though  there  seems  to  be  no 
foundation  for  an  opinion  prevalent  in  his 
own  age,  that  he  had  formed  the  chimerical 
project  of  establishing  an  universal  mon- 
archy in  Europe,  it  is  certain  that  his  de- 
sire of  being  distinguished  as  a  conqueror 
involved  him  in  continual  wars,  which  ex- 
hausted and  oppressed  his  subjects,  and  left 
him  little  leisure  for  giving  attention  to  the 
interior  police  and  improvement  of  his  king- 
doms,— the  great  /objects  of  every  prince 
who  makes  the  happiness  of  his  people  the 
end  of  his  government. 

History  of  the  Reign  of  the  Emperor 
Charles  V. 

CHARACTER  OF  MARTIX  LUTHER. 

As  he  [Luther]  was  raised  up  by  Provi- 
dence to  be  the  author  of  one  of  the  greatest 
and  most  interesting  revolutions  recorded  in 
history,  there  is  not  any  person,  perhaps, 
whose  character  has  been  drawn  with  such 
opposite  colours.  In  his  own  age.  one  party, 
struck  with  horror  and  inflamed  with  rage, 
when  they  saw  with  what  a  daring  hand  he 


212 


WILLIAM  ROBERTSON. 


overturned  everything  which  they  held  to  be 
sacred,  or  valued  as  beneficial,  imputed  to 
him  not  only  all  the  defects  and  vices  of  a 
man,  but  the  qualities  of  a  demon.  The 
other,  warmed  with  the  admiration  and 
gratitude  which  they  thought  he  merited  as 
the  restorer  of  light  and  liberty  to  the  Chris- 
tian church,  ascribed  to  him  perfections 
above  the  condition  of  humanity,  and  viewed 
all  his  actions  with  a  veneration  bordering 
on  that  which  should  be  paid  only  to  those 
who  are  guided  by  the  immediate  inspira- 
tion of  heaven.  It  is  his  own  conduct,  not 
the  undistinguishing  censure  or  the  exag- 
gerated praise  of  his  contemporaries,  that 
ought  to  regulate  the  opinions  of  the  present 
age  concerning  him.  Zeal  for  what  he  re- 
garded as  truth,  undaunted  intrepidity  to 
maintain  his  own  system,  abilities,  both  na- 
tural and  acquired,  to  defend  his  principles, 
and  unwearied  industry  in  propagating  them, 
are  virtues  which  shine  so  conspicuously  in 
every  part  of  his  behaviour,  that  even  his 
enemies  must  allow  him  to  have  possessed 
them  in  an  eminent  degree.  To  these  may 
be  added,  with  equal  justice,  such  purity  and 
even  austerity  of  manners  as  became  one 
who  assumed  the  character  of  a  reformer; 
such  sanctity  of  life  as  suited  the  doctrine 
which  he  delivered;  and  such  perfect  disin- 
terestedness as  affords  no  slight  presumption 
of  his  sincerity.  Superior  to  all  selfish  con- 
siderations, a  stranger  to  the  elegancies  of 
life,  and  despising  its  pleasures,  he  left  the 
honours  and  emoluments  of  the  church  to 
his  disciples,  remaining  satisfied  himself  in 
his  original  state  of  professor  in  the  univer- 
sity, and  pastor  of  the  town  of  Wittemberg, 
with  the  moderate  appointments  annexed  to 
these  offices.  His  extraordinary  qualities 
were  alloyed  with  no  inconsiderable  mix- 
ture of  human  frailty  and  human  passions. 
These,  however,  were  of  such  a  nature  that 
they  cannot  be  imputed  to  malevolence  or 
corruption  of  heart,  but  seem  to  have  taken 
their  rise  from  the  same  source  with  many 
of  his  virtues.  His  mind,  forcible  and  ve- 
hement in  all  its  operations,  roused  by  great 
objects,  or  agitated  by  violent  passions, 
broke  out,  on  many  occasions,  with  an  im- 
petuosity which  astonishes  men  of  feebler 
spirits,  or  such  as  are  placed  in  a  more  tran- 
quil situation.  By  carrying  some  praise- 
worthy dispositions  to  excess,  he  bordered 
sometimes  on  what  was  culpable,  and  was 
often  betrayed  into  actions  which  exposed  him 
to  censure.  His  confidence  that  his  own  opin- 
ions were  well-founded,  approached  to  arro- 
gance ;  his  courage  in  asserting  them,  to 
rashness;  his  firmness  in  adhering  to  them, 
to  obstinacy;  and  his  zeal  in  confuting  his 


adversaries,  to  rage  and  scurrility.  Accus 
tomed  himself  to  consider  everything  as 
subordinate  to  truth,  he  expected  the  same 
deference  for  it  from  other  men  ;  and  with- 
out making  any  allowances  for  their  timidity 
or  prejudices,  he  poured  forth  against  such 
as  disappointed  him  in  this  particular  a  tor- 
rent of  invective  mingled  with  contempt. 
Regardless  of  any  distinction  of  rank  or 
character  when  his  doctrines  were  attacked, 
he  chastised  all  his  adversaries  indiscrimi- 
nately with  the  same  rough  hand  :  neither 
the  royal  dignity  of  Henry  VIII.,  nor  the 
eminent  learning  and  abilities  of  Erasmus, 
screened  them  from  the  same  gross  abuse 
with  which  he  treated  Tetzel  or  Eccius. 

But  these  indecencies  of  which  Luther 
was  guilty  must  not  be  imputed  wholly  to 
the  violence  of  his  temper.  They  ought  to 
be  charged  in  part  on  the  manners  of  the 
age.  Among  a  rude  people,  unacquainted 
with  those  maxims  which,  by  putting  con- 
tinual restraint  on  the  passions  of  individuals, 
have  polished  society  and  rendered  it  agree- 
able, disputes  of  every  kind  were  managed 
with  heat,  and  strong  emotions  were  uttered 
in  their  natural  language  without  reserve  or 
delicacy.  At  the  same  time  the  works  of 
learned  men  were  all  composed  in  Latin,  and 
they  were  not  only  authorized,  by  the  ex- 
ample of  eminent  writers  in  that  language, 
to  use  their  antagonists  with  the  most  illib- 
eral scurrility,  but  in  a  dead  tongue,  inde- 
cencies of  every  kind  appear  less  shocking 
than  in  a  living  language,  whose  idioms 
and  phrases  seein  gross,  because  they  are 
familiar. 

In  passing  judgment  upon  the  characters 
of  men,  we  ought  to  try  them  by  the  prin- 
ciples and  maxims  of  their  own  age,  not  by 
those  of  another:  for  although  virtue  and 
vice  are  at  all  times  the  same,  manners  and 
customs  vary  continually.  Some  parts  of 
Luther's  behaviour  which  appear  to  us  most 
culpable,  gave  no  disgust  to  his  contem- 
poraries. It  was  even  by  some  of  those 
qualities  which  we  are  now  apt  to  blame, 
that  he  was  fitted  for  accomplishing  the 
great  work  which  he  undertook.  To  rouse 
mankind,  when  sunk  in  ignorance  or  super- 
stition, and  to  encounter  the  rage  of  bigotry 
armed  with  power,  required  the  utmost  ve- 
hemence of  zeal,  as  well  as  a  temper  daring 
to  excess.  A  gentle  call  would  neither  have 
reached  nor  excited  those  to  whom  it  was 
addressed.  A  spirit  more  amiable  but  less 
vigorous  than  Luther's  would  have  shrunk 
back  from  the  dangers  which  he  braved  and 
surmounted. 

History  of  the    Reign   of  the  Emperor 
Charles  V. 


TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 


213 


TOBIAS   GEORGE    SMOLLETT, 
M.D., 

born  in  Dumbartonshire,  Scotland,  1721, 
died  at  Leghorn,  Italy,  1771,  was  the  author 
of  many  works,  of  which  the  following  are 
the  best  known  :  The  Adventures  of  Rod- 
erick Random,  Lond.,  1748,  2  vols.  12mo; 
The  Adventures  of  Peregrine  Pickle,  1751, 
4  vols.  12mo:  The  Adventures  of  Ferdinand 
Count  Fathom,  1752,  2  vols.  12mo;  Don 
Quixote,  Translated  from  the  Spanish,  1755, 
2  vols.  4to  ;  A  Compendium  of  Authentic 
and  Entertaining  Voyages,  1757,  7  vols. 
12rno:  A  Compleat  History  of  England  to 
1748, '1757-17.58,  4  vols.  4to  ;  The"  Adven- 
tures of  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves,  1762,  2  vols. 
12mo  ;  Gil  Bias,  Translated  from  the  French 
of  Le  Sage.  1761,  4  vols.  12mo;  Travels 
through  France  and  Italy,  1766,  2  vols.  8vo; 
The  Uistorv  and  Adventures  of  an  Atom, 
1749  (really  1769),  2  vols.  12mo;  The  Ex- 
pedition of  Humphrey  Clinker,  1771,  2 
vols.  12mo;  The  Adventures  of  Telemachus, 
Translated  from  the  French  of  Fenelon,  1776, 
2  vols.  12mo.  As  a  poet  he  is  best  known 
by  his  Tears  of  Scotland,  1746.  His  Plays 
and  Poems,  with  Memoirs,  1777,  8vo.  Of 
the  collective  editions  of  his  Works  we 
notice  that  of  T.  Roscoe,  Lond.,  1840,  etc., 
med.  8vo,  and  Nhmuo's,  Edin.,  1869,  r. 
8vo. 

"  Smollett  seems  to  have  had  more  touch  of 
romance  than  Fielding,  but  not  so  profound  and 
intuitive  a  knowledge  of  humanity's  hidden  treas- 
ures. There  is  nothing  in  his  works  comparable 
to  Parson  Adams ;  but  then,  on  the  other  hand, 
Fielding  has  not  anything  of  the  kind  equal  to 
Strap.  Partridge  is  dry  :ind  hard,  compared  with 
this  poor  barber  boy,  with  his  generous  overflow- 
ings of  affection.  Roderick  Random,  indeed,  with 
its  varied  delineation  of  life,  is  almost  a  romance. 
Its  hero  is  worthy  of  its  name." — SIR  T.  N.  TAL- 
FOUIID:  N?w  Month.  May.,  and  in  his  Grit,  and 
Mined/..  Writings. 

''Smollett  inherited  from  nature  a  strong  sense 
of  ridicule,  a  great  fund  of  original  humour,  and 
a  happy  versatility  of  talent,  by  which  he  could 
accommodate  his  style  to  almost  every  species 
of  writing.  He  could  adopt,  alternately,  the  sol- 
emn, the  lively,  the  sarcastic,  the  burlesque,  and 
the  vulgar.  To  these  qualifications  he  joined  an 
inventive  genius  and  a  vigorous  imagination." — 
LORD  WOODHOCSLEH  (TYTLER):  Essay  on  the  Prin- 
ciples of  Translation. 

FEAST  IN  THE    MANNER  OF  THE  ANCIENTS. 

Our  young  gentleman  [Peregrine  Pickle], 
by  his  insinuating  behaviour,  acquired  the 
full  confidence  of  the  doctor,  who  invited 
him  to  an  entertainment,  which  he  intended 
to  prepare  in  the  manner  of  the  ancients. 
Pickle,  struck  with  this  idea,  eagerly  em- 
braced the  proposal,  which  he  honoured 


with  many  encomiums,  as  a  plan  in  all 
respects  worthy  of  his  genius  and  appre- 
hension ;  and  the  day  was  appointed  at 
some  distance  of  time,  that  the  treater  might 
have  leisure  to  compose  certain  pickles  and 
confections  which  were  not  to  be  found 
among  the  culinary  preparations  of  these 
degenerate  days. 

AVith  a  view  of  rendering  the  physician's 
taste  more  conspicuous,  and  extracting  from 
it  the  more  diversion,  Peregrine  proposed 
that  some  foreigners  should  partake  of  the 
banquet;  and  the  task  being  left  to  his  care 
and  discretion,  he  actually  bespoke  the  com- 
pany of  a  French  marquis,  an  Italian  count, 
and  a  German  baron,  whom  he  knew  to  bo 
egregious  coxcombs,  and  therefore  more 
likely  to  enhance  the  joy  of  the  entertain- 
ment. .  .  . 

The  mutual  compliments  that  passed  on 
this  occasion  were  scarce  finished  when  a 
servant,  coming  into  the  room,  announced 
dinner;  and  the  entertainer  led  the  way 
into  another  apartment;  where  they  found 
along  table,  or  rather  two  boards  joined 
together,  and  furnished  with  a  variety,  of 
dishes,  the  steams  of  which  had  such  evi- 
dent effect  upon  the  nerves  of  the  company 
that  the  marquis  made  frightful  grimaces, 
under  pretence  of  taking  snuff;  the  Italian's 
eyes  watered,  the  German's  visage  under- 
went several  divstortions  of  feature ;  our  hero 
found  means  to  exclude  the  odour  from  his 
sense  of  smelling  by  breathing  only  through 
his  mouth  ;  and  the  poor  painter,  running 
into  another  room,  plugged  his  nostrils  with 
tobacco.  The  doctor  himself,  who  was  the 
only  person  then  present  whose  organs 
were  not  discomposed,  pointing  to  a  couple 
of  couches  placed  on  each  side  of  the  table, 
told  his  guests  that  he  was  sorry  he  could 
not  procure  the  exact  triclinia  of  the  ancients, 
which  were  somewhat  different  from  these 
conveniences,  and  desired  they  would  have 
the  goodness  to  repose  themselves  without 
ceremony,  each  in  his  respective  couchette, 
while  he  and  his  friend  Mr.  Pallet  would 
place  themselves  upright  at  the  ends,  that 
they  might  have  .  che  pleasure  of  serving 
those  that  lay  along.  This  disposition,  of 
which  the  strangers  had  no  previous  idea, 
disconcerted  and  perplexed  them  in  a  most 
ridiculous  manner;  the  marquis  and  baron 
stood  bowing  to  each  other  on  pretence  of 
disputing  the  lower  seat,  but,  in  reality, 
with  a  view  of  profiting  by  the  example  of 
each  other;  for  neither  of  them  understood 
the  manner  in  which  they  were  to  loll  ; 
and  Peregrine,  who  enjoyed  their  confusion, 
handed  the  count  to  the  other  side,  where, 
with  the  most  mischievous  politeness,  he 
insisted  upon  his  taking  possession  of  the 
upper  place. 


214 


TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 


In  this  disagreeable  and  ludicrous  sus- 
pense, they  continued  acting  a  pantomime 
of  gesticulations,  until  the  doctor  earnestly 
entreated  them  to  waive  all  compliment  and 
form,  lest  the  dinner  should  be  spoiled  be- 
fore the  ceremonial  could  be  adjusted.  Thus 
conjured,  Peregrine  took  the  lower  couch 
on  the  left-hand  side,  laying  himself,  gently 
down,  with  his  face  towards  the  table.  The 
marquis  in  imitation  of  this  pattern  (though 
lie  would  have  much  rather  fasted  three 
days  than  run  the  risk  of  discomposing  his 
dress  by  such  an  attitude),  stretched  him- 
self upon  the  opposite  place,  reclining  upon 
his  elbow  in  a  most  painful  and  awkward 
situation,  with  his  head  raised  above  the 
end  of  the  couch,  that  the  economy  of  his 
hair  might  not  suffer  by  the  projection  of 
his  body.  The  Italian,  being  a  thin,  limber 
creature,  planted  himself  next  to  Pickle, 
without  sustaining  any  misfortune  but  that 
of  his  stocking  being  torn  by  a  ragged  nail 
of  the  seat,  as  he  raised  his  legs  on  a  level 
with  the  rest  of  his  limbs.  But  the  baron, 
who  was  neither  so  wieldly  nor  so  supple  in 
his  joints  as  his  companions,  flounced  him- 
self down  with  such  precipitation,  that  his 
feet,  suddenly  tilting  up,  came  in  furious 
contact  with  the  head  of  the  marquis,  and 
demolished  every  curl  in  a  twinkling,  while 
his  own  skull,  at  the  same  instant,  descended 
upon  the  side  of  his  couch  with  such  vio- 
lence that  his  periwig  was  struck  off,  and 
the  whole  room  filled  with  pulvilio. 

The  drollery  of  distress  that  attended  this 
disaster  entirely  vanquished  the  affected 
gravity  of  our  young  gentleman,  who  was 
obliged  to  suppress  his  laughter  by  cram- 
ming his  handkerchief  in  his  mouth;  for 
the  bare-headed  German  asked  pardon  with 
such  ridiculous  confusion,  and  the  marquis 
admitted  his  apology  with  such  rueful  com- 
plaisance, as  were  sufficient  to  awake  the 
mirth  of  a  Qtiietist. 

This  misfortune  being  repaired,  as  well  as 
the  circumstances  of  the  occasion  would  per- 
mit, and  every  one  settled  according  to  the 
arrangement  already  described,  the  doctor 
graciously  undertook  to  give  some  account  of 
the  dishes  as  they  occurred,  that  the  company 
might  1)0  directed  in  their  choice  ;  and  with 
an  air  of  infinite  satisfaction  thus  began: 
'"This  here,  gentlemen,  is  a  boiled  goose, 
served  up  in  a  sauce  composed  of  pepper,  lov- 
age,  coriander,  mint,  rue,  anchovies,  and  oil. 
I  wish,  for  your  sakes,  gentlemen,  it  was  one 
of  the  geese  of  Ferrara,  so  much  celebrated 
among  the  ancients  for  the  magnitude  of  their 
livers,  one  of  which  is  said  to  have  weighed 
two  pounds  ;  with  this  food,  exquisite  as  it 
was,  did  the  tyrant  Ileliogabalus  regale  his 
hounds.  But  I  beg  pardon,  I  had  almost 
forgot  the  soup,  which  I  hear  is  so  necessary 


an  article  .at  all  tables  in  France.  At  each 
end  there  are  dishes  of  the  salacacabia  of 
the  Romans:  one  is  made  of  parsley,  penny- 
royal, cheese,  pine-tops,  honey,  vinegar, 
brine,  eggs,  cucumbers,  onions,  and  hen- 
livers  :  the  other  is  much  the  same  as  the 
soup-maigre  of  this  country.  Then  there  is 
a  loin  of  boiled  veal  with  fennel  and  cara- 
way seed,  on  a  pottage  composed  of  pickle, 
oil,  honey,  and  flour,  and  a  curious  hashis 
of  the  lights,  liver,  and  blood  of  a  hare, 
together  with  a  dish  of  roasted  pigeons. 
Monsieur  le  Baron,  shall  I  help  you  to 
a  plate  of  this  soup?"  The  German,  who 
did  not  at  all  disapprove  of  the  ingredients, 
assented  to  the  proposal,  and  seemed  to 
relish  the  composition  ;  while  the  marquis, 
being  asked  by  the  painter  which  of  the 
silly-kickabys  he  chose,  was,  in  consequence 
of  his  desire,  accommodated  Avith  a  portion 
of  the  soup-maigre;  and  the  count,  in  lieu 
of  spoon-meat,  of  which  he  said  he  was  no 
great  admirer,  supplied  himself  with  apigeon, 
therein  conforming  to  the  choice  of  our 
young  gentleman,  Avhose  example  he  de- 
termined to  follow  through  the  whole  course 
of  the  entertainment. 

The  Frenchman  having  swallowed  the 
first  spoonful,  made  a  full  pause:  his  throat 
swelled  as  if  an  egg  had  stuck  in  his  gullet, 
his  eyes  rolled,  and  his  mouth  underwent  a 
series  of  involuntary  contractions  and  dila- 
tations. Pallet,  who  looked  steadfastly  at 
this  connoisseur,  Avith  a  view  of  consulting 
his  taste  before  he  himself  would  venture 
upon  the  soup,  began  to  be  disturbed  at 
these  emotions,  and  observed,  with  some 
concern,  that  the  poor  gentleman  seemed  to 
be  going  into  a  fit;  when  Peregrine  assured 
him  that  these  were  symptoms  of  ecstacy, 
and,  for  further  confirmation,  asked  the 
marquis  how  he  found  the  soup.  It  was 
with  infinite  difficulty  that  his  complaisance 
could  so  far  master  his  disgust  as  to  enable 
him  to  answer,  "Altogether  excellent,  upon 
my  honour!"  And  the  painter  being  certi- 
fied of  his  approbation,  lifted  the  spoon  to 
his  mouth  Avithout  scruple  ;  but  far  from 
justifying  the  eulogium  of  his  taster,  when 
this  precious  composition  diffused  itself  upon 
his  palate,  he  seemed  to  be  deprived  of  all 
sense  and  motion,  and  sat  like  the  leaden 
statue  of  some  river  god,  with  the  liquor 
flowing  out  at  both  sides  of  the  mouth. 

The  doctor,  alarmed  at  this  indecent  phe- 
nomenon, earnestly  inquired  into  the  cause 
of  it;  and  when  Pallet  recovered  his  recol- 
lection, and  swore  that  he  would  rather  swal- 
low porridge  made  of  burning  brimstone 
than  such  an  infernal  mess  as  that  which  he 
had  tasted,  the  physician,  in  his  OAvn  vindi- 
cation, assured  the  company  that,  except  the 
usual  ingredients,  he  had  mixed  nothing  in 


TOBIAS   GEORGE  SMOLLETT. 


215 


the  soup  but  some  sal-ammoniac,  instoail  of 
the  usual  nitrum,  which  could  not  now  be 
procured  ;  and  appealed  to  the  marquis 
whether  such  a  succedaneum  was  not  an  im- 
provement on  the  whole.  The  unfortunate 
petit-maitre,  driven  to  the  extremity  of  his 
condescension,  acknowledged  it  to  be  a 
masterly  refinement;  and  deeming  himself 
obliged,  in  point  of  honour,  to  evince  his 
sentiments  by  his  practice,  forced  a  few 
more  mouthfuls  of  this  disagreeable  potion 
down  his  throat,  till  his  stomach  was  so 
much  offended  that  he  was  compelled  to 
start  up  of  a  sudden,  and  in  the  hurry  of 
his  elevation  overturned  his  plate  into  the 
bosom  of  the  baron.  The  emergency  of  his 
occasions  would  not  permit  him  to  stay  and 
make  apologies  for  this  abrupt  behaviour,  so 
that  he  flew  into  another  apartment  .  .  . 
and  a  chair  at  his  desire  being  brought  to 
the  door,  he  slipped  into  it  more  dead  than 
alive,  conjuring  his  friend  Pickle  to  make 
his  peace  with  the  company,  and  in  partic- 
ular excuse  him  to  the  baron,  on  account  of 
the  violent  fit  of  illness  with  which  he  had 
been  seized.  It  was  not  without  reason  that 
he  employed  a  mediator;  for  when  our  hero 
returned  to  the  dining-room,  the  German 
had  got  up,  and  was  under  the  hands  of  his 
own  lacquey,  who  wiped  the  grease  from  a 
rich,  embroidered  waistcoat,  while  he,  almost 
frantic  with  his  misfortune,  stamped  upon 
the  ground,  and  in  high  Dutch  cursed  the 
unlucky  banquet,  and  the  impertinent  en- 
tertainer, who  all  this  time,  with  great  de- 
liberation, consoled  him  for  the  disaster  by 
assuring  him  that  the  damage  might  be  re- 
paired with  some  oil  of  turpentine  and  a  hot 
iron.  Peregrine,  who  could  scarce  refrain 
from  laughing  in  his  face,  appeased  his  in- 
dignation by  telling  him  how  much  the 
Whole  company,  and  especially  the  marquis, 
was  mortified  at  the  accident;  and  the  un- 
happy salacacabia  being  removed,  the  places 
were  filled  with  two  pies,  one  of  dormice 
liquored  with  sirup  of  white  poppies,  which 
the  doctor  had  substituted  in  the  room  of 
toasted  poppy-seed,  formerly  eaten  with 
honey  as  a  dessert ;  and  the  other  composed 
of  a  hock  of  pork  baked  in  honey. 

Pallet,  hearing  the  first  of  these  dishes 
described,  lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes,  and, 
witli  signs  of  loathing  and  amazement,  pro- 
nounced, "A  pie  made  of  dormice  and  sirup 
of  poppies!  .  .  .  What  beastly  fellows  those 
llomans  were !"  His  friend  checked  him 
for  his  irreverent  exclamation  with  a  severe 
look,  and  recommended  the  veal,  of  which 
lie  himself  cheerfully  ate,  with  such  enco- 
miums to  the  company  that  the  baron  re- 
solved to  imitate  his  example,  after  having 
called  fora  bumper  of  Burgundy,  which  the 
physician,  for  his  sake,  wished  to  have  been 


the  true  wine  of  Falernum.  The  painter, 
seeing  nothing  else  upon  the  table  which  he 
would  venture  to  touch,  made  a  merit  of  ne- 
cessity, and  had  recourse  to  the  veal  silso ; 
although  he  could  not  help  saying  that  he 
would  not  give  one  slice  of  the  roast  beef  of 
old  England  for  all  the  dainties  of  a  Roman 
emperor's  table.  But  all  the  doctor's  invi- 
tations and  assurances  could  not  prevail 
upon  his  guests  to  honour  the  hashis  and  the 
goose ;  and  that  course  was  succeeded  by 
another,  in  which  he  told  them  were  divers 
of  those  dishes  which  among  the  ancients 
had  obtained  the  appellation  of  politeles,  or 
magnificent.  '•  That  which  smokes  in  the 
middle,"  said  he,  "  is  a  sow's  stomach,  filled 
with  a  composition  of  minced  pork,  hog's 
brains,  eggs,  pepper,  cloves,  garlic,  aniseed, 
rue,  ginger,  oil,  wine,  and  pickle.  On  the 
right-hand  side  are  the  teats  and  belly  of  a 
sow,  just  farrowed,  fried  with  sweet  wine, 
oil,  flour,  lovage,  and  pepper.  On  the  left 
is  a  fricassee  of  snails,  fed  or  rather  purged 
with  milk.  At  that  end,  next  Mr.  Pallet, 
are  fritters  of  pompions,  lovage,  origanum, 
and  oil,  and  here  are  a  couple  of  pullets, 
roasted  and  stuffed  in  the  manner  of  Api- 
cius." 

The  painter,  who  had  by  wry  faces  testi- 
fied his  abhorrence  of  the  sow's  stomach, 
which  he  compared  to  a  bagpipe,  and  the 
snails  which  had  undergone  purgation,  no 
sooner  heard  him  mention  the  roasted  pul- 
lets than  he  eagerly  solicited  a  wing  of  the 
fowl ;  upon  which  the  doctor  desired  he 
would  take  the  trouble  of  cutting  them  up, 
and  accordingly  sent  them  round,  while 
Mr.  Pallet  tucked  the  table-cloth  under  his 
chin,  and  brandished  his  knife  and  fork 
witli  singular  address ;  but  scarce  were  they 
set  down  before  him,  when  the  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks,  and  he  called  aloud,  in  a 
manifest  disorder,  "Zounds!  this  is  the 
essence  of  a  whole  bed  of  garlic!"  That 
he  might  not,  however,  disappoint  or  dis- 
grace the  entertainer,  he  applied  his  instru- 
ments to  one  of  the  birds ;  and  when  he 
opened  up  the  cavity,  was  assaulted  by  such 
an  irruption  of  intolerable  smells  that,  with- 
out staying  to  disengage  himself  from  the 
cloth,  he  sprung  away  with  an  exclamation 
.  .  .  and  involved  the  whole  table  in  havoc, 
ruin,  and  confusion. 

Before  Pickle  could  accomplish  his  escape 
he  was  sauced  with  a  sirup  of  the  dormice 
pie,  which  went  to  pieces  in  the  general 
wreck  :  and  as  for  the  Italian  count,  he  was 
overwhelmed  by  the  sow's  stomach,  which, 
burstin<r  in  the  fall,  discharged  its  contents 
upon  his  leg  and  thigh,  and  scalded  him  so 
miserably  that  he  shrieked  with  anguish, 
and  grinned  with  a  most  ghastly  and  hor- 
rible aspect. 


213 


JOSEPH   WAR  TON. 


The  baron,  who  sat  secure  without  the 
vortex  of  this  tumult,  was  not  at  all  dis- 
pleased at  seeing  his  companions  involved 
in  such  a  calamity  as  that  which  he  had 
already  shared ;  but  the  doctor  was  con- 
founded with  shame  and  vexation.  After 
having  prescribed  an  application  of  oil  to 
the  count's  leg,  he  expressed  his  sorrow  for 
the  misadventure,  which  he  openly  ascribed 
to  want  of  taste  and  prudence  in  the  painter, 
who  did  not  think  proper  to  return  and 
make  an  apology  in  person  ;  and  protested 
that  there  was  nothing  in  the  fowls  which 
could  give  offence  to  a  sensible  nose,  the 
stuffing  being  a  mixture  of  pepper,  lovage, 
and  assafcetida,  and  the  sauce  consisting  of 
wine  and  herring-pickle,  which  he  had  used 
instead  of  the  celebrated  garum  of  the  Ro- 
mans; that  famous  pickle  having  been  pre- 
pared sometimes  of  the  scombri,  which  were 
a  sort  of  tunny  fish,  and  sometimes  of  the 
pilurus  or  shad  fish  ;  nay,  he  observed,  that 
there  was  a  third  kind  called  garum  hoema- 
tion,  made  of  the  guts,  gills,  and  blood  of 
the  thynnus. 

The  physician,  finding  that  it  would  be 
impracticable  to  re-establish  the  order  of  the 
banquet  by  presenting  again  the  dishes  which 
had  been  discomposed,  ordered  everything  to 
be  removed,  a  clean  cloth  to  be  laid,  and  the 
dessert  to  be  brought  in. 

Meanwhile  he  regretted  his  incapacity  to 
give  them  a  specimen  of  the  aliens  or  fish 
meals  of  the  ancients;  such  as  the  jusdia- 
baton,  the  conger  eel,  which,  in  Galen's 
opinion,  is  hard  of  digestion  ;  the  cornuta 
or  gurnard,  described  by  Pliny  in  his  Natural 
History,  who  says  the  horns  of  many  of 
them  were  a  foot  and  a  half  in  length  ;  the 
mullet  and  lamprey,  that  were  in  the  highest 
estimation  of  old,  of  which  last  Julius  Cae-ar 
borrowed  six  thousand  for  one  triumphal 
supper.  lie  observed  that  the  manner  of 
dressing  them  was  described  by  Horace  in 
the  account  he  gives  of  the  entertainment 
to  which  Maecenas  was  invited  by  the  epi- 
cure Nasiedenus, 

Affcrtur  squillos  inter  Murena  natantes,  Ac. 

And  told  them  that  they  were  commonly 
eaten  with  the  chus  Syriacum.  a  certain 
anodyne  and  astringent  seed,  which  quali- 
fied the  purgative  nature  of  the  fish.  Finally, 
this  learned  physician  gave  them  to  under- 
stand that  though  this  was  reckoned  a  lux- 
urious dish  in  the  zenith  of  the  Roman  taste, 
it  was  by  no  means  comparable  in  point  of 
expense  to  some  preparations  in  vogue  about 
the  time  of  that  absurd  voluptuary  Ilelioga- 
balus,  who  ordered  the  brains  of  six  hun- 
dred ostriches  to  be  compounded  in  one 
mess. 

The  Adventures  of  Peregrine  Pickle. 


JOSEPH    WARTON,    D.D., 

born  172:2,  second  Master  of  Winchester 
School,  1755-06.  and  Head  Master,  1766-93, 
Prebendary  of  London.  1782,  died  1800.  pub- 
lished Odes,  Lond.,  1746.  4to;  The  Works 
of  Virgil  in  Latin  and  English,  by  C.  Pitt 
and  J.  Warton,  1753,  4  vols.  8vo :  an  Essay 
on  Pope,  1756-62,  2  vols.  8vo;  and  an 
edition  of  Pope's  Works.  1797,  9  vols.  8vo  ; 
was  author  of  twenty-four  numbers  of 
The  Adventurer,  1753-56,  etc.  See  Rev. 
John  Wooll's  Memoirs  of  J.  Warton,  1806, 
4to. 

"  Warton's  translation  [of  the  Georgics]  may  in 
many  instances  be  found  more  faithful  and  concise 
than  Dryden's;  but  it  wants  that  elastic  and  idio- 
matic freedom  by  which  Dryden  reconciles  us  to 
his  faults,  and  exhibits  rather  the  diligence  of  a 
scholar  than  the  spirit  of  a  poet." — THOMAS  CAMP- 
BELL :  Specimens,  664. 

CRITICS  AND  MORALISTS  OF  FRANCE. 

The  character  of  the  scholars  of  the  pres- 
ent age  will  not  be  much  injured  or  misrep- 
resented by  saying  that  they  seem  to  be 
superficially  acquainted  with  a  multitude 
of  subjects,  but  go  to  the  bottom  of  very 
few.  This  appears  in  criticism  and  polite 
learning,  as  well  as  in  the  abstruser  sci- 
ences ;  by  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  its 
depth  is  abated.  Eutyches  harangues  with 
wonderful  plausibility  on  the  distinct  merits 
of  all  the  Greek  and  Roman  classics,  with- 
out having  thoroughly  and  attentively  pe- 
rused or  entered  into  the  spirit  and  scope 
of  one  of  them.  But  Eutyches  has  dili- 
gently digested  the  dissertations  of  Rapin, 
Bonhours,  Felton,  Blackwall,  and  Rollin  : 
treatises  that  administer  great  consolation 
to  the  indolent  and  incurious,  to  those  who 
can  tamely  rest  satisfied  with  second-hand 
knowledge,  as  they  give  concise  accounts  of 
all  the  great  heroes  of  ancient  literature, 
and  enable  them  to  speak  of  their  several 
characters,  without  the  tedious  drudgery  of 
perusing  the  originals.  But  the  characters 
of  writers,  as  of  men,  are  of  a  very  mixed 
and  complicated  nature,  and  are  not  to  be 
comprehended  in  so  small  a  compass:  such 
objects  do  not  admit  of  being  drawn  in  min- 
iature, with  accuracy  and  distinctness. 

To  the  present  prevailing  fashion  for 
French  moralists  and  French  critics  may 
be  imputed  the  superficial  show  of  learning 
and  abilities  of  which  I  am  complaining. 
And  since  these  alluring  authors  are  become 
not  only  so  fashionable  an  amusement  of 
those  who  call  themselves  the  polite  world. 
but  also  engross  the  attention  of  academical 
students.  I  am  tempted  to  inquire  into  the 
merits  of  the  most  celebrated  among  them, 
of  both  kinds. 


JOSEPH   WAR  TON. 


217 


That  Montaigne  abounds  in  native  wit.  in 
quick  penetration,  in  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart,  and  the  various  vanities 
and  vices  that  lurk  in  it,  cannot  justly  be 
denied.  But  a  man  who  undertakes  to  trans- 
mit his  thoughts  on  life  and  manners  to  pos- 
terity, with  the  hopes  of  entertaining  and 
amending  future  ages,  must  be  cither  ex- 
ceedingly vain  or  exceedingly  careless,  if  lie 
expects  either  of  these  effects  can  be  pro- 
duced by  wanton  sallies  of  the  imagination, 
by  useless  and  impertinent  digressions,  by 
never  forming  or  following  any  regular  plan, 
never  classing  or  confining  his  thoughts, 
never  changing  or  rejecting  any  sentiment 
that  occurs  to  him.  Yet  this  appears  to 
have  been  the  conduct  of  our  celebrated 
essayist:  and  it  has  produced  many  :iwk- 
wanJ  imitators,  who,  under  the  notion  of 
writing  with  the  fire  and  freedom  of  this 
lively  old  Gascon,  have  fallen  into  confused 
rhapsodies  and  uninteresting  egotisms. 

But  these  blemishes  of  Montaigne  are  tri- 
fling and  unimportant  compared  with  his 
vanity,  his  indecency,  and  his  scepticism. 
That  man  must  totally  have  suppressed  the 
natural  love  of  honest  reputation  which  is 
KO  powerfully  felt  by  the  truly  wise  and 
good,  who  can  calmly  sit  down  to  give  a 
catalogue  of  his  private  vices,  and  publish 
his  most  secret  infirmities,  with  the  pre- 
tence of  exhibiting  a  faithful  picture  of  him- 
self, and  of  exactly  portraying  the  minutest 
features  of  his  mind.  Surely  he  deserves 
the  censure  Quintilian  bestows  on  Deme- 
trius, a  celebrated  Grecian  statuary,  that  he 
was  "nimius  in  veritate,  et  similitudinis 
quani  pulchritudinis  amantior ;"  more  stu- 
dious of  likeness  than  of  beauty. 

Though  the  maxims  of  the  Duke  de  la 
Rochefoucault,  another  fashionable  philoso- 
pher, are  written  with  expressive  elegance, 
and  with  nervous  brevity,  yet  I  must  be 
pardoned  for  affirming  that  he  who  labours 
to  lessen  the  dignity  of  human  nature  de- 
stroys many  efficacious  motives  for  practis- 
ing worthy  actions,  and  deserves  ill  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  whom  he  paints  in  dark 
and  disagreeable  colours.  As  the  opinions 
of  men  usually  contract  a  tincture  from  the 
circumstances  and  conditions  of  their  lives, 
it  is  easy  to  discern  the  chagrined  courtier 
in  the  satire  which  this  polite  misanthrope 
has  composed  on  his  own  species. 

According  to  his  gloomy  and  uncomforta- 
ble system,  virtue  is  merely  the  result  of 
temper  and  constitution,  of  chance  or  of 
vanity,  of  fashion  or  the  fear  of  losing  repu- 
tation. Thus  humanity  is  brutalized;  and 
every  high  and  generous  principle  is  repre 
sented  as  imaginary,  romantic,  and  chimeri- 
cal :  reason,  which  by  some  is  too  much 
aggrandi/ed  and  almost  deified,  is  here  de- 


graded into  an  abject  slave  of  appetite  and 
passion,  and  deprived  even  of  her  just  and 
indisputable  authority.  As  a  Christian,  and 
as  a  man,  I  despise,  I  detest,  such  debasing 
principles. 

llochefoucault,  to  give  smartness  and  short- 
ness to  his  sentences,  frequently  makes  use 
of  the  antithesis,  a  mode  of  speaking  the 
most  tiresome  and  disgusting  of  any,  by  the 
sameness  and  similarity  of  the  periods.  And 
sometimes,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  point,  lie 
neglects  the  propriety  and  justness  of  the 
sentiment,  and  grossly  contradicts  himself. 
"  Happiness,"  says  he,  "  consists  in  the  taste, 
and  not  in  the  things  :  and  it  is  by  enjoying 
what  a  man  loves  that  he  becomes  happy  ;  not 
by  having  what  others  think  desirable."  The 
obvious  doctrine  contained  in  this  reflection,  is 
the  great  power  of  imagination  with  regard 
to  felicity  :  but,  adds  the  reflector  in  a  follow- 
ing maxim,  "  We  are  never  so  happy  or  so 
miserable  as  we  imagine  ourselves  to  be;" 
which  is  certainly  a  plain  and  palpable  con- 
tradiction of  the  foregoing  opinion.  And  of 
such  contradictions  many  instances  might  be 
alleged  in  this  admired  writer,  which  evi- 
dently shew  that  he  had  not  digested  his 
thoughts  with  philosophical  exactness  and 
precision.  But  the  characters  of  La  Bruyere 
deserve  to  be  spoken  of  in  far  different  terms. 
They  are  drawn  with  spirit  .and  propriety, 
without  a  total  departure  from  nature  and 
resemblance,  as  sometimes  is  the  case  in  pre- 
tended pictures  of  life.  In  a  few  instances 
only  he  has  failed,  by  overcharging  his  por- 
traits with  many  ridiculous  features  that 
cannot  exist  together  in  one  subject:  as  in 
the  character  of  Menalcas,  the  absent  man. 
which,  though  applauded  by  one  of  my  pre- 
decessors, is  surely  absurd,  and  false  to 
nature.  This  author  appears  to  be  a  warm 
admirer  of  virtue,  and  a  steady  promoter  of 
her  interest:  he  was  neither  ashamed  of 
Christianity,  nor  afraid  to  defend  it:  ac- 
cordingly, few  have  exposed  the  folly  and 
absurdity  of  modish  infidels,  of  infidels  made 
by  vanity  and  not  by  want  of  conviction, 
with  so  much  solidity  and  pleasantry  united  : 
he  disdained  to  sacrifice  truth  to  levity  and 
licentiousness.  Many  of  his  characters  are 
personal,  and  contain  allusions  which  can- 
not now  be  understood.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
fate  of  personal  satire  to  perish  with  the 
generation  in  which  it  is  written  :  many 
artful  strokes  in  Theophrastus  himself,  per- 
haps, appear  coarse  or  insipid,  which  the 
Athenians  looked  upon  with  admiration. 
A  different  age  and  different  nation  render 
us  incapable  of  relishing  several  beauties  in 
the  Alchymist  of  Jonson  and  in  the  Don 
Quixote  of  Cervantes. 

Saint  Evremond  is  a  florid  and  verbose 
trifler,  without  novelty  or  solidity  in  his  re- 


218 


JOSEPH   WAR  TON. 


flections.  What  more  can  bo  expected  from 
one  who  proposed  the  dissolute  and  affected 
Petronius  fur  his  model  in  writing  and  liv- 
ing? 

As  the  corruption  of  our  taste  is  not  of 
equal  consequence  with  the  depravation  of 
our  virtue,  I  shall  not  spend  so  much  time 
on  the  critics,  as  I  have  done  on  the  moral- 
ists, of  France. 

How  admirably  Rapin,  the  most  popular 
among  them,  was  qualified  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  Homer  and  Thucydides,  Demosthenes, 
and  Plato,  may  be  gathered  from  an  anec- 
dote preserved  by  Menage,  who  affirms  upon 
his  own  knowledge  that  Le  Fevre  of  Sau- 
mur  furnished  this  assuming  critic  with  the 
Greek  passages  he  had  occasion  to  cite, 
llapin  himself  being  totally  ignorant  of  that 
language.  The  censures  and  the  commen- 
dations this  writer  bestows  are  general  and 
indiscriminate  ;  without  specifying  the  rea- 
sons of  his  approbation  or  dislike,  and  with- 
out alleging  the  passages  that  may  support 
his  opinion :  whereas  just  criticism  demands, 
not  only  that  every  beauty  or  blemish  be 
minutely  pointed  out  in  its  different  degree 
and  kind,  but  also  that  the  reason  and  foun- 
dation of  excellencies  and  faults  be  accurately 
ascertained. 

Bossu  is  usually  and  justly  placed  at  the 
head  of  the  commentators  on  Aristotle's 
Poetics,  which  certainly  he  understood  and 
explained  in  a  more  masterly  manner  than 
either  Beni  or  Castelvetro:  but  in  one  or  two 
instances  he  has  indulged  a  love  of  subtilty 
and  groundless  refinement.  That  I  may  not 
be  accused  of  affecting  a  kind  of  hatred 
against  all  the  French  critics,  I  would  ob- 
serve that  this  learned  writer  merits  the  at- 
tention and  diligent  perusal  of  the  true 
scholar.  What  I  principally  admire  in 
Bossu  is  the  regularity  of  his  plan  and  the 
exactness  of  his  method  ;  which  add  utility 
as  well  as  beauty  to  his  work. 

Brumoy  has  displayed  the  excellencies  of 
the  Greek  Tragedy  in  a  judicious  and  com- 
prehensive manner.  His  translations  are 
faithful  and  elegant;  and  the  analysis  of 
those  plays  which,  on  account  of  some  cir- 
cumstances in  ancient  manners,  would  shock 
the  readers  of  this  age,  and  would  not  there- 
fore bear  an  entire  version,  is  perspicuous 
and  full.  Of  all  the  French  critics,  he  and 
the  judicious  Fenelon  have  had  the  justice 
to  confess,  or  perhaps  the  penetration  to  per- 
ceive, in  what  instances  Corneille  and  Ra- 
cine have  falsified  and  modernized  the  char- 
acters, and  overloaded  with  unnecessary 
intrigues  the  simple  plots  of  the  ancients. 

Let  no  one,  however,  deceive  himself  in 
thinking  that  he  can  gain  a  competent 
knowledge  of  Aristotle  or  Sophocles  from 
Bossu  or  Brumoy,  how  excellent  soever 


these  two  commentators  may  be.  To  con- 
template these  exalted  geniuses  through 
such  mediums  is  like  beholding  the  orb  of 
the  sun,  during  an  eclipse,  in  a  vessel  of 
water.  But  let  him  eagerly  press  forward 
to  the  great  originals:  "juvet  integros  ac- 
cedere  fontes ;"  '•  his  be  the  joy  t'  approach 
th'  untasted  springs."  Let  him  remember 
that  the  Grecian  writers  alone,  both  critics 
and  poets,  are  the  best  masters  to  teach,  in 
Milton's  emphatical  style,  "  What  the  laws 
are  of  a  true  epic  poem,  what  of  a  dramatic, 
what  of  a  lyric  ;  what  decorum  is  ;  which  is 
the  grand  masterpiece  to  observe.  This 
would  make  them  soon  perceive  what  de- 
spicable creatures  our  common  rhymers  and 
playwrights  be ;  and  shew  them  what  reli- 
gious, what  glorious  and  magnificent  use 
might  be  made  of  poetry,  both  in  divine  and 
human  things." 

The  Adventurer,  No.  4^,  Tuesday,  April 
#4,  1753. 

ON  GOOD-BREEDING. 

There  are  many  accomplishments  which, 
though  they  are  comparatively  trivial,  and 
may  be  acquired  by  small  abilities,  are  yet 
of  great  importance  in  our  common  inter- 
course with  men.  Of  this  kind  is  that  gen- 
eral courtesy  which  is  called  Good-breeding; 
a  name  by  which,  as  an  artificial  excellence, 
it  is  at  once  characterized  and  recommended. 

Good-breeding,  as  it  is  generally  employed 
in  the  gratification  of  vanity, — a  passion 
almost  universally  predominant, — is  more 
highly  prized  by  the  majority  than  any 
other ;  and  he  who  wants  it,  though  he 
may  be  preserved  from  contempt  by  incon- 
testable superiority  either  of  virtue  or  of 
parts,  will  yet  be  regarded  with  malevo- 
lence, and  avoided  as  an  enemy  with  whom 
it  is  dangei'ous  to  combat.  .  .  . 

It  happens,  indeed,  somewhat  unfortu- 
nately, that  the  practice  of  good-breeding, 
however  necessary,  is  obstructed  by  the 
possession  of  more  valuable  talents;  and 
that  great  integrity,  delicacy,  sensibility, 
and  spirit,  exalted  genius,  and  extensive 
learning,  frequently  render  men  ill-bred. 

Petrarch  relates  that  his  admirable  friend 
and  contemporary,  Dante  Alighieri,  one  of 
the  most  exalted  and  original  geniuses  that 
ever  appeared,  being  banished  his  country, 
and  having  retired  to  the  court  of  a  prince 
Avhich  was  then  the  sanctuary  of  the  un- 
fortunate, was  held  at  first  in  great  esteem  ; 
but  became  daily  less  acceptable  to  his 
patron  by  the  severity  of  his  manners  and 
the  freedom  of  his  speech.  There  were  at 
the  same  court  many  players  and  buffoons, 
gamesters  and  debauchees,  one  of  whom, 
distinguished  by  his  impudence,  ribaldry, 
and  obscenity,  was  greatly  caressed  by  the 


ADAM  SMITH. 


219 


rest;  which  the  prince  suspecting  Dante  not 
to  be  pleased  with,  ordered  the  man  to  be 
brought  before  him,  and  having  highly  ex- 
tolled him,  turned  to  Dante,  and  said,  ''  I 
wonder  that  this  person,  who  is  by  some 
deemed  a  fool,  and  by  others  a  madman, 
should  yet  be  so  generally  pleasing,  and 
so  generally  beloved  ;  when  you,  who  are 
celebrated  for  wisdom,  are  yet  heard  without 
pleasure,  and  commended  without  friend- 
ship.''— "  You  would  cease  to  wonder,"  re- 
plied Dante,  ''if  yon  considered  that  con- 
formity of  character  is  the  source  of  friend- 
ship.'' This  sarcasm,  which  had  all  the 
force  of  truth,  and  all  the  keenness  of  wit, 
was  intolerable  -,  and  Dante  was  immediately 
disgraced  and  banished. 

But  by  this  answer,  though  the  indigna- 
tion which  produced  it  was  founded  on 
virtue,  Dante  probably  gratified  his  own 
vanity  as  much  as  he  mortified  that  of 
others ;  it  was  the  petulant  reproach  of 
resentment  and  pride,  which  is  always  re- 
torted with  rage ;  and  not  the  still  voice  of 
reason,  which  is  heard  with  complacency 
and  reverence:  if  Dante  intended  reforma- 
tion, his  answer  was  not  wise  :  if  he  did 
not  intend  reformation,  his  answer  was  not 
good. 

Great  delicacy,  sensibility,  and  penetra- 
tion do  not  less  obstruct  the  practice  of 
good-breeding  than  integrity.  Persons  thus 
qualified  not  only  discover  proportionally 
more  faults  and  failings  in  the  characters 
which  they  examine,  but  are  more  disgusted 
with  the  faults  and  failings  which  they  dis- 
cover :  the  common  topics  of  conversation 
are  too  trivial  to  engage  their  attention : 
the  various  turns  of  fortune  that  have  lately 
happened  at  a  game  of  whist,  the  history  of 
a  ball  at  Tunbridge  or  Bath,  a  description 
of  Lady  Fanny's  jewels  and  Lady  Kitty's 
vapours,  the  journals  of'  a  horse-race  or  a 
cock-match,  and  disquisitions  on  the  game- 
act,  or  the  scarcity  of  partridges,  are  sub- 
jects upon  which  men  of  delicate  taste  do 
not  always  choose  to  declaim,  and  on  which 
they  cannot  patiently  hear  the  declamation 
of  others.  But  they  should  remember  that 
their  impatience  is  the  impotence  of  reason 
and  the  prevalence  of  vanity ;  that  if  they 
sit  silent  and  reserved,  wrapped  up  in  the 
contemplation  of  their  own  dignity,  they 
will,  in  their  turn,  be  despised  and  hated 
by  those  whom  they  hate  and  despise;  and 
with  better  reason,  for  perverted  power 
ought  to  be  more  odious  than  debility. 
To  hear  with  patience,  and  to  answer  with 
civility,  seems  to  comprehend  all  the  good- 
breeding  of  conversation  ;  and  in  proportion 
as  this  is  easy,  silence  and  inattention  are 
without  excuse. 

lie  who  does  not  practise  good-breeding 


will  not  find  himself  considered  as  the  object 
of  good-breeding  by  others.  There  is,  how- 
ever, a  species  of  rusticity  which  it  is  net 
less  absurd  than  injurious  to  treat  with  con- 
tempt; this  species  of  ill-breeding  is  become 
almost  proverbially  the  characteristic  of  a 
scholar ;  nor  should  it  be  expected  that  he 
who  is  deeply  attentive  to  an  abstruse 
science,  or  who  employs  any  of  the  great 
faculties  of  the  soul,  the  memory,  the  im- 
agination, or  the  judgment,  in  the  close 
pursuit  of  their  several  objects,  should  have 
studied  punctilios  of  form  and  ceremony, 
and  be  equally  able  to  shine  at  a  rout  and 
in  the  schools.  That  the  bow  of  a  chronol- 
oger,  and  the  compliment  of  an  astronomer, 
should  be  improper  or  uncouth,  cannot  be 
thought  strange  to  those  who  duly  consider 
the  narrowness  of  our  faculties  and  the  im- 
possibility of  attaining  universal  excellence. 

Equally  excusable,  for  the  same  reasons, 
are  that  absence  of  mind,  and  that  forgetful- 
ness  of  place  and  person,  to  which  scholars 
are  so  frequently  subject.  When  Louis  XIV. 
was  one  day  lamenting  the  death  of  an  old 
comedian,  whom  he  highly  extolled,  "  Yes," 
replied  Boileau,  in  the  presence  of  Madam 
Maintenon  [Scarron's  widow,  and  after- 
wards wife  of  Louis  XIV.],  "he  performed 
tolerably  well  in  the  despicable  pieces  of 
Scarron,  which  are  now  deservedly  forgotten 
even  in  the  provinces." 

As  every  condition  of  life,  and  every  turn 
of  mind,  has  some  peculiar  temptation  and 
propensity  to  evil,  let  not  the  man  of  up- 
rightness and  honesty  be  morose  and  surly 
in  his  practice  of  virtue  ;  let  not  him  whose 
delicacy  and  penetration  discern  with  dis- 
gust those  imperfections  in  others  from 
which  he  himself  is  not  free,  indulge  per- 
petual peevishness  and  discontent ;  let  not 
learning  and  knowledge  be  pleaded  as  an 
excuse  for  not  condescending  to  the  common 
offices  and  duties  of  civil  life ;  for  as  no  man 
should  be  well-bred  at  the  expense  of  his 
virtue,  no  man  should  practise  virtue  so  as 
to  deter  others  from  imitation. 

The  Adventurer,  No.  87,  Tuesday,  Septem- 
ber 4,  1753.  .- 


ADAM   SMITH,  LL.D., 

born  at  Kirkaldy,  Scotland,  1723,  studied  at 
the  University  of  Glasgow,  1737-40.  and  at 
Balliol  College,  Oxford,  1740-47,  Professor 
of  Logic  in  the  University  of  Glasgow,  1751- 
52,  and  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  1752- 
63,  a  Commissioner  of  his  Majesty's  Customs 
in  Scotland,  1778,  Hector  of  the  University 
of  Glasgow,  1787,  died  1796.  He  was  the 
author  of  The  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1759,  8vo,  late  editions,  Edin., 


220 


SIR    WILLIAM  SLACKS  TONE. 


1849,  1854,  p.  8vo,  Lond.,  1853,  p.Svo;  An 
Enquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Causes  of  the 
Wealth  of  Nations,  Lond.,  1776  (some  1777), 
2  vols.  4to  ;  best  edit.,  by  J.  K.  MacCulIoch, 
Lond.,  1828,  4  vols.  8vo,  and  18:i9,  '46,  '50, 
'57,  8vo ;  Essays  on  Philosophical  Subjects, 
•with  Account  of  the  Author  by  Dugald 
Stewart,  Lond.,  1795,  4to.  Tlie  Works  Com- 
plete of  Adam  Smith,  with  Life  by  Dugald 
Stewart,  Lond.,  1811-12,  5  vols.  8vo. 

"  The  great  name  of  Adam  Smith  rests  upon  the 
Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Causes  of  the  Wealth 
of  Nations,  perhaps  the  only  book  which  produced 
an  immediate,  general,  and  irrevocable  change  in 
some  of  the  most  important  parts  of  the  legislation 
of  all  civilized  states." — SIR  J.  MACKINTOSH  :  Dis- 
sert, on  Proi/rexs  of  Ethic.  I'liil.og.,  £ncyc.  Jirlt. 

"The  'Wealth  of  Nations'  combines  both  the 
sound  and  enlightened  views  which  had  distin- 
guished the  detached  pieces  of  the  French  and 
Italian  Economists,  and,  above  all  of  Mr.  Hume, 
with  the  great  merit  of  embracing  the  whole  sub- 
ject, thus  bringing  the  general  scope  of  the  prin- 
ciples into  view,  illustrating  all  the  parts  of  the 
inquiry  by  their  combined  relations,  and  confirm- 
ing their  soundness  in  each  instance  by  their  ap- 
plication to  the  others." — LOUD  BROUGHAM:  Livet 
of  Philos.  Time  of  George.  III.,  ed.  1855,  263. 

DIVISION  OF  LABOUR. 

Observe  the  accommodation  of  the  most 
common  artificer  or  day-labourer  in  a  civil- 
ized and  thriving  country,  and  you  will 
perceive  that  the  number  of  people  of  whose 
industry  a  part,  though  buc  a  small  part, 
has  been  employed  in  procuring  him  this  ac- 
commodation exceeds  all  computation.  The 
Avoollen  coat,  for  example,  which  covers  the 
day-labourer,  as  coarse  and  rough  as  it  may 
.appear,  is  the  produce  of  the  joint  labour  of 
a  great  multitude  of  workmen.  The  shep- 
herd, the  sorter  of  the  wool,  the  wool-comber 
or  carter,  the  dyer,  the  scribbler,  the  spin- 
ner, the  weaver,  the  fuller,  the  dresser,  with 
many  others,  must  all  join  their  different 
arts  in  order  to  complete  even  this  homely 
production.  How  many  merchants  and  car- 
riers, besides,  must  have  been  employed  in 
transporting  the  materials  from  some  of 
those  workmen  to  others,  who  often  live  in 
a  very  distant  part  of  the  country  !  How 
much  commerce  and  navigation  in  partic- 
ular, how  many  ship-builders,  sailors,  sail- 
makers,  rope-makers,  must  have  been  em- 
ployed in  order  to  bring  together  the  different 
drugs  made  use  of  by  the  dyer,  which  often 
come  from  the  remotest  corners  of  the  world ! 
What  a  variety  of  labour,  too,  is  necessary 
in  order  to  produce  the  tools  of  the  meanest 
of  those  workmen !  To  say  nothing  of  such 
complicated  machines  as  the  ship  of  the 
sailor,  the  mill  of  the  fuller,  or  even  the 
loom  of  the  weaver,  let  us  consider  onlv  what 
n  variety  of  labour  is  requisite  in  order  to 
form  that  very  simple  machine,  the  shears, 


with  which  the  shepherd  clips  the  wool. 
The  miner,  the  builder  of  the  furnace  for 
smelting  the  ore,  the  feller  of  the  timber, 
the  burner  of  the  charcoal  to  be  made  use 
of  in  the  smeltinji-house.  the  brick-maker, 
the  brick-layer,  the  workmen  who  attend 
the  furnace,  the  millwright,  the  forger,  the 
smith,  must  all  of  them  join  their  different 
arts  in  order  to  produce  them.  Were  we  to 
examine  in  the  same  manner  all  the  different 
parts  of  his  dress  and  household  furniture, 
the  coarse  linen  shirt  which  he  wears  next 
his  skin,  the  shoes  which  cover  his  feet, 
the  bed  which  he  lies  on,  and  all  the  differ- 
ent parts  whicli  compose  it,  the  kitchen-grate 
at  which  he  prepares  his  victuals,  the  coals 
which  he  makes  use  of  for  that  purpose,  dug 
from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  brought  to 
him,  perhaps,  by  a  long  sea  and  a  long  land 
carriage,  all  the  other  utensils  of  the  kitchen, 
all  the  furniture  of  his  table,  the  knives  and 
forks,  the  earthen  or  pewter  plates  upon 
which  he  serves  up  and  divides  his  victuals, 
the  different  hands  employed  in  preparing 
his  bread  and  his  beer,  the  glass  window 
which  lets  in  the  heat  and  the  light,  and 
keeps  out  the  wind  and  the  rain,  with  all 
the  knowledge  and  art  requisite  for  preparing 
that  beautiful  and  happy  invention,  without 
which  these  northern  parts  of  the  world 
could  scarce  have  afforded  a  very  comfort- 
able habitation,  together  with  the  tools  of 
all  the  different  workmen  employed  in  pro- 
ducing those  different  conveniences  ;  if  we 
examine,  I  say,  all  these  things,  and  con- 
sider what  a  variety  of  labour  is  employed 
about  each  of  them,  we  shall  be  sensible 
that,  without  the  assistance  and  co-operation 
of  many  thousands,  the  very  meanest  person 
in  a  civilized  country  could  not  be  provided, 
even  according  to.  what  we  very  falsely  im- 
agine, the  easy  and  simple  manner  in  which 
he  is  commonly  accommodated.  Compared, 
indeed,  with  the  more  extravagant  luxury  of 
the  great,  his  accommodation  must  no  doubt 
appear  extremely  simple  and  easy  ;  and  yet 
it  may  be  true,  perhaps,  that  the  accommo- 
dation of  a  European  prince  does  hot  always 
so  much  exceed  that  of  an  industrious  and 
frugal  peasant,  as  the  accommodation  of  the 
latter  exceeds  that  of  many  an  African 
king,  the  absolute  masters  of  the  lives  and 
liberties  of  ten  thousand  naked  savages. 
An  Enquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Causes 
of  the  Wealth  of  Nations. 


SIR   WILLIAM    BLACKSTONE, 

born  1723,  educated  at  Pembroke  College, 
Oxford,  entered  the  Middle  Temple,  1741, 
Bachelor  of  Civil  Law,  1745,  called  to  the 
bar,  1746,  Doctor  of  Civil  Law,  1750,  Yi- 


SIR    WILLIAM  SLACKS  TONE. 


221 


nerian  Professor  of  Common  Law,  Oxford, 
1758-1766,  M.  P.  for  Hindon,  Kind's  Coun- 
sel, and  Principal  of  New  Inn  Hall,  Ox- 
ford, all  in  1761,  Solicitor  to  the  Queen, 
1763,  M.  P.  for  Westbury,  1768,  Judge  of 
the  Court  of  Common  Pleas,  1770,  until  his 
death  in  1780.  He  was  the  author  of  Great 
Charter,  and  Charter  of  the  Forest,  Oxf., 
1759,  roy.  4to ;  Tracts,  Chiefly  Relating  to 
the  Antiquities  and  Laws  of  England,  Lond., 
176:2.  '2  vols.  8vo ;  again,  1771,  4to;  Reports 
of  Cases  determined  in  the  several  Courts 
of  Westminster  Hall,  from  1746  to  1741), 
Lond.,  1781,  '2  vols.  fol. ;  a  vindication  of 
Addison  respecting  his  misunderstanding 
with  Pope,  in  the  Biographia  Britannica; 
and  Commentaries  on  the  Laws  of  England, 
Oxf.,  1765-69,  4  vols.  4to  ;  23d  edit,  by  James 
Stewart,  Lond.,  1854,  4  vols.  8vo  ;  by  11.  M. 
Kerr,  Lond.,  1857,  4  vols.  8vo:  by  George 
Sharswood,  Phila.,  1859,  2  vols.  8vo.  An 
excellent  edition. 

"  His  purity  of  style  I  particularly  admire.  lie 
was  distinguished  as  much  for  simplicity  and 
strength  as  any  writer  in  the  English  language. 
He  was  perfectly  free  from  all  Gallicisms  and 
ridiculous  affectations  for  which  so  many  of  our 
modern  authors  and  orators  are  so  remarkable. 
Upon  this  ground,  therefore,  I  esteem  Judge  Black- 
stone  ;  but  as  a  constitutional  writer  he  is  by  no 
means  an  object  of  my  esteem." — C.  J.  Fox  :  De- 
bate on  the  Adminsion  of  Lord  Ellenborough  into 
the  dtbinet. 

His  manner,  remarks  a  late  eminent  authority, 
"is  not  the  manner  of  those  classical  Roman  jur- 
ists, who  are  always  models  of  expression,  though 
their  meaning  be  never  so  faulty.  It  differs  from 
their  unaffected,  yet  apt  and  nervous  style,  as  the 
tawdry  and  flimsy  dress  of  a  milliner's  doll  from 
the  graceful  and  imposing  nakedness  of  a  Grecian 
statue." — Jou\  AUSTIN. 

'•  He  [Blackstone]  is  justly  placed  at  the  head 
of  all  the  modern  writers  who  treat  of  the  general 
elementary  principles  of  law.  By  the  excellence 
of  his  arrangemeut,  the  variety  of  his  learning, 
the  justness  of  his  taste,  and  the  purity  and  ele- 
gance of  his  style,  he  communicated  to  those  sub- 
jects which  were  harsh  and  forbidding  in  the  pages 
of  Coke  the  attraction  of  a  liberal  science  and  the 
embellish  meat  i  of  polite  literature." — CHANCELLOR 
KKST:  his  Com.,  i.  512,  iv.  209. 

"Blackstone  is  not  an  authority  in  the  law  in 
the  same  sense  in  which  Littleton  or  his  commen- 
tator Lord  Coke  is.  He  has  fallen  into  some  errors 
and  inaccuracies,— not,  however,  so  many  nor  so 
important  that  the  student  ought  to  have  his  con- 
fidence in  it  as  an  Institute  at  all  impaired.  In 
fact,  these  errors  and  inaccuracies  have  been  for 
the  most  part  pointed  out  and  corrected  in  the 
modern  editions.  .  .  .  As  an  elementary  book,  how- 
ever, it  may  be  enough  to  say  that  the  whole  body 
of  American  lawyers  and  advocates,  with  very  few 
exceptions,  since  the  Revolution,  have  drawn  their 
first  lessons  in  jurisprudence  I'rom  the  pages  of 
Blackstone's  Commentaries;  and  no  more  modern 
work  has  succeeded  as  yet  in  superseding  it." — 
JUDGE  SHAUSWOOD:  Jildckstouc'a  Com.,  1859,  i.  xxi 
(Memoir). 


ON  THE  STUDY  OP  THE  LAW. 

We  may  appeal  to  the  experience  of  every 
sensible  lawyer,  whether  any  thing  can  be 
more  hazardous  or  discouraging  than  the 
usual  entrance  on  the  study  of  the  law.  A 
raw  and  unexperienced  youth,  in  the  most 
dangerous  season  of  life,  is  transplanted  on 
a  sudden  into  the  midst  of  allurements  to 
pleasure,  without  any  restraint  or  check  but 
what  his  own  prudence  can  suggest;  with 
no  public  direction  in  what  course  to  pursue 
his  inquiries ;  no  private  assistance  to  re- 
move the  distresses  and  difficulties  which  will 
always  embarrass  a  beginner.  In  this  situa- 
tion he  is  expected  to  sequester  himself  from 
the  world,  and  by  a  tedious  lonely  process  to 
extract  the  theory  of  law  from  a  mass  of 
undigested  learning;  or,  else,  by  an  assidu- 
ous entrance  on  the  courts,  to  pick  up  theory 
and  practice  together,  sufficient  to  qualify 
him  for  the  ordinary  run  of  business.  How 
little,  therefore,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that 
we  hear  of  so  frequent  miscarriages ;  that 
so  many  gentlemen  of  bright  imaginations 
grow  weary  of  so  unpromising  a  search  and 
addict  themselves  wholly  to  amusements,  or 
other  less  innocent  pursuits:  and  that  so 
many  persons  of  moderate  capacity  confuse 
themselves  at  first  setting  out,  and  continue 
ever  dark  and  puzzled  during  the  remainder 
of  their  lives. 

The  evident  want  of  some  assistance  in 
the  rudiments  of  legal  knowledge  has  given 
birth  to  a  practice  which,  if  ever  it  had 
grown  to  be  general,  must  have  proved  of 
extremely  pernicious  consequence.  I  mean 
the  custom,  by  some  so  very  warmly  recom- 
mended, of  dropping  all  liberal  education, 
as  of  no  use  to  students  in  the  law,  and 
placing  them  in  its  stead,  at  the  desk  of 
some  skilful  attorney,  in  order  to  initiate 
them  early  in  all  the  depths  of  practice,  and 
render  them  more  dexterous  in  the  mechani- 
cal part  of  business.  A  few  instances  of 
particular  persons  (men  of  excellent  learn- 
ing and  unblemished  integrity),  who,  in 
spite  of  this  method  of  education,  have 
shone  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  bar, 
afforded  some  kind  of  sanction  to  this  il- 
liberal path  to  the  profession,  and  biassed 
many  parents,  of  short-sighted  judgment,  in 
its  favour;  not  considering  that  there  are 
some  geniuses  formed  to  overcome  all  disad- 
vantages, and  that  from  such  particular  in- 
stances no  general  rules  can  be  formed  ;  nor 
observing  that  those  very  persons  have  fre- 
quently recommended,  by  the  most  forcible 
of  all  examples,  the  disposal  of  their  own 
offspring,  a  very  different  foundation  of 
legal  duties,  a  regular  academical  educa- 
tion. Perhaps,  too,  in  return.  I  could  now 
direct  their  eyes  to  our  principal  seats  of 


222 


SIR    WILLIAM  B LACKS TONE. 


justice,  and  suggest  a  few  lines  in  favour  of 
university  learning:  but  in  these,  all  who 
hear  me,  I  know,  have  already  prevented 
me. 

Making,  therefore,  due  allowance  for  one 
or  two  shining  exceptions,  experience  may 
teach  us  to  foretell  that  a  lawyer,  thus  edu- 
cated to  the  bar,  in  subservience  to  attorneys 
and  solicitors,  will  find  he  has  begun  at  the 
wrong  end.  If  practice  be  the  whole  he  is 
taught,  practice  must  also  be  the  whole  he 
will  ever  know:  if  he  be  uninstructed  in 
the  elements  and  first  principles  upon  which 
the  rule  of  practice  is  founded,  the  least 
variation  from  established  precedents  will 
totally  distract  and  bewilder  him-  itct  lex 
scripta  est  is  the  utmost  his  knowledge  will 
arrive  at ;  he  must  never  aspire  to  form,  and 
seldom  expect  to  comprehend,  any  argu- 
ments drawn,  a  priori,  from  the  spirit  of  the 
laws,  and  the  natural  foundations  of  justice. 

Nor  is  this  all ;  for  (as  few  persons  of 
birth  or  fortune,  or  even  of  scholastic  edu- 
cation, will  submit  to  the  drudgery  of  servi- 
tude, and  the  manual  labour  of  copying  the 
trash  of  an  office),  should  this  infatuation 
prevail  to  any  considerable  degree,  we  must 
rarely  expect  to  see  a  gentleman  of  distinc- 
tion or  learning  at  the  bar.  And  what  the 
consequence  may  be,  to  have  the  interpreta- 
tion and  enforcement  of  the  laws  (which 
include  the  entire  disposal  of  our  properties, 
liberties,  and  lives)  fall  wholly  into  the 
hands  of  obscure  or  illiterate  men,  is  matter 
of  very  public  concern. 

The  inconveniences  here  pointed  out  can 
never  be  effectually  prevented,  but  by  mak- 
ing academical  education  a  previous  step  to 
the  profession  of  the  common  law,  and  at 
the  same  time  making  the  rudiments  of  the 
law  a  part  of  academical  education.  For 
sciences  are  of  a  sociable  disposition,  and 
flourish  best  in  the  neighbourhood  of  each 
other;  nor  is  there  any  branch  of  learning 
but  may  be  helped  .and  improved  by  assist- 
ances drawn  from  other  arts.  If.  therefore, 
the  student  in  our  laws  hath  formed  both 
his  sentiments  and  style  by  perusal  and  imi- 
tation of  the  purest  classical  writers,  among 
whom  the  historians  and  orators  will  best 
deserve  his  regard:  if  he  can  reason  with 
precision,  and  separate  argument  from  fal- 
lacy, by  the  clear  simple  rules  of  pure  un- 
sophisticated logic;  if  he  can  fix  his  atten- 
tion, and  steadily  pursue  truth  through  any 
the  most  intricate  deduction,  by  the  use  of 
mathematical  demonstrations;  if  he  has 
enlarged  his  conceptions  of  nature  and  art, 
by  a  view  of  the  several  branches  of  genu- 
ine experimental  philosophy,  if  he  has  im- 
pressed on  his  mind  the  sound  maxims  of 
the  law  of  nature,  the  best  and  most  authen- 
tic foundation  of  human  laws ;  if,  lastly,  he 


has  contemplated  those  maxims  reduced  to 
a  practical  system  in  the  laws  of  imperial 
Rome;  if  he  has  done  this,  or  any  part  of  it 
(though  all  may  be  easily  done  under  as  able 
instructors  as  ever  graced  any  seats  of  learn- 
ing), a  student  thus  qualified  may  enter  upon 
the  study  of  the  law  with  incredible  advan- 
tages and  reputation.  And  if,  at  the  con- 
clusion, or  during  the  acquisition,  of  these 
accomplishments,  lie  will  afford  himself  here 
a  year  or  two's  further  leisure,  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  his  future  labours  in  a  solid 
scientifical  method,  without  thirsting  too 
early  to  attend  that  practice  which  it  is  im- 
possible he  should  rightly  comprehend,  he 
will  afterwards  proceed  with  the  greatest 
ease,  and  will  unfold  the  most  intricate 
points  with  an  intuitive  rapidity  and  clear- 
ness. 

Comment,  on  the  Laws  of  England,  Litrod., 
Sect.  1. 

ON  LAWS  IN  GENERAL. 

Law,  in  its  most  gener.il  and  comprehen- 
sive sense,  signifies  a  rule  of  action  ;  and 
is  applied  indiscriminately  to  all  kinds  of 
action,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  ra- 
tional or  irrational.  Thus  we  say,  the  laws 
of  motion,  of  gravitation,  of  optics,  or  me- 
chanics, as  well  as  the  laws  of  nature  and 
of  nations.  And  it  is  that  rule  of  action 
which  is  prescribed  by  some  superior,  and 
which  the  inferior  is  bound  to  obey. 

Thus,  when  the  Supreme  Being  formed 
the  universe,  and  created  matter  out  of  no- 
thing, he  impressed  certain  principles  upon 
that  matter,  from  which  it  can  never  depart, 
and  without  which  it  would  ce;ise  to  be. 
When  he  put  that  matter  into  motioi,,  he 
established  certain  laws  of  motion,  to  which 
all  movable  bodies  must  conform.  And,  to 
descend  from  the  greatest  operations  to  the 
smallest,  when  a  workman  forms  a  clock,  or 
other  piece  of  mechanism,  he  establishes,  at 
his  own  pleasure,  certain  arbitrary  laws  for 
its  direction, — as  that  the  hand  shall  describe 
a  given  space  in  a  given  time,  to  which  law 
as  long  as  the  work  conforms,  so  long  it 
continues  in  perfection,  and  answers  the  end 
of  its  formation. 

If  we  farther  advance  from  mere  inactive 
matter  to  vegetable  and  animal  life,  we  shall 
find  them  still  governed  by  laws,  more  nu- 
merous indeed,  but  equally  fixed  and  inva- 
riable.  The  whole  progress  of  plants,  from 
the  seed  to  the  root,  and  from  thence  to  the 
seed  again  ;  the  method  of  animal  nutrition, 
digestion,  secretion,  and  all  other  branches 
of"vital  economy,  are  not  left  to  chance,  or 
the  will  of  the  creature,  but  are  performed 
in  a  wondrous  involuntary  way,  and  guided 
by  unerring  rules  laid  down  by  the  great 
Creator. 


WILLIAM  GIL  PIN. 


223 


This,  then,  is  the  general  signification  of 
law,  a  rule  of  action  dictated  by  some  supe- 
rior being;  and  in  those  creatures  that  have 
neither  the  power  to  think,  nor  to  will,  such 
laws  must  be  invariably  obeyed  so  long  as 
the  creature  itself  subsists,  for  its  existence 
depends  upon  that  obedience.  But  laws,  in 
their  more  confined  sense,  and  in  which  it 
is  our  present  business  to  consider  them, 
denote  the  rules,  not  of  t-vction  in  general, 
but  of  human  action  or  conduct;  that  is, 
the  precepts  by  which  man,  the  noblest  of 
all  sublunary  beings,  a  creature  endowed 
with  both  reason  and  free-will,  is  com- 
manded to  make  use  of  those  faculties  in 
the  general  regulation  of  his  behaviour. 

Man,  considered  as  a  creature,  must  ne- 
cessarily be  subject  to  the  laws  of  his  Cre- 
ator, for  he  is  entirely  a  dependent  being. 
A  being,  independent  of  any  other,  has  no 
rule  to  pursue  but  such  as  he  prescribes  to 
himself;  but  a  state  of  dependence  will  in- 
evitably oblige  the  inferior  to  take  the  Avill 
of  him  on  whom  he  depends  as  the  rule  of 
his  conduct ;  not,  indeed,  in  every  particu- 
lar, but  in  all  those  points  wherein  his  de- 
pendence consists.  This  principle,  there- 
fore, has  more  or  less  extent  and  effect,  in 
proportion  as  the  superiority  of  the  one  and 
the  dependence  of  the  other  is  greater  or 
less,  absolute  or  limited.  And  consequently, 
as  man  depends  absolutely  upon  his  Maker 
for  everything,  it  is  necessary  that  he  should, 
in  all  points,  conform  to  his  Maker's  will. 

This  will  of  his  Maker  is  called  the  law 
of  nature.  For  as  God,  when  he  created 
matter,  and  endued  it  with  a  principle  of 
mobility,  established  certain  rules  for  the 
perpetual  direction  of  that  motion,  so,  when 
he  created  man,  and  endued  him  with  free- 
will to  conduct  himself  in  all  parts  of  life, 
he  laid  down  certain  immutable  laws  of 
human  nature,  whereby  that  free-will  is  in 
some  degree  regulated  and  restrained,  and 
gave  him  also  the  faculty  of  reason  to  dis- 
cover the  purport  of  those  laws. 

Considering  the  Creator  only  as  a  being 
of  infinite  power,  he  was  able  unquestion- 
ably to  have  prescribed  whatever  laws  ho 
pleased  to  his  creature,  man,  however  un- 
just or  severe.  But,  as  he  is  also  a  being 
of  infinite  wisdom,  he  has  laid  down  only 
such  laws  as  were  founded  in  those  relations 
of  justice  that  existed  in  the  nature  of  things 
antecedent  to  any  positive  precept.  These 
are  the  eternal  immutable  laws  of  good  and 
evil,  to  which  the  Creator  himself,  in  all  his 
dispensations,  conforms;  and  which  he  has 
enabled  human  reason  to  discover,  so  far  as 
they  are  necessary  for  the  conduct  of  human 
actions.  Such,  among  others,  are  these  prin- 
ciples: that  we  shonid  live  honestly,  should 
hurt  nobody,  and  should  render  to  every  one 


his  due;  to  which  three  general  precepts 
Justinian  has  reduced  the  whole  doctrine  of 
law. 

But  if  the  discovery  of  these  first  princi- 
ples of  the  law  of  nature  depended  only 
upon  the  due  exertion  of  right  reason,  and 
could  not  otherwise  be  obtained  than  by  a 
chain  of  metaphysical  disquisitions,  man- 
kind would  have  wanted  some  inducement 
to  have  quickened  their  inquiries,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  world  have  rested  con- 
tent in  mental  indolence,  and  ignorance,  its 
inseparable  companion.  As,  therefore,  the 
Creator  is  a  being  not  only  of  infinite  power, 
and  wisdom,  but  also  of  infinite  goodness,  he 
has  been  pleased  so  to  contrive  the  constitu- 
tion and  frame  of  humanity,  that  we  should 
want  no  other  prompter  to  inquire  after  and 
pursue  the  rule  of  right,  but  only  our  own 
self-love,  that  universal  principle  of  action. 
For  he  has  so  intimately  connected,  so  in- 
separably interwoven,  the  laws  of  eternal 
justice  with  the  happiness  of  each  individ- 
ual, that  the  latter  cannot  be  attained  but 
by  observing  the  former;  and  if  the  former 
be  punctually  obeyed,  it  cannot  but  induce 
the  latter.  In  consequence  of  which  mutual 
connection  of  justice  and  human  felicity,  he 
has  not  perplexed  the  law  of  nature  with  a 
multitude  of  abstracted  rules  and  precepts, 
referring  merely  to  the  fitness  or  unfitness 
of  things,  as  some  have  vainly  surmised,  but 
has  graciously  reduced  the  rule  of  obedience 
to  this  one  paternal  precept,  "  that  man  should 
pursue  his  own  true  and  substantial  happi- 
ness." This  is  the  foundation  of  what  we 
call  ethics,  or  natural  law  ;  for  the  several 
articles  into  which  it  is  branched  in  our  sys- 
tems amount  to  no  more  than  demonstrat- 
ing that  this  or  that  action  tends  to  man's 
real  happiness,  and  therefore  very  justly 
concluding  that  the  performance  of  it  is  a 
part  of  the  law  of  nature ;  or,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  this  or  that  action  is  destructive 
of  man's  real  happiness,  and  therefore  that 
the  law  of  nature  forbids  it. 

Comm-znt.  on  the  Laws  of  Eiigland,Jntrod., 
Sect.  2. 


WILLIAM    GILPIN, 

Vicar  of  Boldre  and  Prebendary  of  Salis- 
bury, born  1724,  died  1804,  was  the  author 
of  theological  and  biographical  works,  and 
Works  on  the  Picturesque  in  Landscape 
Scenery  and  Gardening,  etc.,  in  a  Series  of 
Tours  and  Essays,  with  187  aquatinta  en- 
gravings, Lond.,  1 1  vols.  8vo,  1782,  and  later. 

"  Gilpin  has  described  in  several  justly-esteernel 
tours  the  Picturesque  Beauties  of  Great  Britain. 
.  .  .  All  his  works  abound  with  ingrniotis  reflec- 
tions, proper  to  enrich  the  theory  of  the  arts  and 
to  guide  the  practice  of  them.'1 — Dioy.  Uiiicerselle. 


224 


DAVID  DALRYMPLE. 


SUXRISE    IN    THE   WOODS. 

The  first  dawn  of  day  exhibits  a  beautiful 
obscurity.  When  the  east  begins  just  to 
brighten  with  the  reflections  only  of  efful- 
gence, a  pleasing,  progressive  light,  dubious 
and  amusing,  is  thrown  over  the  face  of 
things.  A  single  ray  is  able  to  assist  the 
picturesque  eye,  which  by  such  slender  aid 
creates  a  thousand  imaginary  forms,  if  the 
scene  be  unknown,  and  as  the  light  steals 
gradually  on,  is  amused  by  correcting  its 
vague  ideas  by  the  real  objects.  What,  in 
the  confusion  of  twilight,  perhaps,  seemed  a 
stretch  of  rising  ground,  broken  into  various 
parts,  becomes  now  vast  masses  of  wood  and 
an  extent  of  forest. 

As  the  sun  begins  to  appear  above  the 
horizon,  another  change  takes  place.  What 
\vas  before  only  form,  being  now  enlightened, 
begins  to  receive  effect.  This  effect  depends 
on  two  circumstances, — the  catching  lights 
which  touch  the  summits  of  every  object, 
and  the  mistiness  in  which  the  rising  orb  is 
commonly  enveloped. 

The  effect  is  often  pleasing  when  the  sun 
rises  in  unsullied  brightness,  diffusing  its 
ruddy  light  over  the  upper  parts  of  objects, 
which  is  contrasted  by  the  deeper  shadows 
below  ;  yet  the  effect  is  then  only  transcen- 
dent when  he  rises  accompanied  by  a  train 
of  vapours  in  a  misty  atmosphere.  Among 
lakes  and  mountains  this  happy  accom- 
paniment often  forms  the  most  astonishing 
visions,  and  yet  in  the  forest  it  is  nearly  as 
great.  With  what  delightful  effect  do  we 
sometimes  see  the  sun's  disk  just  appear 
above  a  woody  hill,  or,  in  Shakspeare's  lan- 
guage, 

Stand  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain's  top, 

And  dart  his  diverging  rays  through  the 
rising  vapour.  The  radiance,  catching  the 
tops  of  the  trees  as  they  hang  midway  upon 
the  shaggy  steep,  and  touching  here  and 
there  a  few  other  prominent  objects,  imper- 
ceptibly mixes  its  ruddy  tint  with  the  sur- 
rounding mists,  setting  on  fire,  as  it  were, 
their  upper  parts,  while  their  lower  skirts 
are  lost  in  a  dark  mass  of  varied  confusion, 
in  which  trees,  and  ground,  and  radiance,  and 
obscurity  are  all  blended  together.  When 
the  eye  is  fortunate  enough  to  catch  the 
glowing  instant  (for  it  is  always  a  vanish- 
ing scene),  it  furnishes  an  idea  worth  treas- 
uring among  the  choicest  appearances  of 
nature.  Mistiness  alone,  we  have  observed, 
occasions  a  confusion  in  objects  which  is 
often  picturesque ;  but"  the  glory  of  the 
vision  depends  on  the  glowing  lights  which 
are  mingled  with  it. 

Landscape  painters,  in  general,  pay  too 
little  attention  to  the  discriminations  of 
morning  and  evening.  We  are  often  at  a 


loss  to  distinguish  in  pictures  the  rising 
from  the  setting  sun,  though  their  characters 
are  very  different,  both  in  the  lights  and 
shadows.  The  ruddy  lights,  indeed,  of  the 
evening  are  more  easily  distinguished,  but 
it  is  not  perhaps  always  sufficiently  observed 
that  the  shadows  of  the  evening  are  much 
less  opaque  than  those  of  the  morning. 
They  may  be  brightened  perhaps  by  the 
numberless  rays  floating  in  the  atmosphere, 
which  are  incessantly  reverberated  in  every 
direction,  and  may  continue  in  action  after 
the  sun  is  set;  whereas  in  the  morning  the 
rays  of  the  preceding  day  having  subsided, 
no  object  receives  any  light  but  from  the  im- 
mediate lustre  of  the  sun.  Whatever  becomes 
of  the  theory;  the  fact,  I  believe,  is  well 
ascertained. 


DAVID    DALRYMPLE,    LORD 
HAILES, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1726,  Lord  Commis- 
sioner of  the  Justiciary,  1776,  died  1792, 
was  the  author,  among  other  works,  of 
Memorials  and  Letters  relating  to  the  His- 
tories of  Britain,  Glasg.,  1762-66,  2  vols.  8vo  ; 
Secret  Correspondence  of  Sir  Robert  Cecil 
with  James  VI.,  Edin.,  1766,  12mo;  Annals 
of  Scotland,  1056-1370,  Edin.,  1776-79,  2 
vols.  4to;  again,  1797,  3  vols.  Hvo,  and  1819, 
3  vols.  8vo  :  Remains  of  Christian  Antiquity, 
Edin.,  1770-8-80,  3  vols.  12mo;  Tracts  Rel- 
ative to  the  History  and  Antiquities  of  Scot- 
land, Edin.,  1800,  4to ;  Decisions  of  the 
Lords  of  Council  and  Session  from  1776  to 
1791,  selected  from  the  Original  MSS.  by 
M.  P.  Brown,  Edin.,  1766,  2  vols.  4to.  He 
was  the  author  of  Nos.  140,  147,  204  of  The 
World. 

"A  book  [Annals  of  Scotland]  which  will  always 
sell:  it  has  such  a  stability  of  dates,  such  a  cer- 
tainty of  fncts,  and  such  a  punctuality  of  citation. 
I  never  before  read  Scotch  History  with  certainty." 
— Dn.  S.  JOHNSON  :  Jiosweli's  Johnson. 

A  MEDITATION  AMONG  THE  BOOKS. 

From  every  thing  in  nature  a  wise  man 
may  derive  matter  of  meditation.  In  medi- 
tations various  authors  have  exercised  their 
genius  or  tortured  their  fancy.  An  author 
who  meant  to  be  serious,  has  meditated  on 
the  mystery  of  weaving;  an  author  who  never 
meant  to  be  serious,  has  meditated  on  a 
broomstick:  let  me  also  meditate;  and  a 
library  of  books  shall  be  the  subject  of  my 
meditations. 

Before  my  eyes  an  almost  innumerable 
multitude  of  authors  are  ranged  ;  different 
in  their  opinions,  as  in  their  bulk  and  ap- 
pearance:  in  what  light  shall  I  view  this 
great  assembly  ?  Shall  I  consider  it  as  an 


DA  VID   DA  LR  YMPLE. 


225 


ancient  legion,  drawn  out  in  goodly  array 
under  fit  commanders?  or  as  a  modern  regi- 
ment of  writers,  where  the  common  men 
have  been  forced  by  want,  or  seduced 
through  wickedness,  into  the  service,  and 
where  the  leaders  owe  their  advancement 
rather  to  caprice,  party  favour,  and  the  par- 
tialitv  of  friends,  than  to  merit  or  service? 

Shall  I  consider  ye,  0  ye  books !  as  a 
herd  of  courtiers  .  .  .  who  profess  to  be 
subservient  to  my  use,  and  yet  seek  only 
your  own  advantage?  No  :  let  me  consider 
this  room  as  the  great  charnel-house  of 
human  reason,  where  darkness  and  corrup- 
tion dwell ;  or  as  a  certain  poet  expresses 
himself. 

Where  hot  and  cold,  and  wet  and  dry, 
And  beef,  and  broth,  and  apple-pye, 
Most  slovenly  assemble. 

Who  are  they,  whose  unadorned  raiment 
bespeaks  their  inward  simplicity?  They 
are  law  books,  statutes,  and  commentaries  on 
statutes.  These  are  acts  of  parliament,  whom 
all  men  must  obey,  and  yet  few  only  can 
purchase.  Like  the  Sphynx  of  antiquity, 
they  speak  in  enigmas,  and  yet  devour  the 
unhappy  wretches \vhocomprehend  them  not. 

These  are  commentaries  on  statutes:  for 
the  perusing  of  them,  the  longest  life  would 
prove  insufficient:  for  the  understanding  of 
them,  the  utmost  ingenuity  of  man  would 
riot  avail. 

Cruel  is  the  dilemma  between  the  necessity 
and  the  impossibility  of  understanding:  yet 
are  we  not  left  utterly  destitute  of  relief. 
Behold  for  our  comfort  an  abridgment  of 
law  and  equity!  It  consists  not  of  many 
volumes ;  it  extends  only  to  twenty-two 
folios ;  yet  as  a  few  thin  cakes  may  contain 
the  whole  nutritive  substance  of  a  stalled  ox, 
so  may  this  compendium  contain  the  essen- 
tial gravy  of  many  a  report  and  adjudged 
case. 

The  sages  of  the  law  recommend  this 
abridgment  to  our  perusal.  Let  us  with 
all  thankfulness  of  heart  receive  their  coun- 
sel. Much  are  AVO  beholden  to  the  physicians 
who  only  prescribe  the  bark  of  the  quin- 
quina, when  they  might  oblige  their  patients 
to  swallow  the  whole  tree. 

From  these  volumes  I  turn  my  eyes  on  a 
deep  embodied  phalanx,  numerous  and  for- 
midable :  they  are  controversial  divines :  so 
has  the  world  agreed  to  term  them.  How 
arbitrary  is  language  !  and  how  does  the 
custom  of  mankind  join  words  that  reason 
has  put  asunder!  Thus  we  often  hear  of 
hell-fire  cold,  of  devilish  handsome,  and  the 
like  ;  and  thus  controversial  and  divine  have 
been  associated. 
15 


These  controversial  divines  have  changed 
the  rule  of  life  into  a  standard  of  disputa- 
tion. They  have  employed  the  temple  of 
the  Most  High  as  a  fencing-school,  where 
gymnastic  exercises  are  daily  exhibited,  and 
where  victory  serves  only  to  excite  new  con- 
tests. Slighting  the  bulwarks  wherewith 
He  who  bestowed  religion  on  mankind  had 
secured  it,  they  have  encompassed  it  with, 
various  minute  outworks,  which  an  army 
of  warriors  can  with  difficulty  defend. 

The  next  in  order  to  them  are  the  re- 
doubtable antagonists  of  common  sense ; 
the  gentlemen  who  close  up  the  common 
highway  to  heaven,  and  yet  open  no  private 
road  for  persons  having  occasion  to  travel 
that  way.  The  writers  of  this  tribe  are 
various,  but  in  principles  and  manner 
nothing  dissimilar.  Let  me  review  them 
as  they  stand  arranged. 

These  are  Epicurean  orators,  who  have 
endeavoured  to  confound  the  ideas  of  right 
and  wrong,  to  the  unspeakable  comfort  of 
highwaymen  and  stock-jobbers.  These  are 
inquirers  after  truth,  who  never  deign  to 
implore  the  aid  of  knowledge  in  their  re- 
searches. These  are  sceptics,  who  labour 
earnestly  to  argue  themselves  out  of  their 
own  existence  ;  herein  resembling  that 
choice  spirit  who  endeavoured  so  artfully  to 
pick  his  own  pocket  as  not  to  be  detected  by 
himself.  Last  of  all,  are  the  composers  of 
rhapsodies,  fragments,  and  (strange  to  say 
it)  thoughts.  .  .  .  Thou  first,  thou  greatest 
vice  of  the  human  mind,  Ambition !  all 
these  authors  were  originally  thy  votaries  ! 
They  promised  to  themselves  a  frame  more 
durable  than  the  calf-skin  that  covered  their 
works ;  the  calf-skin  (as  the  dealer  speaks) 
is  in  excellent  condition,  while  the  books 
themselves  remain  the  prey  of  that  silent 
critic  the  worm. 

Complete  cooks  and  conveyancers ;  bodies 
of  school-divinity  and  Tommy  Thumb  ;  little 
story-books,  systems  of  philosophy,  and 
memoirs  of  women  of  pleasure  :  apologies 
for  the  lives  of  players  and  prime  minis- 
ters :  all  are  consigned  to  one  common  ob- 
livion. 

One  book  indeed  there  is,  which  pretends 
to  little  reputation,  and  by  a  strange  felicity 
obtains  whatever  it  demands.  To  be  useful 
for  some  months  only  is  the  whole  of  its 
ambition  ;  and  though  every  day  that  passes 
confessedly  diminishes  its  utility,  yet  it  is 
sought  for  and  purchased  by  all  :  such  is  the 
deserved  and  unenvied  character  of  that  ex- 
cellent treatise  of  practical  astronomy,  the 
Almanack. 

The  World,  No.  140,  Thursday,  September 
4,  1755. 


226 


ESTHER    CHAP  ONE. 


ESTHER  CHAPONE, 

born  1727.  died  1801,  a  daughter  of  Thomas 
Mulso,  and  a  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson,  Rich- 
ardson, and  Elizabeth  Carter,  was  the  author 
of  Letters  on  the  Imprisonment  of  the  Mind, 
Lond.,  1773.  2  vols.  12mo;  Miscellanies  in 
Prose  and  Verse,  1775,  12mo;  A  Letter  to 
a  Newly  Married  Lady,  1777,  12ino,  an  Ode 
prefixed  to  Elizabeth  Carter's  Epictetus. 
1758,  4to,  and  the  story  of  Fidelia  in  The 
Adventurer,  NTos.  77,  78,  79.  Posthumous 
Works,  with  Life,  Lond.,  1807,  2  vols.  8vo  ; 
2d  edit.,  1808,  2  vols.  12mo. 

"You  make  verses,  and  they  nre  read  in  public, 
and  I  know  nothing  about  them.  This  very  crime, 
I  think,  broke  the  link  of  amity  between  Richard- 
son and  Miss  M[ulso],  after  a  tenderness  and  con- 
fidence of  ninny  years." — Dn.  JOHNSOX  TO  Mus. 
THRALE,  1780. 

TUE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT. 

What  a  tremendous  scene  of  the  last  day 
does  the  gospel  place  before  our  eyes  ! — of 
that  day  when  you  and  every  one  of  us  shall 
awake  from  the  grave,  and  behold  the  Son 
of  God,  on  his  glorious  tribunal,  attended 
by  millions  of  celestial  beings,  of  whose 
superior  excellence  we  can  now  form  no  ade- 
quate idea, — when  in  presence  of  all  man- 
kind, of  those  holy  angels,  and  of  the  great 
Judge  himself,  you  must  give  an  account  of 
your  past  life,  and  hear  your  final  doom, 
from  which  there  can  be  no  appeal,  and 
which  must  determine  your  fate  to  all  eter- 
nity :  then  think — if  for  a  moment  you  can 
bear  the  thought— what  will  lie  the  desola- 
tion, shame,  and  anguish  of  those  wretched 
souls  who  shall  hear  those  dreadful  words  : 
— "Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed,  into  ever- 
lasting firo,  prepared  for  the  devil  and  his 
angels." — Oh  !  I  cannot  support  even  the 
idea  of  your  becoming  one  of  those  undone, 
lost  creatures  !  1  trust,  in  God's  mercy,  that 
you  will  make  a  better  use  of  that  knowl- 
edge of  his  will  which  he  has  vouchsafed 
you  and  of  those  amiable  dispositions  lie  has 
given  you.  Let  us  therefore  turn  from  this 
horrid,  this  insupportable  view,  and  rather 
endeavour  to  imagine,  as  far  as  is  possible, 
what  will  be  the  sensations  of  your  soul  if 
you  should  hear  our  heavenly  Judge  address 
you  in  these  transporting  words :—"  Come, 
thou  blessed  of  my  Father,  inherit  the  king- 
dom prepared  for  you  from  the  foundation 
of  the  world."  Think  what  it  must  be  to 
become  an  object  of  the  esteem  and  applause, 
— not  only  of  all  mankind  assembled  to- 
gether, hut  of  all  the  host  of  heaven,  of  our 
blessed  Lord  himself, — nay,  of  his  and  our 
Almighty  Father: — to  find  your  frail  flesh 
changed,  in  a  moment,  into  a  glorious  celes- 
tial body,  endowed  with  perfect  beauty, 


health,  and  agility : — to  find  your  soul 
cleansed  from  all  its  faults  and  infirmities  ; 
exalted  to  the  purest  and  noblest  affections; 
overflowing  with  divine  love  and  rapturous 
gratitude  ! — to  have  your  understanding  en- 
lightened and  refined  ;  your  heart  enlarged 
and  purified  ;  and  every  power  and  dis- 
position of  mind  and  body  adapted  to  the 
highest  relish  of  virtue  and  happiness ! 
Thus  accomplished,  to  be  admitted  into  the 
society  of  amiable  and  happy  beings,  ;ill 
united  in  the  most  perfect  peace  and  friend- 
ship, all  breathing  nothing  but  love  to  God, 
and  to  each  other; — with  them  to  dwell  in 
scenes  more  delightful  than  the  richest  im- 
agination can  paint, — free  from  every  pain 
and  care,  and  from  all  possibility  of  change 
or  satiety; — but,  above  all,  to  enjoy  the 
more  immediate  presence  of  God  himself, — 
to  l)e  able  to  comprehend  and  admire  his 
adorable  perfections  in  a  high  degree,  though 
still  far  short  of  their  infinity, — to  be  con- 
scious of  his  love  and  favour,  and  to  rejoice 
in  the  light  of  his  countenance  !  But  here 
all  imagination  fails :  we  can  form  no  idea 
of  that  bliss  whicli  may  be  communicated  to 
us  by  such  a  near  approach  to  the  source  of 
all  beauty  and  all  good  :  we  must  content 
ourselves  with  believing  that  it  is  ''  what 
mortal  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard, 
neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man 
to  conceive."  The  crown  of  all  our  joys 
will  be,  to  know  that  we  are  secure  of  pos- 
sessing them  forever, — what  a  transporting 
idea! 

Can  you  reflect  on  all  these  things,  and 
not  feel  the  most  earnest  longings  after  im- 
mortality? Do  not  all  other  views  and  de- 
sires seem  mean  and  trifling  when  compared 
with  this?  And  does  not  your  inmost  heart 
resolve  that  this  shall  be  the  chief  and 
constant  object  of  its  wishes  and  pursuit, 
through  the  whole  course  of  your  life?  If 
you  are  not  insensible  to  that  desire  of  hap- 
piness which  seems  woven  into  our  nature, 
you  cannot  surely  be  unmoved  by  the  pros- 
pect of  such  a  transcendent  degree  of  it! 
and  that  continued  to  all  eternity, — perhaps 
continually  increasing.  You  cannot  hut 
dread  the  forfeiture  of  such  an  inheritance 
as  the  most  insupportable  evil !  Remember 
then — remember  the  conditions  on  which 
alone  it  can  be  obtained.  God  will  not  give 
to  vice,  to  carelessness,  or  sloth,  the  prize 
he  has  proposed  to  virtue.  You  have  every 
help  that  can  animate  your  endeavours: 
You  have  written  laws  to  direct  you. — the 
example  of  Christ  and  his  disciples  to  en- 
courage you, — the  most  awakening  motives 
to  engage  you, — and  you  have,  besides,  the 
comfortable  promise  of  constant  assistance 
from  the  Holy  Spirit,  if  you  diligently  and  sin- 
cerely pray  for  it.  0!  let  not  all  this  mercy 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


227 


be  lost  upon  you, — but  give  your  attention 
to  this  your  only  important  concern,  and 
accept,  with  profound  gratitude,  the  inesti- 
mable advantages  that  are  thus  affectionately 
offered  you. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 

born  in  Pallas,  Ireland,  1728,  died  in  London, 
J774,  will  always  be  known  by  his  poems 
of  The  Traveller,  Lond.,  1764,  and  The  De- 
serted Village,  Lond.,  1770,  4to,  and  his 
novel,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Lond.,  1706, 
2  vols.  12mo.  For  notices  of  his  comedies, 
The  Good-Natured  Man  and  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,  his  histories,  The  Citizen  of  the 
World,  and  other  works  we  refer  to  his  biog- 
raphies by  Prior,  Irving,  and  Forster.  Mis- 
cellaneous Works,  with  Life  (by  Bishop 
Percy),  Lond.,  1801,  4  vols.  8vo  ;  by  James 
Prior,  Lond.,  1837,  4  vols.  8vo  (with  Life, 
6  vols.  8vo)  ;  by  P.  Cunningham,  1855,  4 
vols.  8vo.  Of  his  Poems  there  are  many 
editions. 

"The  admirable  ease  and  grace  of  the  narrative 
as  well  as  the  pleusing  truth  with  which  the  prin- 
cipal characters  are  designed,  make  the  Vicm-  of 

Wakefield  one  of  the  most  delicious  morsels  of 
fictitious  compositions  on  which  the  human  mind 
was  ever  employed.  .  .  .  We  read  the  Vicar  of 

W«k''fteld  in  youth  and  in  age;  we  return  to  it 
again  and  again,  and  bless  the  memory  of  an  au- 
thor who  contrives  so  well  to  reconcile  us  to  human 
nature." — SIB  WALTER  SCOTT:  Life  of  Goldsmith. 
"The  delineation  of  this  character  [that  of  the 
"excellent  Wakefield"]  on  his  course  of  life  through 
joys  and  sorrows,  the  ever-increasing  interest  of 
the  story,  by  the  combination  of  the  entirely  na- 
tural with  the  strange  and  the  singular,  make  this 
novel  one  of  the  best  which  has  ever  been  written." 
— GOT  HE  :  Truth  and  Poetry  ;  from  My  Oicn  Life, 
English  trans. 

THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD. 

I  was  ever  of  opinion  that  the  honest  man 
who  married  and  brought  up  a  large  family, 
did  more  service  than  he  who  continued 
single  and  only  talked  of  population. 

From  this  motive,  I  had  scarcely  taken 
orders  a  year  before  I  began  to  think  seri- 
ously of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife  as 
she  did  her  wedding-gown,  riot  for  a  fine 
glossy  surface,  but  such  qualities  as  would 
wear  well.  To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a 
good-natured  notable  woman  ;  and  as  for 
breeding,  there  were  few  country  ladies  who 
could  shew  more.  She  could  read  any  Eng- 
lish book  without  much  spelling;  but  for 
pickling,  preserving,  and  cookery,  none  could 
excel  her.  She  prilled  herself  also  upon 
being  an  excellent  contriver  in  housekeep- 
ing; though  I  could  never  find  that  we  grew 
richer  with  all  her  contrivance. 

However,  we  loved   each  other  tenderly, 


and  our  fondness  increased  as  we  grew  old. 
There  was  in  fact  nothing  that  could  make 
us  angry  with  the  world  or  each  other.  We 
had  an  elegant  house,  situated  in  a  fine 
country,  ami  a  good  neighbourhood.  The 
year  was  spent  in  moral  or  rural  amusements, 
in  visiting  our  rich  neighours,  and  reliev- 
ing such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no  revolu- 
tions to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo  ;  all  our 
adventures  were  by  the  fireside,  and  all  our 
migrations  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  we  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had 
the  traveller  or  stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our 
gooseberry  wine,  for  which  we  had  great 
reputation  ;  and  I  profess  with  the  veracity 
of  an  historian,  that  I  never  knew  one  of 
them  to  find  fault  with  it.  Our  cousins  too, 
even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remembered 
their  affinity,  without  any  help  from  the 
heralds'  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to 
see  us.  Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  hon- 
our by  these  claims  of  kindred;  as  we  had 
the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  halt  amongst 
the  number.  However,  my  wife  always  in- 
sisted that,  as  they  were  the  same  flesh  and 
blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at  the  same 
table.  So  that,  if  we  had  not  very  rich,  we 
had  generally  very  happy,  friends  about  us  : 
for  this  remark  will  hold  good  through  life, 
that  the  poorer  the  guest,  the  better  pleased 
he  ever  is  with  being  treated :  and  as  some 
men  gaze  with  admiration  at  the  colours  of 
a  tulip,  or  the  wing  of  a  butterfly,  so  I  was 
by  nature  an  admirer  of  happy  human  faces. 
However,  when  any  one  of  our  relations  was 
found  to  be  a  person  of  very  bad  character, 
a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to 
get  rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house  I  ever 
took  care  to  lend  him  a  riding-coat,  or  a  pair 
of  boots,  or  sometimes  an  horse  of  small 
value,  and  I  always  had  the  satisfaction  of 
finding  he  never  came  back  to  return  them. 
By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of  such  as  we 
did  not  like;  but  never  was  the  family  of 
Wakefield  known  ta  turn  the  traveller,  or 
the  poor  dependent,  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of 
much  happiness  ;  not  but  that  we  sometimes 
had  those  little  rub^s  which  Providence  sends 
to  encliance  the  value  of  its  favours.  My 
orchard  was  often  robbed  by  schoolboys,  and 
my  wife's  custards  plundered  by  the  cats  or 
the  children.  The  'Squire  would  sometimes 
fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic  parts  of  my 
sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife's  civili- 
ties at  church  with  a  mutilated  courtesy. 
But  we  soon  got  over  the  uneasiness  caused 
by  such  accidents,  and  usually  in  three  or 
four  days  began  to  wonder  how  they  vexed 
us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance, 
as  they  were  educated  without  softness,  so 
they  were  at  once  well-formed  and  healthy ; 


228 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


my  sons  hardy  and  active,  my  daughters 
beautiful  and  blooming.  When  I  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  little  circle,  which  promised 
to  be  the  supports  of  my  declining  age,  I 
could  not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story 
of  Count  Abensberg,  who,  in  Henry  II. 's 
progress  through  Germany,  while  other 
courtiers  came  with  their  treasures,  brought 
his  thirty-two  children,  and  presented  them 
to  his  sovereign  as  the  most  valuable  offer- 
ing he  had  to  bestow.  In  this  manner, 
though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered  them  as 
a  very  valuable  present  made  to  my  coun- 
try, and  consequently  looked  upon  it  as  my 
debtor. 

Our  oldest  son  was  named  George,  after 
his  uncle,  who  left  us  ten  thousand  pounds. 
Our  second  child,  a  girl,  I  intended  to  call 
after  her  aunt  Grissel ;  but  my  wife,  who, 
during  her  pregnancy,  had  been  reading 
romances,  insisted  upon  her  being  called 
Olivia.  In  less  than  another  year  we  had 
another  daughter,  and  now  I  was  determined 
that  Grissel  should  be  her  name  ;  but  a  rich 
relation  taking  a  fancy  to  stand  godmother, 
the  girl  was,  by  her  directions,  called  Sophia: 
so  that  we  had  two  romantic  names  in  the 
family  :  but  I  solemnly  protest  I  had  no 
hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and  after 
an  interval  of  twelve  years  we  had  two  sons 
more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation 
when  I  saw  my  little  ones  about  me ;  but 
the  vanity  and  the  satisfaction  of  my  wife 
were  even  greater  than  mine.  When  our 
visitors  would  say,  "  Well,  upon  my  word, 
Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  children 
in  the  whole  country." — ''Ay,  neighbour." 
she  would  answer,  "they  are  as  heaven 
made  them, — handsome  enough,  if  they  be 
good  enough  ;  for  handsome  is  that  hand- 
some does."  And  then  she  would  bid  the 
girls  hold  up  their  heads  ;  who,  to  conceal 
nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome. 
Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a  circum- 
stance with  me,  that  I  should  scarcely  have 
remembered  to  mention  it,  had  it  not  been 
a  general  topic  of  conversation  in  the  coun- 
tr}\  Olivia,  now  about  eighteen,  had  that 
luxuriancy  of  beauty  with  which  painters 
generally  draw  Hebe ;  open,  sprightly,  and 
commanding.  Sophia's  features  were  not 
so  striking  at  first;  but  often  did  more 
certain  execution  ;  for  they  were  soft, 
modest,  and  alluring.  The  one  vanquished 
by  a  single  blow,  the  other  by  efforts  success- 
fully repeated. 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Chap.  i. 

THE  FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD  IN  AFFLICTION. 

We  set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neigh- 
bourhood, and  walked  on  slowly.  My  eldest 


daughter  being  enfeebled  by  a  slow  fever, 
which  had  begun  for  some  days  to  under- 
mine her  constitution,  one  of  the  officers, 
who  had  an  horse,  kindly  took  her  behind 
him;  for  even  these  men  cannot  entirely 
divest  themselves  of  humanity.  My  son 
led  one  of  the  little  ones  by  the  hand,  and 
my  wife  the  other,  while  I  leaned  upon  my 
youngest  girl,  whose  tears  fell  not  for  her 
own  but  my  distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling 
about  two  miles  when  we  saw  a  crowd  run- 
ning and  shouting  behind  us,  consisting  of 
about  fifty  of  my  poorest  parishioners. 
These  with  dreadful  imprecations  soon 
seized  upon  the  two  officers  of  justice,  and 
swearing  they  would  never  see  their  min- 
ister go  to  gaol  while  they  had  a  drop  of 
blood  to  shed  in  his  defence,  were  going  to 
use  them  with  great  severity.  The  conse- 
quence might  have  been  fatal  had  I  not  im- 
mediately interposed,  and  with  some  diffi- 
culty rescued  the  officers  from  the  hands  of 
the  enraged  multitude.  My  children,  who 
looked  upon  my  delivery  now  as  certain, 
appeared  transported  with  joy,  and  were 
incapable  of  containing  their  raptures.  But 
they  were  soon  undeceived,  upon  hearing 
me  address  the  poor  deluded  people  who 
came  as  they  imagined  to  do  me  service. 

"  What !  my  friends,"  cried  I,  "  and  is 
this  the  way  you  love  me !  Is  this  the 
manner  you  obey  the  instructions  I  have 
given  you  from  the  pulpit!  Thus  to  fly  in 
the  face  of  justice,  and  bring  down  ruin  on 
yourselves  and  me !  Which  is  your  ring- 
leader? Shew  me  the  man  that  has  thus 
seduced  you.  As  sure  as  he  lives  he  shall 
feel  my  resentment.  Alas!  my  dear,  de- 
luded flock,  return  back  to  the  duty  you 
owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and  to  me.  I 
shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in  greater 
felicity  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your 
lives  more  happy.  But  let  it  at  least  be  my 
comfort  when  1  pen  my  fold  for  immortality, 
that  not  one  here  shall  be  wanting." 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and 
melting  into  tesvrs  came  one  after  the  other 
to  bid  me  farewell.  I  shook  each  tenderly 
by  the  hand,  and  leaving  them  my  blessing, 
proceeded  forward  without  meeting  any 
further  interruption.  Some  hours  before 
night  we  reached  the  town,  or  rather  vil- 
lage ;  for  it  consisted  but  of  a  few  mean 
houses,  having  lost  all  its  former  opulence, 
and  retaining  no  marks  of  its  ancient  supe- 
riority but  the  gaol. 

Upon  entering  we  put  up  at  an  inn,  where 
we  had  such  refreshments  as  could  most 
readily  be  procured,  and  I  supped  with  my 
family  with  my  usual  cheerfulness.  After 
seeing  them  properly  accommodated  for  that 
night,  I  next  attended  the  sheriff's  officers  to 


OLI VER    G  OLD  SMI  TIL 


229 


the  prison  ;  which  had  formerly  been  built  for 
the  purposes  of  war,  and  consisted  of  one 
large  apartment  strongly  grated  and  paved 
with  stone,  common  to  both  felons  and  debtors 
at  certain  hours  in  the  four  and  twenty.  Be- 
sides this,  every  prisoner  had  a  separate 
cell,  where  he  was  locked  in  for  the  night. 

I  expected  upon  my  entrance  to  find  no- 
thing but  lamentations  and  various  sounds 
of  misery;  but  it  was  very  different.  The 
prisoners  seemed  all  employed  in  one  com- 
mon design,  that  of  forgetting  thought  in 
merriment  or  clamour.  I  was  apprised  of 
the  usual  perquisite  required  upon  these 
occasions,  and  immediately  complied  with 
the  demand,  though  the  little  money  I  had 
was  very  near  being  all  exhausted.  This 
was  immediately  sent  away  for  liquor,  and 
the  whole  prison  soon  was  filled  with  rout, 
laughter,  and  profaneness. 

"  How !''  cried  I  to  myself,  "  shall  men  so 
very  wicked  be  cheerful,  and  shall  T  be  mel- 
ancholy !  I  feel  only  the  same  confinement 
with  them,  and  I  think  I  have  more  reason 
to  be  happy." 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become 
cheerful  ;  but  cheerfulness  was  never  yet  pro- 
duced by  effort,  which  is  itself  painful.  As 
I  was  sitting  therefore  in  a  corner  of  the 
gaol  in  a  pensive  posture,  one  of  my  fellow- 
prisoners  came  up,  and  sitting  by  me  en- 
tered into  conversation.  It  was  my  constant 
rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conversation 
of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it;  for  if 
good,  I  might  profit  by  his  instruction  :  if 
bad,  he  might  be  assisted  by  mine.  I  found 
this  to  be  a  knowing  man  of.  strong  unlet- 
tered sense,  but  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  world,  as  it  is  called,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  of  human  nature  on  the  wrong 
side,  lie  asked  me  if  I  had  taken  care  to 
provide  myself  with  a  bed,  which  was  a  cir- 
cumstance I  had  never  once  attended  to. 

"That's  unfortunate,''  cried  he,  "as  you 
are  allowed  here  nothing  but  straw  and  your 
apartment  is  very  large  and  cold.  However, 
you  seem  to  be  something  of  a  gentleman, 
and,  as  I  have  been  one  myself  in  my  time, 
part  of  my  bedclothes  are  heartily  at  your 
service." 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at 
finding  such  humanity  in  a  gaol  in  misfor- 
tunes: adding,  to  let  him  see  that  I  was  a 
scholar,  that  the  sage  .ancient  seemed  to  un- 
derstand the  value  of  company  in  affliction, 
when  he  said,  Ton  kosmon  aire,  ei  dos  ton 
etairon:  and  in  fact,  continued  I,  "  what  is 
the  world  if  it  affords  only  solitude?" 

"  You  talk  of  the  world,  sir,"  returned  my 
fellow-prisoner  :  "  the  world  is  in  its  dotage, 
and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  ivorld 
has  puzzled  the  philosophers  of  every  age. 
What  a  medley  of  opinions  have  they  not 


broached  -upon  the  creation  of  the  world! 
Sanchonia/lton,  Muniheo,  Jlcrosits,  and  Ocellus 
Lucanns,  have  all  attempted  it  in  vain.  The 
latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon  ara  Jcai  at- 

elntaion  to  pan,  which  implies ''  "  I  ask 

pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  ''  for  interrupting  so 
much  learning;  but  I  think  I  have  heard 
all  this  before.  Have  I  not  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  at  Welbridge  fair,  and  is 
not  your  name  Ephraim  Jenkinson?"  At 
this  demand  he  only  sighed.  "  I  suppose 
you  must  recollect,"  resumed  I,  "one  Dr. 
Primrose,  from  whom  you  bought  a  horse." 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me;  for  the 
gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  approach- 
ing night,  had  prevented  his  distinguishing 
my  features  before. — "Yes,  sir,"  returned 
Mr.  Jenkinson,  "I  remember  you  perfectly 
well :  I  bought  a  horse,  but  forgot  to  pay 
for  him.'' 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Ch.  xxvi. 

THE  WAKEFIELD  FAMILY  IN  PROSPERITY. 

The  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awaked  I 
found  my  eldest  son  sitting  by  my  bedside, 
who  came  to  increase  my  joy  with  another 
turn  of  fortune  in  my  favour.  First  having 
released  me  from  the  settlement  that  I  had 
made  the  day  before  in  his  favour,  lie  let 
me  know  that  my  merchant  who  had  failed 
in  town  was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there 
had  given  up  effects  to  a  much  greater  amount 
than  what  was  due  to  his  creditors.  My  boy's 
generosity  pleased  me  almost  as  much  as  this 
unlooked-for  good  fortune.  But  I  had  some 
doubts  whether  I  ought  in  justice  to  accept 
his  offer.  While  I  was  pondering  upon  this, 
Sir  William  entered  the  room,  to  whom  I 
communicated  my  doubts.  His  opinion  was, 
that  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of  a 
very  .affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I 
might  accept  his  offer  without  any  hesita- 
tion. His  business,  however,  was  to  inform 
me,  that  as  he  had  the  night  before  sent  for 
the  licenses,  and  expected  them  every  hour, 
he  hoped  that  I  would  not  refuse  my  assist- 
ance in  making  all  the  company  happy  that 
morning.  A  footman  entered  while  we  were 
speaking,  to  tell  us  that  the  messenger  was 
returned,  and,  as  I  was  by  this  time  i-eady, 
I  went  down,  where  I  found  the  whole  com- 
pany as  merry  as  affluence  and  innocence 
couid  make  them.  However,  as  they  were 
now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn  ceremony, 
their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  .1 
told  them  of  the  grave,  becoming,  and  sub- 
lime deportment  they  should  assume  upon 
this  mystical  occasion,  and  read  them  two 
homilies  and  a  thesis  of  my  own  composing, 
in  order  to  prepare  them.  Yet  they  still 
seemed  perfectly  refractory  and  ungoverna- 
ble. Even  as  we  were  going  along  to  church, 


230 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


to  which  I  led  the  way,  all  gravity  had  quite 
forsaken  them,  and  1  was  often  tempted  to 
turn  back  in  indignation.  In  church  a  new 
dilemma  arose,  which  promised  no  easy  so- 
lution. .This  was,  which  couple  should  be 
married  first:  my  son's  bride  warmly  in- 
sisted that  Lady  Thornhill  (that  was  to  be) 
should  take  the  lead ;  but  this  the  other 
refused  with  equal  ardour,  protesting  she 
would  not  be  guilty  of  such  rudeness  for  the 
world.  The  argument  was  supported  for 
some  time  between  both  with  equal  obsti- 
nacy and  good-breeding.  But  as  I  stood  all 
this  time  with  my  book  ready,  I  was  at  last 
quite  tired  of  the  contest,  and  shutting  it, 
"  I  perceive,"  cried  I,  "  that  none  of  you  have 
a  mind  to  be  married,  and  I  think  we  had 
as  good  go  back  again  ;  for  I  suppose  there 
will  be  no  business  done  here  to-day." — This 
at  once  reduced  them  to  reason.  The  Bar- 
onet and  his  lady  were  first  married,  and 
then  my  son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

I  had  previously  that  morning  given  orders 
that  a  coach  should  be  sent  for  my  honest 
neighbour  Fhunborough  and  his  family,  by 
which  means,  upon  our  return  to  the  inn. 
we  had  the  pleasure  of  finding  the  two  Miss 
Flamboroughs  alighted  before  us.  Mr.  Jen- 
kinson  gave  his  hand  to  the  eldest  and  my 
son  Moses  led  up  the  other  (and  I  have  since 
found  that  he  has  taken  a  real  liking  to  the 
girl,  and  my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall 
have  whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  com- 
mand them).  We  were  no  sooner  returned 
to  the  inn,  but  numbers  of  my  parishioners, 
hearing  of  my  success,  came  to  congratulate 
me  ;  but  among  the  rest  were  those  who  rose 
to  rescue  me,  and  whom  I  formerly  rebuked 
with  much  sharpness.  I  told  the  story  to 
Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went  out 
and  reproved  them  with  great  severity;  but 
finding  them  quite  disheartened  by  his  harsh 
reproof,  he  gave  them  half-a-guinea  a  piece 
to  drink  his  health  and  raise  their  dejected 
spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very 
genteel  entertainment,  which  was  dressed 
by  Mr.  Thornhill's  cook.  And  it  may  not 
be  improper  to  observe  with  respect  to  that 
gentleman,  that  he  now  resides  in  quality 
of  companion  at  a  relation's  house,  being 
very  well  liked,  and  seldom  sitting  at  the 
side-table,  except  when  there  is  no  room  at 
the  other;  for  they  make  no  stranger  of 
him.  His  time  is  pretty  much  taken  up  in 
peeping  his  relation,  who  is  a  little  melan- 
choly, in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to  blow 
the  French-horn.  My  eldest  daughter,  how- 
ever, still  remembers  him  with  regret:  and 
she  has  even  told  me,  though  I  make  a 
great  secret  of  it,  that  when  he  reforms  she 
may  be  brought  to  relent.  But  to  return, 
for  I  am  not  apt  to  digress  thus,  when  we 


were  to  sit  down  to  dinner  our  ceremonies 
were  going  to  be  renewed.  The  question 
was,  Whether  my  eldest  daughter,  as  being 
a  matron,  should  not  sit  above  the  two 
young  brides;  but  the  debate  was  cut 
short  by  my  son  George,  who  proposed  that 
the  company  should  sit  indiscriminately, 
every  gentleman  by  his  lady.  This  was 
received  with  great  approbation  by  all,  ex- 
cepting my  wife,  who  I  could  perceive  was 
not  perfectly  satisfied,  as  she  expected  to 
have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  the  head 
of  the  table  and  carving  all  the  meat  for  all 
the  company.  But  notwithstanding  this,  it 
is  impossible  to  describe  our  good  humour. 
I  can't  say  whether  we  had  more  wit  among 
us  now  than  usual  ;  but  I  am  certain  we  had 
more  laughing,  which  answered  the  end  as 
well.  One  jest  I  particularly  remember : 
old  Mr.  Wilmot  drinking  to  Moses,  Avhose 
head  was  turned  another  way,  my  son  re- 
plied, "  Madam,  I  thank  you."  Upon  which 
the  old  gentleman,  winking  upon  the  rest 
of  the  company,  observed  that  he  was  think- 
ing of  his  mistress,  at  which  jest  I  thought 
the  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  would  have  died 
with  laughing.  As  soon  as  dinner  was  over, 
according  to  my  old  custom,  I  requested  that 
the  table  might  be  taken  away,  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  rny  family  assem- 
bled once  more  by  a  cheerful  fireside.  My 
two  little  ones  sate  upon  each  knee,  the  rest 
of  the  company  by  their  partners.  I  had 
nothing  now  on  this  side  of  the  grave  to 
wish  for :  all  my  cares  were  over,  my  pleas- 
ure was  unspeakable.  It  now  only  remained 
that  my  gratitude  in  good  fortune  should 
exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity. 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Ch.  xxxii. 

THE  AUGUSTAN  AGE  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  history  of  the  rise  of  language  and 
learning  is  calculated  to  gratify  curiosity 
rather  than  to  satisfy  the  understanding. 
An  account  of  that  period  only,  when  lan- 
guage and  learning  arrived  at  its  highest 
perfection,  is  the  most  conducive  to  real  im- 
provement, since  it  at  once  raises  emulation, 
and  directs  to  the  proper  objects.  The  age 
of  Leo  X.  in  Italy  is  confessed  to  be  the 
Augustan  age  with  them.  The  French 
writers  seem  agreed  to  give  the  same  appel- 
lation to  that  of  Louis  XIV.;  but  the  Eng- 
lish are  as  yet  undetermined  with  respect  to 
themselves. 

Some  have  looked  upon  the  writers  in  the 
times  of  Queen  Elizabeth  as  the  true  stan- 
dard for  future  imitation  ;  others  have  de- 
scended to  the  reign  of  James  I.,  and  others 
still  lower,  to  that  of  Charles  II.  Were  I 
to  be  permitted  to  offer  an  opinion  upon  this 
subject,  I  should  readily  give  my  vote  for 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


231 


the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  or  some  years 
before  that  period.  It  was  then  that  taste 
was  united  to  genius ;  and  as,  before,  our 
writers  charmed  with  their  strength  of 
thinking,  so  then  they  pleased  with  strength 
and  grace  united.  In  that  period  of  British 
glory,  though  no  writer  attracts  our  atten- 
tion singly,  yet,  like  stars  lost  in  each 
other's  brightness,  they  have  cast  such  a 
lustre  upon  the  age  in  which  they  lived, 
that  their  minutest  transactions  will  be  at- 
tended to  by  posterity  with  a  greater  eager- 
ness than  the  most  important  occurrences 
of  even  empires,  which  have  been  transacted 
in  greater  obscurity. 

At  that  period  there  seemed  to  be  a  just  bal- 
ance between  patronage  and  the  press.  Before 
it,  men  were  little  esteemed  whose  only 
merit  was  genius :  cind  since,  men  who  can 
prudently  be  content  to  catch  the  public, 
are  certain  of  living  without  dependence. 
But  the  writers  of  the  period  of  which  I  am 
speaking  were  sufficiently  esteemed  by  the 
great,  and  not  rewarded  enough  by  book- 
sellers to  set  them  above  independence. 
Fame  consequently  then  was  the  truest 
road  to  happiness  ;  a  sedulous  attention  to 
the  mechanical  business  of  the  day  makes 
the  present  never-failing  resource. 

The  age  of  Charles  II.,  which  our  country- 
men term  the  age  of  wit  and  immorality, 
produced  some  writers  that  at  once  served 
to  improve  our  language  and  corrupt  our 
hearts.  The  king  himself  had  a  large  share 
of  knowledge,  and  some  wit,  and  his  cour- 
tiers were  generally  men  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  school  of  affliction  and 
experience.  For  this  reason,  when  the  sun- 
shine of  their  fortune  returned,  they  gave 
too  great  a  loose  to  pleasure,  and  language 
was  by  them  cultivated  only  as  a  mode  of 
elegance.  Hence  it  became  more  enervated, 
and  was  dashed  with  quaintnesses,  which 
gave  the  public  writings  of  those  times  a 
very  illiberal  air. 

L' Estrange,  who  was  by  no  means  so  bad 
a  writer  as  some  have  represented  him,  was 
sunk  in  party  faction,  and  having  generally 
the  worst  side  of  the  argument,  often  had 
recourse  to  scolding,  pertness,  and  conse- 
quently a  vulgarity  that  discovers  itself 
even  in  his  more  liberal  compositions  lie 
was  the  first  writer  who  regularly  enlisted 
himself  under  the  banners  of  a  party  for 
pay,  and  fought  for  it  through  right  and 
wrong  for  upwards  of  forty  literary  cam- 
paigns. This  intrepidity  gained  him  the 
esteem  of  Cromwell  himself,  and  the  papers 
he  wrote  even  just  before  the  revolution, 
almost  with  the  rope  about  his  neck,  have 
his  usual  characters  of  impudence  and  per- 
severance. That  he  was  a  standard  writer 
cannot  be  disowned,  because  a  great  many 


very  eminent  authors  formed  their  style  by 
his.  But  his  standard  was  far  from  being 
a  just  one;  though,  when  party  considera- 
tions are  set  aside,  he  certainly  was  pos- 
sessed of  elegance,  ease,  and  perspicuity. 

Dryden,  though  a  great  and  undisputed 
genius,  had  the  same  cast  as  L'Estrangc. 
Even  his  plays  discover  hjia  to  be  a  party 
man,  and  the  same  principle  infects  his  style 
in  subjects  of  the  lightest  nature  ;  but  the 
English  tongue,  as  it  stands  at  present,  is 
greatly  his  debtor.  He  first  gave  it  regular 
harmony,  and  discovered  its  latent  powers. 
It  was  his  pen  that  formed  the  Congreves, 
the  Priors,  and  the  Addisons,  who  succeeded 
him  ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  Dryden  we 
never  should  have  known  a  Pope,  at  least  in 
the  meridian  lustre  he  now  displays.  But 
Dryden's  excellencies  as  a  writer  were  not 
confined  to  poetry  alone.  There  is  in  his 
prose  writings  an  ease  and  elegance  that 
have  never  yet  been  so  well  united  in  works 
of  taste  or  criticism. 

The  English  language  owes  very  little  to 
Otway,  though  next  to  Shakespeare  the 
greatest  genius  England  ever  produced  in 
tragedy.  His  excellencies  lay  in  painting 
directly  from  nature,  in  catching  every  emo- 
tion just  as  it  arises  from  the  soul,  and  in 
all  the  powers  of  the  moving  and  pathetic. 
He  appears  to  have  had  no  learning,  no 
critical  knowledge,  and  to  have  lived  in  great 
distress.  AVhen  he  died  (which  he  did  in  an 
obscure  house,  the  Minories),  lie  had  about 
him  the  copy  of  a  tragedy,  which,  it  seems, 
he  had  sold  for  a  trifle  to  Bentley,  the  book- 
seller. I  have  seen  an  advertisement  at  the 
end  of  one  of  L'EstrangeTs  political  papers, 
offering  a  reward  to  any  one  who  should 
bring  it  to  his  shop.  What  an  invaluable 
treasure  was  there  irretrievably  lost  by  the 
ignorance  and  neglect  of  the  age  he  lived 
in! 

Lee  had  a  great  command  of  language, 
and  vast  force  of  expression,  both  which  the 
best  of  our  dramatic  poets  thought  proper  to 
take  for  their  models.  Howe,  in  particular, 
seems  to  have  caught  that  manner,  though 
in  all  other  respects  inferior.  The  other 
poets  of  that  reigti  contributed  but  little  to- 
wards improving  the  English  tongue,  and  it 
is  not  certain  whether  they  did  not  injure 
rather  than  improve  it.  Immorality  has  its 
cant  as  well  as  party,  and  many  shocking 
expressions  now  crept  into  the  language,  and 
became  the  transient  fashion  of  the  day. 
The  upper  galleries,  by  the  prevalence  of 
party-spirit,  were  courted  with  great  assi- 
duity, and  a  horse-laugh  following  ribaldry 
was  the  highest  instance  of  applause,  the 
chastity  as  well  as  energy  of  diction  being 
overlooked  or  neglected. 

Virtuous  sentiment  was  recovered,  but  en- 


232 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


ergy  of  style  never  was.  This,  though  dis- 
regarded in  plays  and  party-writings,  still 
prevailed  amongst  men  of  character  and 
business.  The  despatches  of  Sir  Richard 
Fanahaw,  Sir  William  Godolphin,  Lord  Ar- 
lington, and  many  otiier  ministers  of  state, 
are  all  of  them,  with  regard  to  diction, 
manly,  bold,  and  nervous. 

Sir  William  Temple,  though  a  man  of  no 
learning,  had  great  knowledge  and  experi- 
ence. He  wrote  always  like  a  man  of  sense 
and  a  gentleman  ;  and  his  style  is  the  model 
by  which  the  best  prose  writers  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne  formed  theirs. 

The  beauties  of  Mr.  Locke's  style,  though 
not  so  much  celebrated,  are  as  striking  as 
that  of  his  understanding.  lie  never  says 
more  nor  less  than  he  ought,  and  never 
makes  use  of  a  word  that  he  could  have 
changed  for  the  better.  The  same  observa- 
tion holds  good  of  Dr.  Samuel  Clarke.  Mr. 
Locke  was  a  philosopher;  his  antagonist, 
Stillingflcet,  bishop  of  Worcester,  was  a  man 
of  learning;  and  therefore  the  contest  be- 
tween them  was  unequal.  The  clearness  of 
Mr.  Locke's  head  renders  his  language  per- 
spicuous, the  learning  of  Stillingfleet's  clouds 
his.  This  is  an  instance  of  the  superiority 
of  good  sense  over  learning,  towards  the  im- 
provement of  every  language. 

There  is  nothing  peculiar  to  the  language 
of  Archbishop  Tillotson,  but  his  manner 
of  writing  is  inimitable;  for  one  who  reads 
him  wonders  why  he  himself  did  not  think 
and  speak  in  that  very  manner.  The  turn 
of  his  periods  is  agreeable,  though  artless, 
and  everything  he  says  seems  to  flow  spon- 
taneously from  inward  conviction.  Barrow, 
though  greatly  his  superior  in  learning,  falls 
short  of  him  in  other  respects. 

The  time  seems  to  be  at  hand  when  jus- 
tice will  be  done  to  Mr.  Cowley's  prose  as 
well  as  poetical  writings;  and  though  his 
friend,  Dr.  Sprat,  bishop  of  Rochester,  in  his 
diction  falls  far  short  of  the  abilities  for 
which  he  lias  been  celebrated,  yet  there  is 
sometimes  a  happy  flow  in  his  periods,  some- 
thing that  looks  like  eloquence. 

The  style  of  his  successor,  Atterbury,  has 
been  much  commended  by  his  friends,  which 
always  happens  when  a  man  distinguishes 
himself  in  party  ;  but  there  is  in  it  nothing 
extraordinary.  Even  the  speech  which  he 
made  for  himself  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of 
Lords,  before  he  was  sent  into  exile,  is  void 
of  eloquence,  though  it  has  been  cried  up 
by  his  friends  to  such  a  degree  that  his  ene- 
mies have  suffered  it  to  pass  uncensured. 

The  philosophical  manner  of  Lord  Shaftes- 
bury's  writing  is  nearer  to  that  of  Cicero 
than  :inv  English  author  has  yet  arrived  at ; 
but  perhaps  had  Cicero  written  in  English 
his  composition  would  have  greatly  ex- 


ceeded that  of  our  countryman.  The  dic- 
tion of  the  latter  is  beautiful,  but  such 
beauty  as,  upon  nearer  inspection,  carries 
with  it  evident  symptoms  of  affectation. 
This  has  been  attended  with  very  disagree- 
able consequences.  Nothing  is  so  easy  to 
copy  as  affectation,  and  his  lordship's  rank 
and  fame  have  procured  him  more  imitators 
in  Britain  than  any  other  writer  I  know  ; 
all  faithfully  preserving  his  blemishes,  but 
unhappily  not  one  of  his  beauties. 

Mr.  Trenchard  and  Dr.  Davenant  were 
political  writers  of  great  abilities  in  diction, 
and  their  pamphlets  are  now  standards  in 
that  way  of  writing.  They  were  followed 
by  Dean  Swift,  who,  though  in  other  re- 
spects far  their  superior,  never  could  arise 
to  that  manliness  and  clearness  of  diction 
in  political  writing  for  which  they  were  so 
justly  famous. 

They  were,  all  of  them,  exceeded  by  the 
late  Lord  Bolingbroke,  whose  strength  lay 
in  that  province  :  for,  as  a  philosopher  and 
a  critic,  he  was  ill  qualified,  being  destitute 
of  virtue  for  the  one,  and  of  learning  for  tl-e 
other.  His  Avritings  against  Sir  Robert 
Walpole  are  incomparably  the  best  of  his 
works.  The  personal  and  perpetual  antip- 
athy he  had  for  that  family,  to  whose  places 
he  thought  his  own  abilities  had  a  right, 
gave  a  glow  to  his  style,  and  an  edge  to  his 
manner,  that  never  yet  have  been  equalled 
in  political  writing.  Ilis  misfortunes  and  dis- 
appointments gave  his  mind  a  turn  which 
his  friends  mistook  for  philosophy,  and 
at  one  time  of  his  life  he  had  the  art  to 
impose  the  same  belief  upon  some  of  his 
enemies.  His  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King,  which 
I  reckon  (as  indeed  it  was)  amongst  his 
writings  against  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  is  a 
masterpiece  of  diction.  Even  in  his  other 
works  his  styje  is  excellent;  but  where  a 
man  either  does  not,  or  will  not,  understand 
the  subject  he  writes  on,  there  must  always 
be  a  deficiency.  In  politics  he  was  generally 
master  of  what  he  undertook, — in  morals, 
never. 

Mr.  Addison,  for  a  happy  and  natural 
style,  will  be  always  an  honour  to  British  lit- 
erature. His  diction  indeed  wants  strength, 
but  it  is  equal  to  all  the  subjects  he  under- 
takes to  handle,  as  he  never  (at  least  in  his 
finished  works)  attempts  anything  either  in 
the  argumentative  or  demonstrative  way. 

Though  Sir  Richard  Steele's  reputation 
as  a  public  writer  was  owing  to  his  connex- 
ions with  Mr.  Addison,  yet  after  their  inti- 
macy was  formed,  Steele  sunk  in  his  merit 
as  an  author.  This  was  owing  as  much  to 
the  evident  superiority  on  the  part  of  Addi- 
son as  to  the  unnatural  efforts  which  Steele 
made  to  equal  or  eclipse  him.  This  emula- 
tion destroyed  that  genuine  flow  of  diction 


EDMUND   BURKE. 


233 


which  is  discoverable  in  all  his  former  com- 
positions. 

Whilst  their  writings  engaged  attention 
and  the  favour  of  the  public,  reiterated  but 
unsuccessful  efforts  were  made  towards 
forming  a  grammar  of  the  English  language. 
The  authors  of  those  efforts  went  upon 
wrong  principles.  Instead  of  endeavouring 
to  retrench  the  absurdities  of  our  language, 
and  bringing  it  to  a  certain  criterion,  their 
grammars  were  no  other  than  a  collection 
of  rules  attempting  to  neutralize  those  ab- 
surdities, and  bring  them  under  a  regular 
system. 

Somewhat  effectual,  however,  might  have 
been  dime  towards  fixing  the  standard  of  the 
English  language,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
spirit  of  party.  For  both  whigs  and  tories 
being  ambitious  to  stand  at  the  head  of  so 
great  a  design,  the  Queen's  deatli  happened 
before  any  plan  of  an  academy  could  be  re- 
solved on. 

Meanwhile  the  necessity  of  such  an  insti- 
tution became  every  day  more  apparent. 
The  periodical  and  politiccil  writers,  who 
then  swarmed,  adopted  the  very  worst  man- 
ner of  L'Estrange,  till  not  only  all  decency, 
but  all  propriety  of  language,  Wcis  lost  in 
the  nation.  Leslie,  n  pert  writer,  with  some 
wit  and  learning,  insulted  the  government 
every  week  witii  the  grossest  abuse.  His 
style  and  manner,  both  of  which  were  il- 
liberal, was  imitated  by  Ridpath,  De  Foe, 
Dunton,  and  others  of  the  opposite  party: 
and  Toland  pleaded  the  cause  of  Atheism 
and  immorality  in  much  the  same  strain: 
his  subject  seemed  to  debase  his  diction,  and 
he  ever  failed  most  in  one  when  he  grew  most 
licentious  in  the  other.  Towards  the  end 
of  Queen  Anne's  reign  some  of  the  greatest 
men  in  England  devoted  their  time  to  party, 
and  then  a  much  better  manner  obtained  in 
political  writing.  Mr.  Walpole,  Mr.  Addi- 
son,  Mr.  "Wainwaring,  Mr.  Steele,  and  many 
members  of  both  houses  of  parliament  drew 
their  pens  for  the  whigs  ;  but  they  seem  to 
have  beeji  over-matched,  though  not  in  argu- 
ment yefc  in  writing,  by  Bolingbroke,  Prior. 
Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  the  other  friends  of 
the  opposite  party.  They  who  oppose  a 
ministry  have  always  a  better  field  for  ridi- 
cule and  repraof  than  they  who  defend  it. 

Since  that  period  our  writers  have  either 
been  encouraged  above  their  merits  or  be- 
low them.  Some  who  were  possessed  of  the 
meanest  abilities  acquired  the  highest  pre- 
ferments, while  others  who  seemed  born  to 
reflect  a  lustre  upon  their  age  perished  by 
want  and  neglect.  More,  Savage,  and  Am- 
lierst  were  possessed  of  great  abilities,  yet 
they  were  suffered  to  feel  all  the  miseries 
that  usually  attend  the  ingenious  and  the 
imprudent,  that  attend  men  of  strong  pas- 


sions, and  no  phlegmatic  reserve  in  their 
command. 

At  present,  were  a  man  to  attempt  to  im- 
prove his  fortune,  or  increase  his  friendship, 
by  poetry,  he  would  soon  feel  the  anxiety  of 
disappointment.  The  press  lies  open,  and  is 
a  benefactor  to  every  sort  of  literature,  but 
that  alone.  I  am  at  a  loss  whether  to  ascribe 
this  falling  off  of  the  public  to  a  vicious 
taste  in  the  poet,  or  in  them.  Perhaps  both 
are  to  be  reprehended.  The  poet,  either 
drily  didactive,  gives  us  rules  which  might 
appear  abstruse  even  in  a  system  of  ethics, 
or,  triflingly  volatile,  writes  upon  the  most 
unworthy  subjects  ;  content,  if  he  can  give 
music  instead  of  sense;  content,  if  he  can 
paint  to  the  imagination  without  any  desires 
or  endeavours  to  effect:  the  public,  there- 
fore, with  justice  discard  such  empty  sound, 
which  has  nothing  but  a  jingle,  or,  what  is 
worse,  the  unmusical  flow  of  blank  verse  to 
recommend  it.  The  late  method  also,  into 
which  our  newspapers  have  fallen,  of  giving 
an  epitome  of  every  new  publication,  must 
greatly  damp  the  writer's  genius.  He  finds 
himself  in  this  case  at  the  mercy  of  men 
who  have  neither  abilities  or  learning  to 
distinguish  his  merit.  He  finds  his  own 
composition  mixed  with  the  sordid  trash  of 
every  daily  scribble.  There  is  a  sufficient 
specimen  given  of  his  work  to  abate  curios- 
ity, and  yet  so  mutilated  as  to  render  him 
contemptible.  His  first,  and  perhaps  his 
second,  work,  by  these  means  sink,  among 
the  crudities  of  the  age.  into  oblivion. 
Fame  he  finds  begins  to  turn  his  back  :  he, 
therefore,  flies  to  profit  which  invites  him, 
and  he  enrols  himself  in  the  lists  of  dulness 
and  of  avarice  for  life. 

Yet  there  are  still  among  us  men  of  the 
greatest  abilities,  and  who  in  some  parts  of 
learning  have  surpassed  their  predecessors  : 
justice  and  friendship  might  here  impel  me 
to  speak  of  names  which  will  shine  out  to 
all  posterity,  but  prudence  restrains  me  from 
what  I  should  otherwise  eagerly  embrace. 
Envy  might  rise  against  every  honoured 
name  I  should  mention,  since  scarcely  one  of 
them  has  not  those  who  are  his  enemies,  or 
those  who  despise  Win,  &c. 

The  Bee. 


EDMUND   BURKE, 

one  of  the  greatest  of  the  sons  of  men, 
was  born  in  Dublin,  1728  or  1730,  entered 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  1744,  published  A 
Vindication  of  Natural  Society,  etc.,  by  a 
lato  Noble  Writer  (an  imitation  of  Lord 
Bolingbroke),  Lond.,  1756,  8vo,  and  A  Phi- 
losophical Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our 
Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  Lond., 


234 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


1756,  8vo ;  was  the  supposed  author,  or  co- 
author of  An  Account  Of  the  European  Set- 
tlements in  America,  Lond.,  1757,  2  vols. 
8vo;  accompanied  William  Gerard  Hamilton 
to  Ireland  as  his  secretary,  1761;  entered 
parliament  in  1766,  and  from  that  time  until 
nis  death,  in  1797,  occupied  a  distinguished 
public  position,  for  the  particulars  of  which 
\ve  must  refer  to  Mr.  Prior  and  his  other 
biographers.  Of  the  collective  editions  of 
his  Works,  we  notice  Rivington's,  Lond., 
1852,  8  vols.  8vo  ;  II.  G.  Bonn's,  Lond.,  1857, 
8  vols.  p.  8vo,  and  especially,  Little,  Brown 
&  (Vs.,  Boston.  Mass.,  1866, 12  vols.  p.  8vo. 
In  this  edition  many  errors  in  English  issues 
were  corrected. 

"Shakspeare  and  Burke  are,  if  I  mny  venture 
on  the  expression,  above  talent.  Burke  was  one 
of  the  firft  thinkers,  as  well  as  one  of  the  greatest 
orators,  of  his  time.  He  is  without  parallel  in 
any  age  or  country,  except  perhaps  Lord  Bacon  or 
Cicero:  and  his  works  contain  an  ampler  store  of 
political  and  moral  wisdom  than  can  be  found  in 
any  other  writer  whatever." — SIR  JAMES  MACKIN- 
TOSH. 

"  Who  can  withstand  the  fascination  and  magic 
of  his  eloquence?  The  excursions  of  his  genius 
are  immense!  His  imperial  fancy  has  laid  all  na- 
ture under  tribute,  and  has  collected  riches  from 
every  scene  of  the  creation  and  every  walk  of 
art." — ROBERT  HALL. 

"  [Burke]  one  of  the  greatest  men,  and,  Bacon 
alone  exccpted,  the  greatest  thinker  who  has  ever 
devoted  himself  to  the  practice  of  English  poli- 
tics."— BUCKLE:  Hint,  o/  Cioil.,  ii.  32G. 

AMERICA. 

Mr.  Speaker,  I  cannot  prevail  on  myself 
to  hurry  over  this  great  consideration.  It  is 
good  for  us  to  be  here.  We  stand  where  we 
have  an  immense  view  of  what  is,  and  what 
is  past.  Clouds  indeed,  and  darkness,  rest 
upon  the  future.  Let  us,  however,  before 
we  descend  from  this  noble  eminence,  reflect 
that  this  growth  of  our  national  prosperity 
lias  happened  within  the  short  period  of  the 
life  of  man.  It  has  happened  within  sixty- 
eight  vears.  There  are  those  alive  whose 
memory  might  touch  the  two  extremities. 
For  instance,  my  Lord  Bathurst  might  re- 
member all  the  stages  of  the  progress.  He 
was  in  1704  of  an  age  at  least  to  be  made  to 
comprehend  such  things.  lie  was  then  old 
enough  acta  parentum  jam  Icyere,  et  quce  sit 
poterit  cognosccre  virtus.  Suppose,  Sir,  that 
the  angel  of  this  auspicious  youth,  foresee- 
ing the  many  virtues  which  made  him  one 
of  the  most  amiable,  as  he  is  one  of  the  most 
fortunate  men  of  his  age,  had  opened  to  him 
in  vision,  that  when,  in  the  fourth  genera- 
tion, the  third  prince  of  the  House  of  Brims- 
wick  had  sat  twelve  years  on  the  throne  of 
that  nation  which  (by  the  happy  issue  of 
moderate  and  healing  councils)  was  to  be 


made  Great  Britain,  he  should  see  his  son, 
Lord  Chancellor  of  England,  turn  back  the 
current  of  hereditary  dignity  to  its  fountain, 
and  raise  him  to  an  higher  rank  of  peerage, 
whilst  he  enriched  the  family  with  a  new 
one,  —  if  amidst  these  bright  and  happy 
scenes  of  domestic  honour  and  prosperity, 
that  angel  should  have  drawn  up  the  cur- 
tain, and  unfolded  the  rising  glories  of  hia 
country,  and  whilst  he  was  gazing  with  ad- 
miration on  the  then  commercial  grandeur  of 
England,  the  genius  should  point  out  to  him  a 
little  speck,  scarce  visible  in  the  mass  of  the 
national  interest,  a  small  seminal  principle 
rather  than  a  formed  body,  and  should  tell 
him,  "  Young  man,  there  is  America, — which 
at  tliis  day  serves  for  little  more  than  to 
amuse  you  with  stories  of  savage  men  and 
uncouth  manners,  yet  shall,  before  you  taste 
of  death,  show  itself  equal  to  the  whole  of 
that  commerce  which  now  attracts  the  envy 
of  the  world :  whatever  England  has  been 
growing  to  by  a  progressive  increase  of  im- 
provement, brought  in  by  varieties  of  people, 
by  succession  of  civilizing  conquests  and 
civilizing  sentiments,  in  a  series  of  seventeen, 
hundred  years,  you  shall  see  as  much  added 
to  her  by  America  in  the  course  of  a  single 
life!" — if  this  state  of  his  country  had  been 
foretold  to  him,  would  it  not  require  all  the 
sanguine  credulity  of  youth,  and  all  the 
fervid  glow  of  enthusiasm,  to  make  him  be- 
lieve it?  Fortunate  man,  he  has  lived  to  see 
it!  Fortunate  indeed,  if  he  lives  to  see 
nothing  that  shall  vary  the  prospect,  and 
cloud  the  setting  of  his  day !  .  .  .  I  pass, 
therefore,  to  the  colonies  in  another  point  of 
view, — their  agriculture.  This  they  have 
prosecuted  with  such  a  spirit,  that,  besides 
feeding  plentifully  their  own  growing  multi- 
tude, their  annual  export  of  grain,  compre- 
hending rice,  has  some  years  ago  exceeded 
a  million  in  value.  Of  their  last  harvest,  I 
am  persuaded,  they  will  export  much  more. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  century  some  of 
these  colonies  imported  corn  from  the  mother 
country.  For  some  time  past  the  old  world 
has  been  fed  from  the  new.  The  scarcity 
which  you  have  felt  would  have  been  a  deso- 
lating famine,  if  this  child  of  your  old  age, 
with  a  true  filial  piety,  with  a  Roman  charity, 
had  not  put  the  full  breast  of  its  youthful 
exuberance  to  the  mouth  of  its  exhausted 
parent.  As  to  the  wealth  which  the  colonies 
have  drawn  from  the  sea  by  their  fisheries, 
you  had  all  that  matter  fully  opened  at  your 
bar.  You  surely  thought  those  acquisitions 
of  value,  for  they  seemed  even  to  excite  your 
envy  ;  and  yet  the  spirit  by  which  that  en- 
terprising employment  has  been  exercised 
ought  rather,  in  my  opinion,  to  have  raised 
your  esteem  and  admiration.  And  pray, 
Sir,  what  in  the  world  is  equal  to  it?  Pass 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


235 


by  the  other  parts,  and  look  at  the  manner 
in  which  the  people  of  New  England  have 
of  late  carried  on  the  whale-fishery.  Whilst 
we  follow  them  among  the  tumbling  moun- 
tains of  ice,  and  behold  them  penetrating 
into  the  deepest  frozen  recesses  of  Hudson's 
Bay  and  Davis's  Straits,  whilst  we  are  look- 
ing for  them  beneath  the  arctic  circle,  we 
hear  that  they  have  pierced  into  the  opposite 
region  of  polar  cold,  that  they  are  at  the 
antipodes,  and  engaged  under  the  frozen 
serpent  of  the  South.  Falkland  Island, 
which  seemed  too  remote  and  romantic  an 
object  for  the  grasp  of  national  ambition,  is 
but  a  stage  and  resting-place  in  the  progress 
of  their  victorious  industry.  Nor  is  the 
equinoctial  heat  more  discouraging  to  them 
than  the  accumulated  winter  of  both  the 
poles.  We  know,  that,  whilst  some  of  them 
draw  the  line  and  strike  the  harpoon  on  the 
coast  of  Africa,  others  run  the  longitude, 
and  pursue  their  gigantic  game  along  the 
coast  of  Brazil.  No  sea  but  what  is  vexed 
by  their  fisheries.  No  climate  that  is  not 
witness  to  their  toils.  Neither  the  persever- 
ance of  Holland,  nor  the  activity  of  France, 
nor  the  dexterous  and  firm  sagacity  of  Eng- 
lish enterprise,  ever  carried  this  most  peril- 
ous mode  of  hardy  industry  to  the  extent  to 
which  it  has  been  pushed  by  this  recent 
people, — a  people  who  are  still,  as  it  were, 
but  in  the  gristle,  and  not  yet  hardened 
into  the  bone  of  manhood.  When  I  con- 
template these  things, — when  I  know  that 
the  colonies  in  general  owe  little  or  nothing 
to  any  care  of  ours,  and  that  they  are  not 
squee/.ed  into  this  happy  form  by  the  con- 
straints of  watchful  and  suspicious  govern- 
ment, but  that  through  a  wise  and  salutary 
neglect,  a  generous  nature  has  been  suffered 
to  take  her  own  way  to  perfection, — when  I 
reflect  upon  these  effects,  when  I  see  how 
profitable  they  have  been  to  us,  I  feel  all 
the  pride  of  power  sink,  and  all  presumption 
in  the  wisdom  of  human  contrivances  melt 
and  die  away  within  me, — my  rigour  re- 
lents,— I  pardon  something  to  the  spirit  of 
liberty. 

I  am  sensible,  Sir,  that  all  which  I  have 
asserted  in  my  detail  is  admitted  in  the 
gross,  but  that  quite  a  different  conclusion 
is  drawn  from  it.  America,  gentlemen  say, 
is  a  noble  object, — it  is  an  object  well  worth 
fighting  for.  Certainly  it  is,  if  fighting  a 
people  be  the  best  way  of  gaining  them. 
Gentlemen  in  this  respect  will  be  led  to 
their  choice  of  means  by  their  complexions 
and  their  habits.  Those  who  understand 
the  military  art  will  of  course  have  some 
predilection  for  it.  Those  who  wield  the 
thunder  of  the  state  may  have  more  confi- 
dence in  the  efficacy  of  arms.  But  I  confess, 
pos&lbly  for  want  of  knowledge,  my  opinion 


is  much  more  in  favour  of  prudent  manage- 
ment than  that  of  force, — considering  force 
not  as  an  odious,  but  a  feeble  instrument 
for  preserving  a  people  so  numerous,  so 
active,  so  growing,  so  spirited  as  this,  in  a 
profitable  and  subordinate  connection  with 
us. 

Speech    on    Conciliation    with    America, 
March  22,  1775. 

ON  GOVERNMENT. 

Government  is  not  made  in  virtue  of 
natural  rights,  which  may  and  do  exist  in 
total  independence  of  it, — and  exist  in  much 
greater  clearness,  and  in  a  much  greater 
degree  of  abstract  perfection  :  but  their  ab- 
stract perfection  is  their  practical  defect. 
By  having  a  right  to  everything  they  want 
everything.  Government  is  a  contrivance 
of  human  wisdom  to  provide  for  human 
wants.  Men  have  a  right  that  these  wants 
should  be  provided  for  by  this  wisdom. 
Among  these  wants  is  to  be  reckoned  the 
want,  out  of  civil  society,  of  a  sufficient 
restraint  upon  their  passions.  Society  re- 
quires not  only  that  the  passions  of  indi- 
viduals should  be  subjected,  but  that  even 
in  the  mass  and  body,  as  well  as  in  the 
individuals,  the  inclinations  of  men  should 
frequently  be  thwarted,  their  will  controlled, 
and  their  passions  be  brought  into  subjec- 
tion. This  can  only  be  done  %  a  power  out 
of  themselves,  and  not,  in  the  exercise  of  its 
function,  subject  to  that  will  and  to  those 
passions  which  it  is  its  office  to  bridle  and 
subdue.  In  this  sense  the  restraints  on  men, 
as  well  as  their  liberties,  are  to  be  reckoned 
among  their  rights.  But  as  the  liberties 
and  the  restrictions  vary  with  times  and 
circumstances,  and  admit  of  infinite  modifi- 
cations, they  cannot  be  settled  upon  any  ab- 
stract rule ;  and  nothing  is  so  foolish  as  to 
discuss  them  upon  that  principle. 

The  moment  you  abate  anything  from  the 
full  rights  of  men  each  to  govern  himself, 
and  suffer  any  artificial,  positive  limitation 
upon  those  rights,  from  that  moment  the 
whole  organization  f>£  government  becomes 
a  consideration  of  convenience.  This  it  is 
which  makes  the  constitution  of  a  state,  and 
the  due  distribution  of  its  powers,  a  matter 
of  the  most  delicate  and  complicated  skill. 
It  requires  a  deep  knowledge  of  human 
nature  and  human  necessities,  and  of  the 
things  which  facilitate  or  obstruct  the  vari- 
ous ends  which  are  to  be  pursued  by  the 
mechanism  of  civil  institutions.  The  state 
is  to  have  recruits  to  its  strength  and  reme- 
dies to  its  distempers.  What  is  the  use  of 
discussing  a  man's  abstract  right  to  food  or 
medicine?  The  question  is  upon  the  method 
of  procuring  and  administering  them.  In 


236 


EDMUND  BURKE. 


tli.it  deliberation  I  shall  always  advise  to 
call  in  the  aid  of  the  farmer  and  the  phy- 
sician, rather  than  the  professor  of  meta- 
physics. 

The  science  of  constructing  a  common- 
wealth, or  renovating  it,  or  reforming  it,  is 
like  every  other  experimental  science,  not  to 
be  taught  a  priori.  Nor  is  it  a  short  experi- 
ence that  can  instruct  us  in  that  practical 
science  ;  because  the  real  effects  of  moral 
causes  are  nob  always  immediate,  but  that 
which  in  the  first  instance  is  prejudicial  may 
be  excellent  in  its  remoter  operation,  and  its 
excellence  may  arise  even  from  the  ill  effects 
it  produces  in  the  beginning.  The  reverse 
also  happens  ;  and  very  plausible  schemes, 
•with  very  pleasing  commencements,  have 
often  shameful  and  lamentable  conclusions. 
In  states  there  are  often  some  obscure  and 
almost  latent  causes,  things  which  appear  at 
first  view  of  little  moment,  on  which  a  very 
great  part  of  its  prosperity  depend.  The 
science  of  government  being,  therefore,  so 
practical  in  itself,  and  intended  for  such 
practical  purpose-,  a  matter  which  requires 
experience,  and  even  more  experience  than 
any  person  can  gain  in  his  whole  life,  how- 
ever sagacious  and  observing  he  may  be,  it 
is  with  infinite  caution  that  any  man  ought 
to  venture  upon  pulling  down  an  edifice 
which  has  answered  in  any  tolerable  degree 
for  ages  the  common  purposes  of  society,  or 
on  building  it  up  again  without  having 
models  and  patterns  of  approved  utility  be- 
fore his  eyes. 

Jtcjlectiuns  on  the  Revolution  in  France, 
1790. 

IMPEACHMENT  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS. 

In  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England, 
I  charge  all  this  villany  upon  Warren  Has- 
tings, in  this  last  moment  of  my  application 
to  you  [the  House  of  Lords]. 

My  Lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here 
to  a  great  act  of  national  justice?  Do  we 
want  a  cause,  my  Lords?  You  have  the 
cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women 
of  the  first  rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and 
of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  Lords?  When 
was  there  so  much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the 
charge  of  any  one?  No,  my  Lords,  you 
must  not  look  to  punish  any  other  such 
delinquent  from  India.  Warren  Hastings 
has  not  left  substance  enough  in  India  to 
nourish  such  another  delinquent. 

My  Lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want? 
You  have  before  you  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain  as  prosecutors;  and  I  believe,  my 
Lords,  that  the  sun,  in  his  beneficent  pro- 
gress round  the  world,  does  not  behold  a 
more  glorious  sight  than  that  of  men,  sepa- 
rated from  a  remote  people  by  the  material 


bounds  and  barriers  of  Nature,  united  by 
the  bond  of  a  social  and  moral  community, 
— all  the  Commons  of  England  resenting, 
as  their  own,  the  indignities  and  cruelties 
that  are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  Lords,  no 
example  of  antiquity,  nothing  in  the  modern 
world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human  imag- 
ination, can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like 
this.  My  Lords,  here  we  see  virtually,  in 
the  mind's  eye,  that  sacred  majesty  of  the 
crown  under  whose  authority  you  sit,  and 
whose  power  you  exercise.  We  see  in  that 
invisible  authority,  what  we  all  feel  in  real- 
ity and  life,  the  beneficent  powers  .and  pro- 
tecting justice  of  his  Majesty.  We  have  here 
the  heir-apparent  to  the  crown,  such  as  the 
fond  wishes  of  the  people  of  England  wish 
an  heir-apparent  of  the  crown  to  be.  We 
have  here  all  the  branches  of  the  royal 
family,  in  a  situation  between  majesty  and 
subjection,  between  the  sovereign  and  the 
subject, — offering  a  pledge  in  that  situation 
for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the  crown 
and  the  liberties  of  the  people,  both  which 
extremities  they  touch.  My  Lords,  we  have 
a  great  hereditary  peerage  here, — those  who 
have  their  own  honour,  the  honour  of  their 
ancestors,  and  of  their  posterity  to  guard, 
and  who  will  justify,  as  they  have  always 
justified,  that  provision  in  the  Constitution 
by  which  justice  is  made  an  hereditary  office. 
My  Lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility, 
who  have  risen  and  exalted  themselves  by 
various  merits, — by  great  military  services 
which  have  extended  the  fame  of  this  coun- 
try from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun.  We 
have  those  who,  by  various  civil  merits  and 
various  civil  talents,  have  been  exalted  to  a 
situation  which  they  well  deserve,  and  in 
which  they  will  justify  the  favour  of  their 
sovereign  and  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellow- 
sulijects,  and  make  them  rejoice  to  see  those 
virtuous  characters  that  were  the  other  day 
upon  a  level  with  them  now  exalted  above 
them  in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sym- 
pathy what  they  felt  in  common  with  them 
before.  We  have  persons  exalted  from  the 
practice  of  the  law,  from  the  place  in  which 
they  administered  high,  though  subordinate, 
justice,  to  a  seat  here,  to  enlighten  with  their 
knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their  votes 
those  principles  which  have-distinguished  the 
courts  in  which  they  have  presided. 

My  Lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights 
of  our  religion,  you  have  the  bishops  of 
England.  My  Lords,  you  have  that  true 
image  of  the  primitive  Church,  in  its  ancient 
form,  in  its  ancient  ordinances,  purified  from 
the  superstitions  and  the  vices  which  a  long 
succession  of  ages  will  bring  upon  the  best 
institutions.  You  have  the  representatives 
of  that  religion  which  says  that  their  God 


THOMAS    WAR  TON. 


237 


is  love,  that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their 
institution  is  chanty, — a  religion  which  so 
much  hates  oppression,  that,  when  the  God 
whom  we  adore  appeared  in  human  form, 
He  did  not  appear  in  a  form  of  greatness 
and  majesty,  hut  in  sympathy  with  the 
lowest  of  the  people,  and  thereby  made  it  a 
firm  and  ruling  principle  that  their  welfare 
was  the  object  of  all  government,  since  the 
Person  who  was  the  master  of  Nature  chose 
to  appear  Himself  in  a  subordinate  situation. 
These  are  the  considerations  which  influence 
them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate 
them,  against  all  oppression, — knowing  that 
He  who  is  called  first  among  them,  and  first 
among  us  all,  both  of  the  flock  that  is  fed 
and  of  those  who  feed  it,  made  Himself  "  the 
servant  of  all." 

My  Lords,  these  are  the  securities  which 
we  have  in  all  the  constituent  parts  of  the 
body  of  this  House.  We  know  them,  we 
reckon,  we  rest  upon  them,  and  commit 
safely  the  interests  of  India  and  of  humanity 
into  your  hands.  Therefore  it  is  with  con- 
fidence, that  ordered  by  the  Commons,  I  im- 
peach Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of  high 
crimes  and  misdemeanours. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Com- 
mons of  Great  Britain  in  Parliament  assem- 
bled, whose  Parliamentary  trust  he  has  be- 
trayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  .all  the 
Commons  of  Great  Britain,  whose  national 
character  he  has  dishonoured. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people 
of  India,  whose  laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he 
lias  subverted,  whose  properties  he  has  de- 
stroyed, whose  country  he  has  laid  waste 
and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue 
of  those  eternal  laws  of  justice  which  he  has 
violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  which  he  has  cruelly  outraged, 
injured,  and  oppressed,  in  both  sexes,  in  every 
age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition  of  life. 

Speech  in  Opening:  Fourth  Day. 


THOMAS  WARTON, 

a  brother  of  Joseph  Warton,  supra,  born 
172S,  Professor  of  Poetry,  at  Oxford,  1757- 
1767,  instituted  to  the  living  of  Kidding- 
ton.  1771,  and  presented  to  the  donative  of 
Hill  Farrance.  1782,  became  Camden  Pro- 
fessor of  Ancient  History  and  Poet-Laureate, 
both  in  1785,  and  retained  these  posts  until 
his  death,  1790.  Among  his  publications 
are  Observations  on  the  Faerie  Queene  of 
Spenser,  Lond.,  1754,  4to ;  Inscriptionum 
Romanoruin  Metricarum  Delectus,  accedunt 


XotuljB,  1758,  4to;  Life  and  Literary  Re- 
mains of  Ralph  Bathurst,  M.D.,  Lond.,  1761, 
Svo;  Anthologiae  Grascae,  Oxon.,  1766,  8vo; 
Theocritii  Syracusii  quae  supersunt,  etc., 
Oxon.,  1770.  2  vols.  4to;  Life  of  Sir  Thomas 
Pope,  Lond.,  1772,  8vo ;  The  History  of 
English  Poetry,  Lond.,  1774-78-81,  3  vols. 
4to  ;  and  Portion  I.  of  vol.  iv.,  pp.  88  ;  Poems, 
Lond.,  1777,  8vo,  and  later ;  Specimen  of 
a  History  of  Oxfordshire,  1782,  4to  :  pri- 
vately printed,  2d  edit.,  Lond.,  1783,  4to,  3d 
edit,  Lond.,  1815,  4to,  1.  p.  4to.  To  the 
ordinary  reader  Warton  is  only  now  known 
by  his  History  of  English  Poetry. 

"  He  loved  poetry  well, — and  he  wrote  its  history 
well;  that  book  being  a  mine." — PHOFESSOR  WIL- 
sox  :  li/nckw.  Mncj  ,  xxx.  483. 

"  We  have  nothing  historical  as  to  our  own  poetry 
but  the  prolix  volumes  of  Warton.  They  have  ob- 
tained, in  my  opinion,  full  as  much  credit  as  they 
deserve  :  without  depreciating  a  book  in  which  so 
much  may  be  found,  and  which  has  been  so  great  a 
favourite  with  the  literary  part  of  the  public,  it  may 
be  observed  that  its  errors  as  to  fact,  especially  in 
names  and  dates,  are  extraordinarily  frequent,  and 
that  the  criticism,  in  points  of  taste,  is  not  of  a  very 
superior  kind." — HALLAM:  Lit.  Hist,  of  Europe, 
Pi-ef.  to  1st  edit.,  1837-39. 

POETRY  OF  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH. 

The  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth  is  commonly 
called  the  golden  age  of  English  poetry.  It 
certainly  may  not  improperly  be  styled  the 
most  poetical  age  of  these  annals.  . 

Among  the  great  features  which  strike  us 
in  the  poetry  of  this  period,  are  the  predom- 
inancy of  fable,  of  fiction,  and  fancy,  and  a 
predilection  for  interesting  adventures  and 
pathetic  events. 

I  will  endeavour  to  assign  and  explain  the 
cause  of  this  characteristic  distinction,  which 
may  chiefly  be  referred  to  the  following  prin- 
cipals, sometimes  blended  and  sometimes  op- 
erating singly :  the  revival  and  vernacular 
versions  of  the  classics,  the  importation  and 
translation  of  Italian  novels,  the  visionary 
reveries  or  refinements  of  false  philosophy, 
a  degree  of  superstition  sufficient  for  the 
purpose  of  poetry,  the  adoption  of  the  ma- 
chineries of  romance,  and  the  frequency  and 
the  improvements  ot  allegoric  exhibition  in 
the  popular  spectacles.  . 

When  the  corruptions  and  impostures  of 
popery  were  abolished,  the  fashion  of  culti- 
vating the  Greek  and  Roman  learning  be- 
came universal :  and  the  literary  character 
was  no  longer  appropriated  to  scholars  by 
profession,  but  assumed  by  the  nobility  and 
gentry.  The  ecclesiastics  had  found  it  their 
interest  to  keep  the  languages  of  .antiquity 
to  themselves,  and  men  were  eager  to  know 
what  had  been  so  long  injuriously  con- 
cealed. Truth  propagates  truth,  and  the 
mantle  of  mystery  was  removed  not  only 


238 


THOMAS    WAR  TON. 


from  religion  but  from  literature.  The 
laity,  who  had  now  been  taught  to  assert 
their  natural  privileges,  became  impatient 
of  the  old  monopoly  of  knowledge,  and  de- 
manded admittance  to  the  usurpations  of 
the  clergy.  The  general  curiosity  for  new 
discoveries,  heightened  either  by  just  or 
imaginary  idea  of  the  treasures  contained 
in  the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  excited 
all  persons  of  leisure  and  fortune  to  study 
the  classics.  The  pedantry  of  the  present 
age  was  the  politeness  of  the  last.  An  ac- 
curate comprehension  of  the  phraseology 
and  peculiarities  of  the  ancient  poets,  his- 
torians, and  orators,  which  yet  seldom  went 
further  than  a,  kind  of  technical  erudition, 
was  an  indispensable  and  almost  the  prin- 
cipal object  in  the  circle  of  a  gentleman's 
education.  Every  young  lady  of  fashion 
was  carefully  instituted  in  classical  letters; 
and  the  daughter  of  a  duchess  was  taught, 
not  only  to  distil  strong  waters,  but  to  con- 
strue Greek.  Among  the  learned  females 
of  high  distinction,  Queen  Elizabeth  her- 
self was  the  most  conspicuous.  Roger  As- 
chain,  her  preceptor,  speaks  with  rapture  of 
her  astonishing  progress  in  the  Greek  nouns  ; 
and  declares  with  no  small  degree  of  triumph, 
that,  during  a  long  residence  at  Windsor  Cas- 
tle, she  was  accustomed  to  read  more  Greek 
in  a  day  than  "some  prebendary  of  that 
church  did  Latin  in  one  week ;"  and  al- 
though a  princess  looking  out  words  in  a 
lexicon,  and  writing  down  hard  phrases 
from  Plutarch's  Lives,  may  be  thought  at 
present  a  more  incompatible  and  extraordi- 
nary character,  than  a  canon  of  Windsor 
understanding  no  Greek  and  but  little  Latin, 
yet  Elizabeth's  passion  for  these  acquisitions 
was  then  natural,  and  resulted  from  the 
genius  and  habitudes  of  her  age. 

The  books  of  antiquity  being  thus  famil- 
iarized to  the  great,  everything  was  tinc- 
tured with  ancient  history  and  mythology. 
The  heathen  gods,  although  discountenanced 
by  the  Calvinists,  on  a  suspicion  of  their 
tendency  to  cherish  and  revive  a  spirit  of 
idolatry,  came  into  general  vogue.  When 
the  queen  paraded  through  a  country  town, 
almost  every  pageant  was  a  pantheon.  When 
she  paid  a  visit  at  the  house  of  any  of  her 
nobility,  at  entering  the  hall  she  was  saluted 
by  the  Penates,  and  conducted  to  her  privy- 
chamber  by  Mercury.  Even  the  pastry-cooks 
were  expert  mythologists.  At  dinner,  select 
transformations  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses 
were  exhibited  in  confectionery;  and  the 
splendid  icing  of  an  immense  historic  plum- 
cake  was  embossed  with  a  delicious  basso- 
relievo  of  the  destruction  of  Troy.  In  the 
afternoon,  when  she  condescended  to  walk 
in  the  garden,  the  lake  was  covered  with 
Tritons  and  Nereids;  the  pages  of  the  fam- 


ily were  converted  into  wood-nymphs  who 
peeped  from  every  bower;  and  the  footmen 
gambolled  over  the  lawns  in  the  figure  of 
satyrs. 

1  speak  it  without  designing  to  insinuate 
any  unfavourable  suspicions,  but  it  see?ns 
difficult  to  say  why  Elizabeth's  virginity 
should  have  been  made  the  theme  of  per- 
petual and  excessive  panegyric:  nor  does  it 
immediately  appear  that  there  is  less  merit 
or  glory  in  a  married  than  a  maiden  queen. 
Yet,  the  next  morning,  after  sleeping  in  a 
room  hung  with  a  tapestry  of  the  vovugo 
of  ^Eneas,  when  her  Majesty  hunted  in  the 
park,  she  was  met  by  Diana,  who,  pronoun- 
cing our  royal  prude  to  be  the  brightest  par- 
agon of  unspotted  chastity,  invited  her  to 
groves  free  from  the  intrusions  of  Actaeon. 
The  truth  is,  she  was  so  profusely  flattered 
for  this  virtue  because  it  was  esteemed  the 
characteristical  ornament  of  the  heroines, 
as  fantastic  honour  was  the  chief  pride  of 
the  champions,  of  the  old  barbarous  ro- 
mance. It  was  in  conformity  to  the  senti- 
ments of  chivalry,  which  still  continued  in 
vogue,  that  she  was  celebrated  for  chastity  : 
the  compliment,  however,  was  paid  in  a 
classical  allusion. 

Queens  must  be  ridiculous  when  they 
would  appear  as  women.  The  softer  attrac- 
tions of  sex  vanish  on  the  throne.  Eliza- 
beth sought  all  occasions  of  being  extolled 
for  her  beauty,  of  which,  indeed,  in  the 
prime  of  her  youth,  she  possessed  but  a 
small  share,  whatever  7night  have  been  her 
pretensions  to  absolute  virginity.  Notwith- 
standing her  exaggerated  habits  of  dignity 
and  ceremony,  and  a  certain  affectation  of 
imperial  severity,  she  did  not  perceive  this 
ambition  of  being  complimented  for  beauty 
to  be  an  idle  and  unpardonable  levity,  to- 
tally inconsistent  with  her  high  station  and 
character.  As  she  conquered  all  nations 
with  her  arms,  it  matters  not  what  were  the 
triumphs  of  her  eyes.  Of  what  consequence 
was  the  complexion  of  the  mistress  of  the 
world?  Not  less  vain  of  her  person  than 
her  politics,  this  stately  coquette,  the  guar- 
dian of  the  Protestant  faith,  the  terror  of 
the  sea,  the  mediatrix  of  the  factions  of 
France,  and  the  scourge  of  Spain,  was  in- 
finitely mortified  if  an  ambassador,  at  the 
first  audience,  did  not  tell  her  she  was  the 
h'rtest  woman  in  Europe.  No  negotiation 
succeeded  unless  she  was  addressed  as  a 
goddess.  Encomiastic  harangues  drawn 
from  this  topic,  even  on  the  supposition  of 
youth  and  beauty,  were  surely  superfluous, 
unsuitable,  and  unworthy ;  and  were  of- 
fered and  received  with  an  equal  impropri- 
ety. Yet  when  she  rode  through  the  streets 
of  Norwich,  Cupid,  at  the  command  of  the 
mayor  and  alderman,  advancing  from  a 


THOMAS    WAR  TON. 


239 


group  of  gods  who  had  left  Olympus  to 
grace  the  procession,  gave  her  a  golden 
arrow,  the  most  effective  weapon  of  his 
•well-furnished  quiver,  which  under  the  in- 
fluence of  such  irresistible  charms  was  sure 
to  wound  the  most  obdurate  heart.  "  A 
gift,"  says  honest  Ilolinshed,  "which  her 
majesty,  now  verging  to  her  fiftieth  year, 
received  very  thankfully."  In  one  of  the 
fulsome  interludes  at  court,  where  she  was 
present,  the  singing-boys  of  her  chapel  pre- 
sented the  story  of  the  three  rival  goddesses 
on  Mount  Ida,  to  which  her  Majesty  was 
ingeniously  added  as  a  fourth  ;  and  Paris 
was  arraigned  in  form  for  adjudging  the 
golden  apple  to  Venus  which  was  due  to 
the  queen  alone. 

This  inundation  of  classical  pedantry  soon 
infected  our  poetry.  Our  writers,  already 
trained  in  the  school  of  fancy,  were  sud- 
denly dazzled  with  these  novel  imagina- 
tions, and  the  divinities  and  heroes  of  pagan 
antiquity  decorated  every  composition.  The 
perpetual  allusions  to  ancient  fable  were 
often  introduced  without  the  least  regard 
to  propriety.  Shakspere's  Mrs.  Page,  who 
is  not  intended  in  any  degree  to  be  a  learned 
or  an  affected  lady,  laughing  at  the  cum- 
bersome courtship  of  her  corpulent  lover 
Falstaff,  says,  "  I  had  rather  be  a  giantess 
and  lie  under  Mount  Pelion."  This  famil- 
iarity with  the  pagan  story  was  not,  how- 
ever, so  much  owing  to  the  prevailing  study 
of  the  original  authors,  as  to  the  numerous 
English  versions  of  them  which  were  con- 
sequently made.  The  translation  of  the 
classics,  which  now  employed  every  pen, 
gave  a  currency  and  a  celerity  to  these 
fancies,  and  had  the  effect  of  diffusing  them 
among  the  people.  No  sooner  were  they 
delivered  from  the  pale  of  the  scholastic 
languages,  than  they  acquired  a  general 
notoriety.  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  just  trans- 
lated by  Golding,  to  instance  no  further,  dis- 
closed a  new  world  of  fiction  even  to  the 
illiterate.  As  we  had  now  all  the  learned 
fabrics  in  English,  learned  allusions,  Avhether 
in  a  poem  or  a  pageant,  were  no  longer  ob- 
scure and  unintelligible  to  common  readers 
and  common  spectators.  And  here  we  are 
led  to  observe  that  at  this  restoration  of  the 
classics,  we  were  first  struck  only  with  their 
fabulous  inventions.  We  did  not  attend  to 
their  regularity  of  design  and  justness  of 
sentiment.  A  rude  age,  beginning  to  read 
these  writers,  imitated  their  extravagances, 
not  their  natural  beauties.  And  these,  like 
other  novelties,  were  pursued  to  a  blameable 
excess. 

I  have  given  a  sketch  of  the  introduction 
of  classical  stories,  in  the  splendid  show  ex- 
hibited at  the  coronation  of  Queen  Anne 
Boleyn.  But  that  is  a  rare  and  a  premature 


instance ;  and  the  pagan  fictions  are  there 
complicated  with  the  barbarisms  of  the 
Catholic  worship,  and  the  doctrines  of 
scholastic  theology.  Classical  learning  was 
not  then  so  widely  spread  either  by  study 
or  translation  as  to  bring  these  learned 
spectacles  into  fashion,  to  frame  them  with 
sufficient  skill,  and  to  present  them  with 
propriety. 

Another  capital  source  of  the  poetry 
peculiar  to  this  period  consisted  in  the 
numerous  translations  of  Italian  tales  into 
English.  These  narratives,  not  dealing 
altogether  in  romantic  inventions,  but  in 
real  life  and  manners,  and  in  artful  ar- 
rangements of  fictitious  yet  probable  events, 
afforded  a  new  gratification  to  a  people 
which  yet  retained  their  ancient  relish  for 
tale-telling,  and  became  the  fashionable 
amusement  of  all  who  professed  to  read 
for  pleasure.  This  gave  rise  to  innumer- 
able plays  and  poems  which  would  not 
otherwise  have  existed ;  and  turned  the 
thoughts  of  our  writers  to  new  inventions 
of  the  same  kind.  Before  these  books  be- 
came common,  affecting  situations,  the  com- 
bination of  incident,  and  the  pathos  of  catas- 
trophe, were  almost  unknown.  Distress, 
especially  that  arising  from  the  conflicts  of 
the  tender  passion,  had  noc  yet  been  shown 
in  its  most  interesting  forms.  It  was  hence 
our  poets,  particularly  the  dramatic,  bor- 
rowed ideas  of  a  legitimate  plot,  and  the 
complication  of  facts  necessary  to  consti- 
tute a  story  either  of  the  tragic  or  comic 
species.  In  proportion  as  knowledge  in- 
creased, genius  had  wanted  subjects  and 
materials.  These  species  usurped  the  place 
of  legends  and  chronicles.  And  although 
the  old  historical  songs  of  the  minstrels 
contained  much  bold  adventure,  heroic  en- 
terprise, and  strong  touches  of  rude  delinea- 
tion, yet  they  failed  in  that  multiplication 
and  disposition  of  circumstances,  and  in 
that  description  of  characters  and  events 
approaching  nearer  to  truth  and  reality, 
which  were  demanded  by  a  more  discerning 
and  curious  age.  Even  the  rugged  features 
of  the  original  Gotbic  romance  were  soft- 
ened by  this  sort  of  reading  ;  and  the  Italian 
pastoral,  yet  with  some  mixture  of  the  kind 
of  incidents  described  in  Ileliodorus's  Ethi- 
opic  History,  now  newly  translated,  was  en- 
grafted on  the  feudal  manners  in  Sydney's 
Arcadia. 

But  the  Reformation  had  not  yet  destroyed 
every  delusion,  nor  disenchanted  all  the 
strongholds  of  superstition.  A  few  dim 
characters  were  yet  legible  in  the  moulder- 
ing creed  of  tradition.  Every  goblin  of 
ignorance  did  not  vanish  at  the  first  glim- 
merings of  the  morning  of  science.  Reason 
suffered  a  few  demons  still  to  linger,  which 


240 


THOMAS    WAR  TON. 


she  chose  to  retain  in  her  service  under  the 
guidance  of  poetry.  Men  believed,  or  were 
willing  to  believe,  that  spirits  were  yet  hov- 
ering around  who  brought  with  them  airs 
from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  hell:  that  the 
ghost  was  duly  released  from  his  prison  of 
torment  at  the  sound  of  the  curlew;  and 
that  fairies  imprinted  mysterious  circles  on 
the  turf  by  moonlight.  Much  of  this  cre- 
dulity was  even  consecrated  by  the  name  of 
science  and  profound  speculation.  Prospero 
had  not  yet  broken  and  buried  his  staff,  nor 
drowned  his  book  deeper  than  did  ever  plum- 
met sound.  It  was  now  that  the  alchymist, 
and  the  judicial  astrologer,  conducted  his 
occult  operations  by  the  potent  intercourse 
of  some  preternatural  being,  who  came  ob- 
sequious to  his  call,  and  was  bound  to  ac- 
complish his  severest  services,  under  certain 
conditions,  and  for  a  limited  duration  of 
time.  It  was  actually  one  of  the  pretended 
feats  of  these  fantastic  philosophers  to  evoke 
the  queen  of  the  fairies  in  the  solitude  of  a 
gloomy  grove,  who,  preceded  by  a  sudden 
rustling  of  the  leaves,  appeared  in  robes  of 
transcendent  lustre.  The  Shakspere  of  a 
more  instructed  and  polished  age  would  not 
have  given  us  a  magician  darkening  the  sun 
at  noon,  the  sabbath  of  the  witches,  and  the 
caldron  of  incantation. 

Undoubtedly  most  of  these  notions  were 
credited  and  entertained  in  a  much  higher 
degree  in  the  preceding  periods.  But  the 
arts  of  composition  had  not  then  made  a 
sufficient  progress,  nor  would  the  poets  of 
those  periods  have  managed  them  with  so 
much  address  and  judgment.  We  were  now 
arrived  at  that  point  when  the  national  cre- 
dulity, chastened  by  reason,  had  produced  a 
sort  of  civilised  superstition,  and  left  a  set 
of  traditions,  fanciful  enough  for  poetic  deco- 
ration, and  yet  not  too  violent  and  chimerical 
for  common  sense. 

Ilobbes,  although  no  friend  to  this  doctrine, 
observes'  happily,  "  In  a  good  poem  both 
judgment  and  fancy  are  required  ;  but  the 
fancy  must  be  more  eminent,  because  they 
please  for  the  extravagancy,  but  ought  not 
to  displease  by  indiscretion." 

In  the  mean  time  the  Gothic  romance,  al- 
though somewhat  shook  by  the  classical 
fictions,  and  by  the  tales  of  Boccace  and 
Bandello,  still  maintained  its  ground  ;  and 
the  daring  machineries  of  giants,  dragons, 
and  enchanted  castles,  borrowed  from  the 
magic  storehouse  of  Boiardo,  Ariosto,  and 
Tasso,  began  to  be  employed  by  the  epic 
muse.  The  Gothic  and  pagan  fictions  were 
now  frequently  blended  and  incorporated. 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  floated  in  the  suite 
of  Neptune  before  Queen  Elizabeth  at  Ken- 
ilworth,  and  assumes  the  semblance  of  a  sea- 
nymph  ;  and  Hecate,  by  an  easy  association, 


conducts  the  rites  of  the  weird  sisters  in 
Macbeth. 

Allegory  had  been  derived  from  the  re- 
ligious dramas  into  our  civil  spectacles. 
The  masques  and  pageantries  of  the  age  of 
Elizabeth  were  not  only  furnished  by  the 
heathen  divinities,  but  often  by  the  virtues 
and  vices  impersonated,  significantly  dec- 
orated, accurately  distinguished  by  their 
proper  types,  and  represented  by  living  ac- 
tors. The  ancient  symbolical  shows  of  this 
sort  began  now  to  lose  their  old  barbarism 
and  a  mixture  of  religion,  and  to  assume  a 
degree  of  poetical  elegance  and  precision. 
Nor  was  it  only  in  the  conformation  of  par- 
ticular figures  that  much  fancy  was  shown, 
but  in  the  contexture  of  some  of  the  fables 
or  devices  presented  by  groups  of  ideal  per- 
sonages. These  exhibitions  quickened  cre- 
ative invention,  and  reflected  back  on  poetry 
what  poetry  had  given.  From  their  fa- 
miliarity and  public  nature  they  formed  a 
national  taste  for  allegory :  and  the  alle- 
gorical poets  were  now  writing  to  the  people. 
Even  romance  was  turned  into  this  channel. 
In  the  "  Faery  Queen"  allegory  is  wrought 
upon  chivalry,  and  the  feats  and  figments  of 
Arthur's  Round  Table  are  moralized.  The 
virtues  of  magnificence  and  chastity  are  here 
personified ;  but  they  are  imaged  with  the 
forms  and  under  the  agency  of  romantic 
knights  and  damsels.  What  was  an  after- 
thought in  Tasso  appears  to  have  been 
Spenser's  premeditated  and  primary  design. 
In  the  mean  time  we  must  not  confound  these 
moral  combatants  of  the  ''Faery  Queen" 
with  some  of  its  other  embodied  abstrac- 
tions, which  are  purely  and  professedly  alle- 
gorical. 

It  may  here  be  added  that  only  a  feAv  crit- 
ical treatises,  and  but  one  Art  of  Poetry 
were  now  written.  Sentiment  and  images 
were  not  absolutely  determined  by  the  ca- 
nons of  composition,  nor  was  genius  awed 
by  the  consciousness  of  a  future  and  final 
arraignment  at  the  tribunal  of  taste.  A 
certain  dignity  of  inattention  to  niceties  ia 
now  visible  in  our  writers.  Without  too 
closely  consulting  a  criterion  of  correctness, 
every  man  indulged  his  own  capricious- 
ness  of  invention.  The  poet's  appeal  was 
chiefly  to  his  own  voluntary  feelings,  his 
own  immediate  and  peculiar  mode  of  con- 
ception ;  and  this  freedom  of  thought  was 
often  expressed  in  an  undisguised  frankness 
of  diction. 

No  satires,  properly  so  called,  were  written 
till  towards  the  latter  end  of  the  queen's 
reign,  and  then  but  a  few.  Pictures  drawn 
at  large  of  the  vices  of  the  times  did  not 
suit  readers  who  loved  to  wander  in  the 
regions  of  artificial  manners.  The  muse, 
like  the  people,  was  too  solemn  and  reserved, 


GEORGE  IIORNE. 


241 


too  ceremonious  and  pedantic,  to  stoop  to 
common  life.  Satire  is  the  poetry  of  a  na- 
tion highly  polished. 

The  importance  of  the  female  character 
was  not  yet  acknowledged,  nor  were  women 
admitted  into  the  general  commerce  of  so- 
ciety. The  effect  of  that  intercourse  had 
not  imparted  a  comic  air  to  poetry,  nor  soft- 
ened the  severer  tone  of  our  versification 
with  the  levities  of  gallantry  and  the  famil- 
iarities of  compliment,  sometimes,  perhaps 
operating  on  serious  subjects,  and  imper- 
ceptibly spreading  themselves  in  the  gen- 
eral habits  of  style  and  thought.  I  do 
not  mean  to  insinuate  that  our  poetry  has 
suffered  from  the  great  change  of  manners, 
which  this  assumption  of  the  gentler  sex, 
or  rather  the  improved  state  of  female  ed- 
ucation, has  produced,  by  giving  elegance 
and  variety  to  life,  by  enlarging  the  sphere 
of  conversation,  an  I  by  multiplying  the 
topics  and  enriching  the  stores  of  wit  and 
humour;  but  I  am  marking  the  peculiarities 
of  composition,  and  my  meaning  was  to  sug- 
gest that  the  absence  of  so  important  a  cir- 
cumstance from  the  modes  and  constitution 
of  ancient  life  must  have  influenced  the 
contemporary  poetry. 

All  or  most  of  these  circumstances  con- 
tributed to  give  a  descriptive,  a  picturesque, 
and  a  figurative  cast  to  the  poetical  language. 
This  effect  appeal-seven  in  the  prose  compo- 
sitions of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  In  the 
subsequent  age  prose  became  the  language 
of  poetry. 

In  the  mean  time  general  knowledge  was 
increasing  with  a  wide  diffusion  and  a  hasty 
rapidity.  Books  began  to  be  multiplied, 
and  a  variety  of  the  most  useful  and  rational 
topics  had  been  discussed  in  our  own  lan- 
guage. But  science  had  not  made  too  great 
advances.  On  the  whole  we  were  now  ar- 
rived at  that  period,  propitious  to  the  opera- 
tions of  original  and  true  poetry,  when  the 
coyness  of  fancy  was  not  always  proof 
against  the  approaches  of  reason ;  when 
genius  was  rather  directed  than  governed 
by  judgment;  and  when  taste  and  learning 
had  so  far  only  disciplined  imagination  as 
to  suffer  its  excesses  to  pass  without  censure 
or  control  for  the  sake  of  the  beauties  to 
which  they  were  allied. 

The  History  of  English  Poetry. 


GEORGE    HORNE,  D.D., 

a  divine  of  the  Ilutchinsonian  school,  born 
1730,  became  President  of  Magdalene  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  1768,  Vice-Chancel  lor  of  the 
University  of  Oxford,  1776,  Dean  of  Canter- 
bury, 1781,  Bishop  of  Norwich,  1790,  died 
16 


1792.  He  published  many  theological  trea- 
tises, mostly  controversial,  but  is  now  only 
known  by  A  Commentary  on  the  Book  of 
Psalms,  1771,  2  vols.  4to;  Oxf.,  1776,  2  vols. 
4to  ;  with  Essay,  by  Rev.  Ed.  Irving,  Glasg., 
3  vols.  12mo;  Lond.,  1836,  3  vols.  12mo; 
1848,  2  vols.  12mo;  1848,  8vo;  1852,  8vo; 
1856,  8vo ;  and  other  editions.  Discourses 
1779-94,  4  vols.  8vo.  Works,  with  Life,  by 
W.  Jones,  1795-99,  6  vols.  8vo ;  1809,  6  void. 
8vo;  1812,  6  vols.  8vo ;  1824,  3  vols.  8vo ; 
1831,  2  vols.  8vo ;  1845,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"  This  Commentary  on  the  Psalms  is  his  capital 
performance,  and  the  one  by  which  he  will  be  known 
so  long  as  piety  and  elegant  learning  are  loved  in 
England.  It  is  altogether  a  beautiful  work.  The 
preface  is  a  masterpiece  of  composition  and  good 
sense.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  carries  his  applications  to 
the  Messiah  and  his  church  occasionally  rather  far  ; 
but  this  is  less  hurtful  than  the  opposite  extreme, 
which  has  more  generally  been  adopted.'' — ORME  : 
VM.  Bib. 

THE  BEAUTIES  OF  THE  PSALMS. 

Greatness  confers  no  exemption  from  the 
cares  and  sorrows  of  life  ;  its  share  of  them 
frequently  bears  a  melancholy  proportion  to 
its  exaltation.  This  the  Israelitish  monarch 
experienced.  He  sought  in  piety  that  peace 
which  he  could  not  find  in  empire,  and  alle- 
viated the  disquietudes  of  state  with  the  ex- 
ercises of  devotion. 

His  invaluable  Psalms  convey  those  com- 
forts to  others  which  they  afforded  to  himself. 
Composed  upon  particular  occasions,  yet  de- 
signed for  general  use;  delivered  out  as 
services  for  Israelitics  under  the  Law,  yet 
no  less  adapted  to  the  circumstances  of 
Christians  under  the  Gospel,  they  present 
religion  to  us  in  the  most  engaging  dress ; 
communicating  truths  which  philosophy 
could  never  investigate,  in  a  style  which 
poetry  can  never  equal ;  while  history  is 
made  the  vehicle  of  prophecy,  and  creation 
lends  all  its  charms  to  paint  the  glories  of 
redemption.  Calculated  alike  to  profit  and 
to  please,  they  inform  the  understanding, 
elevate  the  affections,  and  entertain  the  im- 
agination. Indited  under  the  influence  of 
Him  to  whom  all  hearts  are  known,  and  all 
events  foreknown,  they  suit  mankind  in  all 
situations,  grateful  as  the  manna  which  de- 
scended from  above,  and  conformed  itself  to 
every  palate.  The  fairest  productions  of 
human  wit,  after  a  few  perusals,  like  gath- 
ered flowers,  wither  in  our  hands,  and  lose 
their  fragrancy :  but  these  unfading  plants 
of  paradise  become,  as  we  are  accustomed 
to  them,  still  more  and  more  beautiful ;  their 
bloom  appears  to  be  daily  heightened  ;  fresh 
odours  are  emitted,  and  new  sweets  extracted 
from  them.  He  who  hath  once  tasted  their 
excellencies  will  desire  to  taste  them  yet 


242 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


again  ;  and  he  who  tastes  them  oftenest  will 
relish  them  best. 

And  now,  could  the  author  flatter  himself 
that  any  one  would  take  half  the  pleasure  in 
reading  the  following  exposition  which  he 
hath  taken  in  writing  it,  he  would  not  fear 
the  loss  of  his  labour.  The  employment 
detached  him  from  the  bustle  and  hurry  of 
life,  the  din  of  politics,  and  the  noise  of 
folly ;  vanity  and  vexation  flew  away  for  a 
season,  care  and  disquietude  came  not  near 
his  dwelling.  He  rose  fresh  as  the  morning 
to  his  task ;  the  silence  of  the  night  invited 
him  to  pursue  it;  and  he  can  truly  say  that 
food  and  rest  were  not  preferred  before  it. 
Every  Psalm  improved  infinitely  upon  his 
acquaintance  with  it,  and  no  one  gave  him 
uneasiness  but  the  last;  for  then  he  grieved 
that  his  work  was  done.  Happier  hours 
than  those  which  have  been  spent  in  these 
meditations  on  the  Songs  of  Sion  he  never 
expects  to  see  in  this  world.  Very  pleas- 
antly did  they  pass,  and  moved  smoothly 
and  swiftly  along :  for  when  thus  engaged, 
he  counted  no  time.  They  are  gone,  but 
have  left  a  relish  and  a  fragrance  upon  the 
mind,  and  the  remembrance  of  them  is  sweet. 

A  Commentary  on  the  Book  of  Psalms : 
Preface. 


WILLIAM   COWPER, 

born  1731,  from  his  tenth  to  his  seventeenth 
year  was  educated  at  Westminster  School, 
whore  he  acquired  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  classics;  nominally  studied,  but 
really  neglected,  law  for  three  years,  and 
afterwards  resided  for  eleven  years  at  the 
Temple,  and  in  the  last  of  those  years  (1763) 
was  appointed  Reading  Clerk  and  Clerk  of 
the  Committees  in  the  House  of  Lords,  but 
by  his  dread  of  appearing  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  for  examination  was  driven  to  at- 
tempts at  suicide;  subsequently  resided  in 
retirement,  chiefly  at  Olney,  and  after  re- 
peated attacks  of  melancholia,  died  in  1800. 
Cowper  is  chiefly  known  as  a  poet, — as  the 
author  of  Truth,  Table  Talk,  Hope,  Charity, 
Conversation,  etc.  (all  published  in  one  vol- 
ume, Lond.,  1782.  8 vo).  John  Gilpin,  1782, 
The  Task.  Lond..  1784,  12mo, — and  increased 
his  fame  by  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey  of  Homer,  in  English  Blank  Verse, 
Lond.,  1791.2  vols.  4to,  2d  edit.,  1802,  4  vols. 
8vo  ;  but  his  Letters  entitle  him  to  a  high 
position  among  the  English  Prose  Writers. 

"  I  have  always  considered  the  Letters  of  Mr. 
Cowper  as  the  finest  specimen  of  the  epistolary 
style  in  our  language.  .  .  .  To  an  air  of  inimitable 
ease  and  carelessness  they  unite  a  high  degree  of 
correctness,  such  as  could  result  only  from  the 
clearest  intellect,  combined  with  the  most  finished 


taste.  I  have  scarcely  found  a  single  word  which 
is  capable  of  being  exchanged  for  a  better.  .  .  . 
In  iny  humble  opinion  the  study  of  Cowper's  prose 
may  on  this  account  be  as  useful  in  forming  the 
tnste  of  young  persons  as  his  poetry." — REV. 
ROBERT  HALL  TO  REV.  Dn.  JOHNSON. 

THE   FUTURE  STATE  OF  THE  HEATHEX. 

MONDAY,  April  23,  1781. 
To  THE  REV.  JOHN  NEWTON. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — Having  not  the  least 
doubt  of  your  ability  to  execute  just  such  a 
preface  as  I  should  wish  to  see  prefixed  to 
my  publication,  and  being  convinced  that 
you  have  no  good  foundation  for  those  which 
you  yourself  entertain  upon  the  subject,  I 
neither  withdraw  my  requisition,  nor  abate 
one  jot  of  the  earnestness  with  which  I 
made  it.  I  admit  the  delicacy  of  the  occa- 
sion, but  am  far  from  apprehending  that 
you  will  therefore  find  it  difficult  to  succeed. 
You  can  draw  a  hair-stroke  where  another 
man  would  make  a  blot  as  broad  as  a  six- 
pence. 

With  respect  to  the  Heathen  and  what  I 
have  said  about  them,  the  subject  is  of  that 
kind  which  every  man  must  settle  for  him- 
self, and  on  which  we  can  proceed  no  further 
than  hypothesis  and  opinion  will  carry  us. 
I  was  willing,  however,  to  obviate  an  objec- 
tion I  foresaw,  and  to  do  it  in  a  way  not  de- 
rogatory from  the  truth  of  the  Gospel,  yet 
at  the  same  time  as  conciliatory  as  possible 
to  the  prejudices  of  the  objector.  After  all, 
indeed,  I  see  no  medium  :  either  we  must 
suppose  them  lost,  or  if  saved,  saved  by  vir- 
tue of  the  only  propitiation.  They  seem  to 
me,  on  the  principles  of  equity,  to  stand  in 
much  the  same  predicament,  and  to  be 
entitled  (at  least  according  to  human  ap- 
prehensions of  justice)  to  much  the  same 
allowance  as  Infants:  both  partakers  of  a 
sinful  nature,  and  both  unavoidably  igno- 
rant of  the  remedy.  Infants  I  suppose  uni- 
versally saved,  because  impeccable ;  and 
the  virtuous  Heathen,  having  had  no  oppor- 
tunity to  sin  against  Revelation,  and  having 
made  a  conscientious  use  of  the  light  of 
Nature,  I  should  suppose  saved  too. — But  I 
drop  a  subject  on  which  I  could  say  a  good 
deal  more,  for  two  reasons  :  first,  because  I 
am  writing  a  letter,  and  not  an  essay  ;  and, 
secondly,  because  after  all  I  might  write 
about  it,  I  could  come  to  no  certain  con- 
clusion. 

I  once  had  thoughts  of  annexing  a  few 
smaller  pieces  to  those  I  have  sent  you  ; 
but  having  only  very  few  that  I  account  as 
worthy  to  bear  them  company,  and  those  for 
the  most  part  on  subjects  less  calculated  for 
utility  than  amusement,  I  changed  my  mind. 
If  hereafter  I  should  accumulate  a  sufficient 
number  of  these  minutiae  to  make  a  miscel- 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


243 


laneous  volume,  which  is  not  impossible,  I 
may  perhaps  collect  and  print  them. 

I  am  much  obliged  for  the  interest  you 
take  in  the  appearance  of  my  Poems,  and 
am  much  pleased  by  the  alacrity  with  which 
you  do  it.  Your  favourable  opinion  of  them 
affords  me  a  comfortable  presage  with  re- 
spect to  that  of  the  public  ;  for  though  I 
make  allowance  for  your  partiality  to  rne 
and  mine,  because  mine,  yet  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  suffer  me  unadmonished  to  add 
myself  to  the  multitude  of  insipid  rhymers 
with  whose  productions  the  world  is  already 
too  much  pestered. 

ON  HIS  OWN  POEMS. 

Oct.  19,  1781. 
To  MRS.  COWPER. 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN, — Your  fear  lest  I  should 
think  you  unworthy  of  my  correspondence, 
on  account  of  your  delay  to  answer,  may 
change  sides  now,  and  more  properly  belongs 
to  me.  It  is  long  since  I  received  your  last, 
and  yet  I  believe  I  can  say  truly,  that  not  a 
post  has  gone  by  me  since  the  receipt  of  it 
that  has  not  reminded  me  of  the  debt  I  owe 
you,  for  your  obliging  and  unreserved  com- 
munications both  in  prose  and  verse,  espe- 
cially for  the  latter,  because  I  consider  them 
as  marks  of  your  peculiar  confidence.  The 
truth  is,  I  have  been  such  a  verse-maker 
myself,  and  so  busy  in  preparing  a  volume 
for  the  press  [Truth,  Table  Talk,  Hope, 
Charity,  Conversation,  etc.,  Lond.,  1782, 
8vo]  which  I  imagine  will  make  its  appear- 
ance in  the  course  of  the  winter,  that  I 
hardly  had  leisure  to  listen  to  the  calls  of 
any  other  engagement.  It  is,  however,  fin- 
ished, and  gone  to  the  printer's,  and  I  have 
nothing  now  to  do  with  it  but  to  correct  the 
sheets  as  they  are  sent  to  me,  and  consign 
it  over  to  the  judgment  of  the  public.  It  is 
a  bold  undertaking  at  this  time  of  day,  when 
so  many  writers  of  the  greatest  abilities  have 
gone  before,  who  seem  to  have  anticipated 
every  valuable  subject,  as  well  as  all  the 
graces  of  poetical  embellishment,  to  step 
forth  into  the  world  in  the  character  of  a 
bard,  especially  when  it  is  considered  that 
luxury,  idleness,  and  vice  have  debauched 
the  public  taste,  and  that  nothing  hardly  is 
welcome  but  childish  fiction,  or  what  has 
at  least  a  tendency  to  excite  a  laugh.  I 
thought,  however,  that  I  had  stumbled  upon 
some  subjects  that  had  never  before  been 
poetically  treated,  and  upon  some  others  to 
which  I  imagined  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  give  an  air  of  novelty  by  the  manner  of 
treating  them.  My  sole  drift  is  to  be  use- 
ful ;  a  point  which,  however,  I  knew  I  should 
in  vain  a,im  at  unless  I  could  be  likewise 
entertaining.  I  have  therefore  fixed  these 
two  strings  upon  my  bow,  and  by  the  help 


of  both  have  done  my  best  to  send  my  arrow 
to  the  mark.  My  readers  will  hardly  have 
begun  to  laugh  before  they  will  be  called 
upon  to  correct  that  levity,  and  peruse  me 
with  a  more  serious  air.  As  to  the  effect, 
I  leave  it  alone  in  His  hands  who  alone 
can  produce  it :  neither  prose  nor  verse 
can  reform  the  manners  of  a  dissolute 
age,  much  less  can  they  inspire  a  sense 
of  religious  obligation,  unless  assisted  and 
made  efficacious  by  the  power  who  super- 
intends the  truth  he  has  vouchsafed  to  im- 
part. 

You  made  my  heart  ache  with  a  sympa- 
thetic sorrow  when  you  described  the  state 
of  your  mind  on  occasion  of  your  late  visit 
into  Hertfordshire.  Had  I  been  previously 
informed  of  your  journey  before  you  made 
it  I  should  have  been  able  to  have  foretold 
all  your  feelings  with  the  most  unerring 
certainty  of  prediction.  You  will  never 
cease  to  feel  upon  that  subject :  but  with 
your  principles  of  resignation,  and  acquies- 
cence in  the  divine  will,  you  will  always 
feel  as  becomes  a  Christian.  We  are  for- 
bidden to  murmur,  but  we  are  not  forbidden 
to  regret ;  and  whom  we  loved  tenderly 
while  living  we  may  still  pursue  with  an 
affectionate  remembrance  without  having 
any  occasion  to  charge  ourselves  with  rebel- 
lion against  the  sovereignty  that  appointed 
a  separation.  A  day  is  coining  when  I  am 
confident  you  will  see  and  know  that  mercy 
to  both  parties  was  the  principal  agent  in 
a  scene  the  recollection  of  which  is  still 
painful.  W.  C. 

LORD  THURLOW,  JOSEPHUS,  AND  TACITUS. 

Nov.  21,  1783. 
To  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  UNWIN. 

MY  DEAR  WILLIAM, — An  evening  unex- 
pectedly retired,  and  which  your  mother 
and  I  spend  without  company  (an  occur- 
rence far  from  frequent),  affords  me  a  favour- 
able opportunity  to  write  by  to-morrow's 
post,  which  else  I  could  not  have  found. 
You  are  very  good  to  consider  my  literary 
necessities  with  so,  much  attention,  and  I 
feel  proportionally  grateful.  Blair's  Lec- 
tures (though  I  suppose  they  must  make 
a  part  of  my  private  studies,  not  being 
ad  captam  fceminaruni)  will  be  perfectly 
welcome. 

You  say  you  felt  my  verses.  I  assure 
you  that  in  this  you  followed  my  example, 
for  I  felt  them  first.  A  man's  lordship  is 
nothing  to  me,  any  farther  than  in  connex- 
ion with  qualities  that  entitle  him  to  my 
respect.  If  he  [Lord  Thurlow]  thinks  him- 
self privileged  by  it  to  treat  me  with  neglect, 
I  am  his  humble  servant,  and  shall  never  be 
at  a  loss  to  render  him  an  equivalent.  .  .  . 


244 


GEOR  GE    WA  SUING  TON. 


I  Avill  not,  however,  belie  my  knowledge  of 
mankind  so  much  as  to  seem  surprised  at  a 
treatment  which  I  had  abundant  reason  to 
expect.  To  these  men,  with  whom  I  was 
once  intimate,  and  for  many  years,  I  am  no 
longer  necessary,  no  longer  convenient,  or 
in  any  respect  an  object.  They  think  of 
me  as  of  the  man  in  the  moon ;  and  whether 
I  have  a  lantern,  or  a  dog  and  faggot,  or 
whether  I  have  neither  of  those  desirable 
accommodations,  is  to  them  a  matter  of  per- 
fect indifference :  upon  that  point  we  are 
agreed ;  our  indifference  is  mutual ;  and 
were  I  to  publish  again,  which  is  not  pos- 
sible, I  should  give  them  a  proof  of  it. 

L'Estrange's  Joseph  us  has  lately  fur- 
nished us  with  evening  lectures.  But  the 
historian  is  so  tediously  circumstantial, 
and  the  translator  so  insupportably  coarse 
and  vulgar,  that  we  are  all  three  weary  of 
him.  IIow  would  Tacitus  have  shone  upon 
such  a  subject!  great  master  as  he  was  of 
the  art  of  description,  concise  without  ob- 
scurity, and  affecting  without  being  poetical. 
But  so  it  was  ordered,  and  for  wise  reasons 
no  doubt,  that  the  greatest  calamities  any 
people  ever  .suffered,  and  an  accomplish- 
ment of  one  of  the  most  signal  prophecies 
in  the  Scripture,  should  be  recorded  by  one 
of  the  worst  writers.  The  man  was  a  tem- 
porizer too,  and  courted  the  favour  of  his 
Roman  masters  at  the  expense  of  his  own 
creed ;  or  else  an  infidel,  and  absolutely 
disbelieved  it.  You  will  think  me  very  dif- 
ficult to  please  :  I  quarrel  with  Josephus 
for  the  want  of  elegance,  and  with  some  of 
our  modern  historians  for  having  too  much. 
With  him,  for  running  right  forward  like  a 
gazette,  without  stopping  to  make  a  single 
observation  by  the  way  ;  and  with  them  for 
pretending  to  delineate  characters  that  ex- 
isted two  thousand  years  ago.  and  to  dis- 
cover the  motives  by  which  they  were  in- 
fluenced, witli  the  same  precision  as  if  they 
had  been  their  contemporaries.  Simplicity 
is  become  a  very  rare  quality  in  a  writer. 
In  the  decline  of  great  kingdoms,  and  where 
refinement  in  all  the  arts  is  carried  to  an 
excess,  I  suppose  it  is  always  rare.  The 
latter  Roman  writers  are  remarkable  for 
false  ornament:  they  were  yet  no  doubt 
admired  by  the  readers  of  their  own  day  : 
and  with  respect  to  authors  of  the  present 
sera  the  most  popular  among  them  appear 
to  me  equally  censurable  on  the  same  ac- 
count. Swift  and  Addison  were  simple; 
Pope  knew  how  to  be  so,  but  was  fre- 
quently tinged  with  affectation ;  since  their 
day  I  hardly  know  a  celebrated  writer  who 
deserves  the  character. 

Your  mother  wants  room  for  a  postscript, 
BO  my  lecture  must  conclude  abruptly. 

Yours,  W.  C. 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON, 

the  illustrious  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
American  armies  during  the  Revolutionary 
war.  born  on  Pope's  Creek,  county  of  West- 
moreland, Virginia,  Feb.  22,  1732,  died  at 
Mount  Vernon,  Dec.  14,  1799,  wrote  a  great 
deal  and  wrote  very  well  ;  and  therefore — • 
not  for  the  first  time — we  rank  him  with 
authors. 

"  He  read  little,  but  with  close  attention.  What- 
ever he  took  in  hand  he  applied  himself  to  with 
ease;  and  his  papers  which  have  been  preserved 
show  how  he  almost  imperceptibly  gained  the 
power  of  writing  correctly, — always  expressing 
himself  with  clearness  and  directness,  often  with 
felicity  of  language  and  grace." — GEORGE  BAN- 
CROFT: Hint,  of  the  United  States,  vol.  vii.,  1858. 

ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  TREXTOX. 
HEAD-QUARTERS,  MORRISTOWN,  Dec.  27,  1776. 
To  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  CONGRESS. 

SIR, — I  have  the  pleasure  of  congratula- 
ting you  upon  the  success  of  an  enterprise 
which  I  had  formed  against  a  detachment  of 
the  enemy  lying  in  Trenton,  and  which  was 
executed  yesterday  morning. 

The  evening  of  the  twenty-fifth  I  ordered 
the  troops  intended  for  this  service  to  parade 
back  of  McKonkey's  ferry,  that  they  might 
begin  to  pass  as  soon  as  it  grew  dark,  imag- 
ining we  should  be  able  to  throw  them  all 
over,  with  the  necessary  artillery,  by  twelve 
o'clock,  and  that  we  might  easily  arrive  at 
Trenton  by  five  in  the  morning,  the  distance 
being  about  nine  miles.  But  the  quantity 
of  ice  made  that  night  impeded  the  passage 
of  the  boats  so  much  that  it  was  three  o'clock 
before  the  artillery  could  all  be  got  over; 
and  near  four  before  the  troops  took  up 
their  line  of  march. 

This  made  me  despair  of  surprising  the 
town,  as  I  well  knew  we  could  not  reach  it 
before  the  day  was  fairly  broke.  But  as  I 
was  certain  there  was  no  making  a  retreat 
without  being  discovered,  and  harassed  on 
re-passing  the  river,  I  determined  to  push 
on  at  all  events.  I  formed  my  detachment 
into  two  divisions,  one  to  march  by  the 
lower  or  river  road,  the  other  by  the  upper 
or  Pennington  road.  As  the  divisions  had 
nearly  the  same  distance  to  march,  I  ordered 
each  of  them,  immediately  upon  forcing  the 
out-guards,  to  push  directly  into  the  town, 
that  they  might  charge  the  enemy  before 
they  had  time  to  form. 

The  upper  division  arrived  at  the  enemy's 
advanced  post  exactly  at  eight  o'clock :  and 
in  three  minutes  after  I  found,  from  the 
fire  on  the  lower  road,  that  that  division  had 
also  got  up.  The  out-guards  made  but  small 
opposition,  though,  for  their  numbers,  they 
behaved  very  well,  keeping  up  a  constant 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 


245 


retreating  fire  from  behind  houses.  We 
presently  saw  their  main  body  formed  ;  but 
from  their  motions,  they  seemed  undeter- 
mined how  to  act. 

Being  hard  pressed  by  our  troops,  who 
had  already  got  possession  of  their  artillery, 
they  attempted  to  file  off  by  a  road  on  their 
right,  leading  to  Princeton.  But,  perceiving 
their  intention,  I  threw  a  body  of  troops 
in  their  way  ;  which  immediately  checked 
them.  Finding,  from  our  disposition,  that 
they  were  surrounded,  and  that  they  must 
inevitably  be  cut  to  pieces  if  they  made  any 
further  resistance,  they  agreed  to  lay  down 
their  arms.  The  number  that  submitted  in 
this  manner  was  twenty-three  officers  and 
eight  hundred  and  eighty-six  men.  Colonel 
llahl  the  commanding  officer,  and  seven 
others,  were  found  wounded  in  the  town. 
I  do  not  exactly  know  how  many  they  had 
killed :  but  1  fancy  not  above  twenty  or 
thirty,  as  they  never  made  any  regular 
stand.  Our  loss  is  very  trifling  indeed, — 
only  two  officers  and  one  or  two  privates 
wounded. 

I  find  that  the  detachment  consisted  of 
the  three  Hessian  regiments  of  Lanspach, 
Kniphausen,  and  Rahl,  amounting  to  about 
fifteen  hundred  men,  and  a  troop  of  British 
light  horse:  but  immediately  upon  the  be- 
ginning of  the  attack,  all  those  who  were 
not  killed  or  taken  pushed  directly  down 
towards  Bordentown.  These  would  like- 
wise have  fallen  into  our  iiands  could  my 
plan  have  been  completely  carried  into  exe- 
cution. 

General  Ewingwas  to  have  crossed  before 
day  at  Trenton  ferry,  and  taken  possession 
of  the  bridge  leading  out  of  town  :  but  the 
quantity  of  ice  was  so  great  that,  though  he 
did  every  thing  in  his  power  to  effect  it,  he 
could  not  get  over.  This  difficulty  also 
hindered  General  Cadwallader  from  crossing 
with  the  Pennsylvania  militia  from  Bristol. 
lie  got  part  of  his  foot  over :  but  finding  it 
impossible  to  embark  his  artillery,  he  was 
obliged  to  desist. 

I  am  fully  confident  that,  could  the  troops 
under  Generals  Ewing  and  Cadwallader  have 
passed  the  river,  I  should  have  been  able, 
with  their  assistance,  to  have  driven  the 
enemy  from  all  their  posts  below  Trenton. 
But  the  numbers  I  had  with  me  being  in- 
ferior to  theirs  below  me,  and  a  strong  bat- 
talion of  light  infantry  being  at  Princeton 
above  me,  I  thought  it  most  prudent  to  re- 
turn the  same  evening  with  the  prisoners 
and  the  artillery  we  had  taken.  We  found 
no  stores  of  any  consequence  in  the  town. 

Injustice  to  the  officers  and  men.  I  must 
add  that  their  behaviour  upon  this  occasion 
reflects  the  highest  honour  upon  them.  The 
difficulty  of  passing  the  river  in  a  very 


severe  night,  and  their  march  through  a 
violent  storm  of  snow  and  hail,  did  not  in 
the  least  abate  their  ardour:  but  when  they 
came  to  the  charge  each  seemed  to  vie  with 
the  other  in  pressing  forward  :  and  were  I 
to  give  a  preference  to  any  particular  corps 
I  should  do  great  injustice  to  the  others. 

Colonel  Baylor,  my  first  aide-de-camp, 
will  have  the  honour  of  delivering  this  to 
you  ;  and  from  him  you  may  be  made  ac- 
quainted with  many  other  particulars.  His 
spirited  behaviour  upon  every  occasion  re- 
quires me  to  recommend  him  to  your  par- 
ticular notice. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  etc.,  G.  W. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  PRINCETON. 

PLUCKEMIN,  January  5,  1777. 
To  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  CONGRESS. 

SIR, — I  have  the  honour  to  inform  you 
that  since  the  date  of  my  last  from  Trenton, 
I  have  removed  with  the  army  under  my 
command  to  this  place.  The  difficulty  of 
crossing  the  Delaware,  on  account  of  the  ice, 
made  our  passage  over  tedious,  and  gave  the 
enemy  an  opportunity  of  drawing  in  their 
several  cantonments,  and  assembling  their 
whole  force  at  Princeton.  Their  large 
piquets  advanced  towards  Trenton, — their 
great  preparations,  and  some  intelligence  I 
had  received, — added  to  their  knowledge 
that  the  first  of  January  brought  on  a  disso- 
lution of  the  best  part  of  our  army, — gave 
me  the  strongest  reasons  to  conclude  that  an 
attack  upon  us  was  meditating.  Our  situa- 
tion was  most  critical  and  our  force  small. 
To  remove  immediately  was  again  destroy- 
ing every  dawn  of  hope  which  had  begun  to 
revive  in  the  breasts  of  the  Jersey  militia; 
and  to  bring  those  troops  which  had  first 
crossed  the  Delaware,  and  were  lying  at 
Crosswix's,  under  General  Cadwallader,  and 
those  under  General  Mifliin  at  Bordentown 
(amounting  in  the  whole  to  about  three 
thousand  six  hundred),  to  Trenton,  was  to 
bring  them  to  an  exposed  place.  One  of  the 
two,  however,  was  unavoidable :  the  latter 
was  preferred,  and  frhey  were  ordered  to  join 
us  at  Trenton,  which  they  did,  by  a  night 
inarch,  on  the  first  instant. 

On  the  second,  according  to  my  expec- 
tation, the  enemy  began  to  advance  upon  us  ; 
and,  after  some  skirmishing,  the  head  of 
their  column  reached  Trenton  about  four 
o'clock,  whilst  their  rear  was  as  far  back  as 
Maidenhead.  They  attempted  to  pass  San- 
pink  Creek,  which  runs  through  Trenton, 
at  different  places;  but  finding  the  fords 
guarded,  halted  and  kindled  their  fires. 
We  were  drawn  up  on  the  other  side  of  the 
creek.  In  this  situation  we  remained  till 
dark,  cannonading  the  enemy,  and  receiving 


246 


RICHARD    CUMBERLAND. 


the  fire  of  their  field-pieces,  which  did  us 
but  little  damage. 

Having  by  this  time  discovered  that  the 
enemy  were  greatly  superior  in  number,  and 
that  their  design  was  to  surround  us,  I  or- 
dered all  our  baggage  to  be  removed  silently 
to  Burlington  soon  after  dark  ;  and  at  twelve 
o'clock,  after  renewing  our  fires,  and  leaving 
guards  at  the  bridge  in  Trenton,  and  other 
passes  on  the  same  stream  above,  marched 
by  a  roundabout  road  to  Princeton,  where  I 
knew  they  could  not  have  much  force  left, 
and  might  have  stores.  One  thing  I  was 
certain  of,  that  it  would  avoid  the  appear- 
ance of  a  retreat  (which  it  was  of  course, — or 
to  run  the  hazard  of  the  whole  army  being 
cut  off),  whilst  we  might,  by  a  fortunate 
stroke,  withdraw  General  Howe  from  Tren- 
ton, and  give  some  reputation  to  our  arms. 
Happily,  we  succeeded.  We  found  Prince- 
ton about  sunrise,  with  only  three  regi- 
ments, and  three  troops  of  light  horse  in  it, 
two  of  which  were  on  their  march  to  Tren- 
ton. These  three  regiments,  especially  the 
two  first,  made  a  gallant  resistance,  and  in 
killed,  wounded,  and  prisoners,  must  have 
lost  five  hundred  men  :  upwards  of  one  hun- 
dred of  them  were  left  dead  on  the  field  ; 
and,  with  what  I  have  with  me,  and  what 
were  taken  in  the  pursuit  and  carried  across 
the  Delaware,  there  are  near  three  hundred 
prisoners,  fourteen  of  whom  are  officers,  all 
British. 

This  piece  of  good  fortune  is  counterbal- 
anced by  the  loss  of  the  brave  and  worthy 
General  Mercer,  Colonels  Hazlet  and  Potter, 
Captain  Neal  of  the  artillery,  Captain  Flem- 
ing, who  commanded  the  First  Virginia  Reg- 
iment, and  four  or  five  other  valuable  officers, 
who,  with  about  twenty-five  or  thirty  pri- 
vates, were  slain  in  the  field.  Our  whole 
loss  cannot  be  ascertained,  as  many  who 
were  in  pursuit  of  the  enemy  (who  were 
chased  three  or  four  miles)  are  not  yet 
come  in. 

The  rear  of  the  enemy's  army,  lying  at 
Maidenhead  (not  more  than  five  or  six  miles 
from  Princeton),  was  up  with  us  before  our 
pursuit  was  over  :  but  as  I  had  the  precau- 
tion to  destroy  the  bridge  over  Stony  Brook 
(about  half  a  mile  from  the  scene  of  action), 
they  were  so  long  retarded  there  as  to  give 
us  time  to  move  off  in  good  order  for  this 
place.  We  took  two  brass  field-pieces  ;  but, 
for  want  of  horses,  could  not  bring  them 
away.  We  also  took  some  blankets,  shoes, 
and  a  few  other  trifling  articles,  burned  the 
hay,  and  destroyed  such  other  things  as  the 
shortness  of  the  time  would  admit  of. 

My  original  plan,  when  I  set  out  for  Tren- 
ton, was  to  have  pushed  on  to  Brunswick  : 
but  the  harassed  state  of  our  troops  (many 
of  them  having  had  no  rest  for  two  nights 


and  a  day),  and  the  danger  of  losing  the 
advantage  we  had  gained  by  aiming  at  too 
much,  induced  me,  by  the  advice  of  my  offi- 
cers, to  relinquish  the  attempt :  but,  in  my 
judgment,  six  or  eight  hundred  fresh  troops, 
upon  a  forced  march,  would  have  destroyed 
all  their  stores  and  magazines. — taken  (as 
we  have  since  learned)  their  military  chest, 
containing  seventy  thousand  pounds, — and 
put  an  end  to  the  war.  The  enemy,  from 
the  best  intelligence  I  have  been  able  to  get, 
were  so  much  alarmed  at  the  apprehension 
of  this,  that  they  marched  immediately  to 
Brunswick,  without  halting,  except  at  the 
bridges  (for  I  .also  took  up  those  on  Mill- 
stone, on  the  different  routes  to  Brunswick), 
and  got  there  before  day. 

From  the  best  information  I  have  received, 
General  Howe  has  left  no  men  either  at 
Princeton  or  Trenton.  The  truth  of  this  I 
am  endeavouring  to  ascertain,  that  I  may 
regulate  my  movements  accordingly. 

The  militia  are  taking  spirits,  and,  I  am. 
told,  are  coming  in  fast  from  this  state :  but 
I  fear  those  from  Philadelphia  will  scarcely 
submit  to  the  hardships  of  a  winter  cam- 
paign much  longer,  especially  as  they  very 
unluckily  sent  their  blankets  with  their  bag- 
gage to  Burlington.  I  must  do  them  the 
justice,  however,  to  add,  that  they  have  un- 
dergone more  fatigue  and  hardship  than  I 
expected  militia  (especially  citizens)  would 
have  done  at  this  inclement  season.  I  am 
just  moving  to  Morristown,  where  I  shall 
endeavour  to  put  them  under  the  best  cover 
I  can  : — hitherto  we  have  been  without  any  ; 
and  many  of  our  poor  soldiers  quite  barefoot, 
and  ill  clad  in  other  respects. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c.,         G.  W. 


RICHARD  CUMBERLAND, 

grandson  of  the  famous  Grecian,  Doctor 
Richard  Bentley,  born  1732,  died  1811,  was 
author  of  the  comedies  of  The  West  Indian, 
The  Wheel  of  Fortune,  The  Jew,  and  The 
Fashionable  Lover;  Anecdotes  of  Eminent 
Painters  in  Spain,  Lond.,  1782.  2  vols.  12mo; 
The  Observer,  Lond.,  1785,  2  vols.  8vo,  1786, 
3  vols.  cr.  8vo,  1788,  5  vols.,  1790,  5  vols., 
1796,  3  vols.,  and  in  The  British  Classics 
1803,  and  in  The  British  Essayists ;  the 
novels  of  Arundel,  Lond.,  1789,  2  vols. 
12mo,  Henry,  Lond.,  1795,  4  vols.  12mo, 
and  John  de  Lancaster,  3  vols. ;  Calvary,  or 
The  Death  of  Christ,  a  Poem,  Lond.,  1792, 
4to;  A  Poetical  Version  of  Certain  [50] 
Psalms,  Tunbridge  Wells,  1801,  8vo;  Me- 
moirs, Lond.,  1806,  4to,  Supplement,  1807, 
4to,  with  Illustrative  Notes  by  Henry  Flan- 
ders, Phila.,  1856,  8vo ;  The  Exodiadj  in  two 


RICHARD    CUMBERLAND. 


247 


Parts,  Lond.,  1807-8,  4to  (in  conjunction 
with  Sir  J.  B.  Buries)  ;  Retrospection,  a 
Poem,  Lond.,  1811,  4to,  theological  tracts, 
etc.  See  The  Posthumous  Dramatic  Works 
of  Richard  Cumberland,  edited  by  T.  W. 
Jansen,  Lond.,  1813,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"  The  Observer,  though  the  sole  labour  of  an  in- 
dividual, is  yet  rich  in  variety,  both  of  subject  and 
manner;  in  this  respect,  indeed,  as  well  as  in  lit- 
erary interest,  and  fertility  of  invention,  it  may 
be  classed  with  the  Spectator  and  Adventurer." — 
DR.  DUAKE:  Essays,  vol.  v. 

THE  MIRACLES  OF  CHRIST. 

"With  regard  to  the  gospel  account  of 
Christ's  miracles,  I  may  be  allowed,  in  gen- 
eral, to  observe,  that  these  forgeries  of  Por- 
phyry and  Jarnblichus,  in  imitation  of  them, 
warrant  a  fair  presumption  that  if  these 
writers  could  have  disproved  the  authority 
of  the  Evangelists,  and  controverted  the 
matter  of  fact,  they  would  not  have  resorted 
to  so  indecisive  and  circuitous  a  mode  of 
opposing  them  as  this  which  we  are  now 
examining:  men  of  such  learning  as  these 
writers  would  not  have  risked  extravagant 
fictions  merely  to  keep  way  with  a  history 
which  they  had  more  immediate  means  of 
refuting:  on  the  other  hand,  if  their  absurd- 
ity should  lead  any  man  to  suppose  that 
they  forged  these  accounts  by  way  of  parody, 
and  in  ridicule  of  the  gospels,  the  accounts 
themselves  give  the  strongest  evidence  to 
the  contrary,  and  it  is  clear  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  both  Porphyry  and  Jamblichus  mean 
to  be  credited  in  their  histories  of  Pytha- 
goras, as  seriously  as  Philostratus  does  in 
his  of  Apollonius  Tyaneus. 

This  will  more  fully  appear  by  referring 
to  the  circumstances  that  occasioned  these 
histories  to  be  written. 

Christ  having  performed  his  miracles 
openly  and  before  so  many  witnesses,  it  is 
not  found  that  the  matter  of  fact  was  ever 
questioned  by  any  who  lived  in  that  age  :  on 
the  contrary,  we  see  it  was  acknowledged 
by  his  most  vigilant  enemies,  the  Pharisees: 
they  did  not  deny  the  miracle,  but  they  as- 
cribed it  to  the  aid  of  the  prince  of  the  devils : 
so  weak  a  subterfuge  against  the  evidence 
of  their  own  senses  probably  satisfied  neither 
themselves  nor  others:  if  it  had,  this  accusa- 
tion of  sorcery  (being  capital  by  the  law, 
and  also  by  that  of  the  Romans)  would  have 
been  heard  of,  when  they  were  so  much  to 
seek  for  crimes,  wherewith  to  charge  him 
on  his  trial:  if  any  man  shall  object,  that 
this  is  arguing  out  of  the  gospels  in  favour 
of  the  gospels,  I  contend  that  this  matter  of 
fact  does  not  rest  solely  on  the  gospel  evi- 
dence, but  also  upon  collateral  historic 
proof:  for  this  very  argument  of  the  Phari- 
sees, and  this  only,  is  made  use  of  by  those 


Jews  whom  Celsus  brings  in  arguing  against 
the  Christian  religion  ;  and  those  Jews,  on 
this  very  account,  rank  Christ  with  Pytha- 
goras ;  and  I  challenge  the  cavillers  against 
Christ's  miracles  either  to  controvert  what 
is  thus  asserted,  or  to  produce  any  other 
argument  of  Jewish  origin,  except  this  as- 
cribed to  the  Pharisees  by  the  gospel,  either 
from  Celsus,  as  above  mentioned,  or  any 
other  writer. 

Celsus,  it  is  well  known,  was  a  very 
learned  man,  and  wrote  in  the  time  of 
Adrian,  or  something  later;  this  was  not 
above  fifty  years  after  the  date  of  Christ's 
miracles.  Celsus  did  not  controvert  the 
accounts  of  them  who  were  witnesses  of  the 
miracles,  or  attempt  to  shew  any  inconsist- 
ency or  chicanery  in  the  facts  themselves ; 
he  takes  up  at  second-hand  the  old  Pharisai- 
cal argument  of  ascribing  them  to  the  power 
of  the  devil ;  in  short,  they  were  performed, 
he  cannot  deny  it;  there  was  no  trick  or 
artifice  in  the  performance,  he  cannot  dis- 
cover any;  the  accounts  of  them  are  no  for- 
geries, he  cannot  confute  them ;  they  are 
recent  histories,  and  their  authenticity  too 
notorious  to  be  called  in  question  :  he  knows 
not  how  the  miracles  were  performed,  and 
therefore  they  were  done  by  the  invocation 
of  the  devil :  he  cannot  patiently  look  on 
and  see  that  learning,  so  long  the  glory  of 
all  civilized  nations,  and  which  he  himself 
was  to  an  eminent  degree  possessed  of,  now 
brought  into  disgrace  by  a  new  religion,  pro- 
fessing to  be  a  divine  revelation,  and  origi- 
nating from  amongst  the  meanest  and  most 
odious  of  all  the  provincial  nations,  and 
propagated  by  disciples  who  were  as  much 
despised  and  hated  by  the  Jews  in  general 
as  the  Jews  were  by  all  other  people.  • 

Observer,  No.  10. 

THE  ROMAN  LIBRARIES. 

Little  attention  was  paid  to  literature  by 
the  Romans  in  the  early  and  more  martial 
ages :  I  read  of  no  collections  antecedent  to 
those  made  by  Emilias,  Paulus,  and  Lu- 
cullus,  the  latter  of  whom,  being  a  man 
of  great  magnificence,  allowed  the  learned 
men  of  his  time  to  have  free  access  to  his 
library,  but  neither  in  his  lifetime,  nor  at 
his  death,  made  it  public  property.  Corne- 
lius Sylla,  before  his  dictatorship,  plundered 
Athens  of  a  great  collection  of  books,  which 
had  been  accumulating  from  the  time  of  the 
tyranny,  and  these  he  brought  to  Rome,  but 
did  not  build  or  endow  any  library  for  public 
use.  This  was  at  last  undertaken  by  Julius 
Caesar  upon  an  imperial  scale  not  long  be- 
fore his  death,  and  the  learned  M.  Varro 
was  employed  to  collect  and  arrange  the 
books  for  the  foundation  of  an  ample  lib- 


2-48 


SAMUEL  UORSLEY. 


rary  :  its  completion,  which  was  interrupted 
by  the  death  of  Julius  and  the  civil  wars 
subsequent  thereto,  was  left  for  Augustus, 
who  assigned  a  fund  out  of  the  Dalmatian 
booty  for  this  purpose,  which  he  put  into 
the  hands  of  the  celebrated  Asinius  Pollio, 
who  therewith  founded  a  temple  to  liberty 
on  Mount  Aventine,  and  with  the  help  of 
Sylla's  and  Varro's  Collections,  in  addition 
to  his  own  purchases,  opened  the  first  public 
library  in  Home  in  an  apartment  annexed 
to  the  temple  above  mentioned.  Two  others 
were  afterward  instituted  by  the  same  em- 
peror, which  he  called  the  Octavian  and 
Palatine  libraries ;  the  first,  so  named  in 
honour  of  his  sister,  was  placed  in  the 
temple  of  Juno  ;  the  latter,  as  its  title  spe- 
cifies, was  in  the  imperial  palace:  these 
libraries  were  royally  endowed  with  estab- 
lishments of  Greek  and  Latin  librarians,  of 
which  C.  Julius  Ilyginus,  the  grammarian, 
was  one. 

The  Emperor  Tiberius  added  another 
library  to  the  palace,  and  attached  his  new 
building  to  that  front  which  looked  towards 
the  Via  Sacra,  in  which  quarter  he  himself 
resided.  Vespasian  endowed  a  public  library 
in  the  temple  of  Peace.  Trajan  founded  the 
famous  Ulpian  library  in  his  new  forum, 
from  whence  it  was  at  last  removed  to  the 
Collis  Viminalis  to  furnish  the  baths  of  Dio- 
clesian.  The  Capitoline  library  is  supposed 
to  have  been  founded  by  Domitian,  and  was 
consumed,  together  with  the  noble  edifice  to 
which  it  was  attached,  by  a  stroke  of  light- 
ning in  the  time  of  Commodus.  The  Em- 
peror Hadrian  enriched  his  favourite  villa 
with  a  superb  collection  of  books,  and  lodged 
them  in  a  temple  dedicated  to  Hercules. 
Those  were,  in  succeeding  times,  so  multi- 
plied by  the  munificence  and  emulation  of 
the  several  emperors,  that  in  the  reign  of 
Constantino  Home  contained  no  less  than 
twenty-nine  public  libraries,  of  which  the 
principal  were  the  Palatine  and  the  Ulpian. 

Though  books  were  then  collected  at  an 
immense  expense,  several  private  citizens  of 
fortune  made  considerable  libraries.  Tyran- 
nic, the  grammarian,  even  in  the  time  of 
Sylla  was  possessed  of  three  thousand  vol- 
umes: Epaphroditus,  a  grammarian  also, 
had  in  later  times  collected  thirty  thousand 
of  the  most  select  and  valuable  books  ;  but 
Sammonicus  Serenus  bequeathed  to  the  Em- 
peror Gordian  a  library  containing  no  less 
than  sixty-two  thousand  volumes.  It  was 
not  always  a  love  of  literature  that  tempted 
people  to  these  expenses,  for  Seneca  com- 
plains of  the  vanity  of  the  age  in  furnishing 
their  banquetting  rooms  with  books,  not  for 
use,  but  for  show,  and  in  a  mere  spirit  of 
profusion.  Their  baths,  both  hot  and  cold, 
were  always  supplied  with  books  to  fill  up 


an  idle  hour  amongst  the  other  recreations 
of  the  place;  in  like  manner  their  country 
houses  and  even  public  offices  were  provided 
for  the  use  and  amusement  of  their  guests 
and  clients. 

The  Roman  libraries,  in  point  of  disposi- 
tion, much  resembled  the  present  fashion 
observed  in  our  public  ones ;  for  the  books 
were  not  placed  against  the  walls,  but 
brought  into  the  area  of  the  room,  in  sep- 
arate cells  and  compartments,  where  they 
were  lodged  in  presses:  the  intervals  be- 
tween these  compartments  were  richly  orna- 
mented with  inlaid  plates  of  glass  and  ivory, 
and  marble  bass-relievos.  In  these  compart- 
ments, which  were  furnished  with  desks  and 
couches  for  the  accommodation  of  readers,  it 
was  usual  to  place  statues  of  learned  men, 
one  in  each  ;  and  this  we  may  observe  is  one 
of  the  few  elegances  which  Rome  was  not 
indebted  to  Greece  for,  the  first  idea  having 
been  started  by  the  accomplished  Pollio, 
who  in  his  library  on  Mount  Aventine  set 
up  the  statue  of  his  illustrious  contemporary 
Varro,  even  whilst  he  was  living :  it  was 
usual  also  to  ornament  the  press  where 
any  considerable  author's  works  were  con- 
tained, with  his  figure  in  brass  or  plaster  of 
a  smaller  size. 

There  is  one  more  circumstance  attending 
these  public  libraries,  which  ought  not  to  be 
omitted,  as  it  marks  the  liberal  spirit  of  their 
institution  :  it  was  usual  to  appropriate  an 
adjoining  building  for  the  use  and  accom- 
modation of  students,  where  every  thing  was 
furnished  at  the  emperor's  cost :  they  were 
lodged,  dieted,  and  attended  by  servants 
specially  appointed,  and  supplied  with  every 
thing,  under  the  eye  of  the  chief  librarian, 
that  would  be  wanting  whilst  they  were  en- 
gaged in  their  studies,  and  had  occasion  to 
consult  the  books:  this  establishment  was 
kept  up  in  a  very  princely  style  at  Alexan- 
dria in  particular,  where  a  college  was  en- 
dowed and  a  special  fund  appointed  for  its 
support,  with  a  president  and  proper  officers 
under  him,  for  the  entertainment  of  learned 
strangers,  who  resorted  thither  from  various 
parts  to  consult  those  invaluable  collections 
which  that  famous  library  contained  in  all 
branches  of  science. 

Observer,  No,  51. 


SAMUEL    HORSLEY,  LL.D., 

born  in  London,  1733,  became  Prebendary 
of  Gloucester,  1787,  Bishop  of  St.  David's 
1788,  of  Rochester,  1793,  and  of  St.  Asaph's, 
1802,  and  died  1806.  He  published  several 
theological,  philological,  and  mathematical 
works,  a  complete  edition  of  the  Works  of 


SAMUEL  HORSLEY. 


249 


Sir  Isaac  Newton,  Lond.,  1779-85,  5  vols.  4to, 
and  became  widely  known  by  his  contro- 
versy with  Dr.  Priestley,  who  in  An  History 
of  the  Corruptions  of  Christianity,  Birm., 
1782,  2  vols.  8vo,  contended  that  neither 
Trinitarianism  nor  Arianism,  but  Socinian- 
ism,  was  the  unanimous  faith  of  the  first 
Christians.  A  collective  edition  of  Horsley's 
Theological  Works  was  published  by  Long- 
man, Lond.,  1845,  6  vols.  8vo.  These  con- 
tain his  Biblical  Criticism  (Lond.,  1820,  4 
vols.  8vo,  2d  edit,  1844,  2  vols.  8vo),  2  vols. ; 
Psalms,  Translated  from  the  Hebrew  (1815, 
2  vols.  8vo),  4th  edit.,  1  vol. ;  Sermons  (1810- 
15,  4  vols.  8vo,  etc.),  2  vols. ;  Charges  (1813, 
8vo,  etc.,),  1  vol. 

"  His  sermons  are  fine  specimens  of  command- 
ing eloquence,  and  contain  many  deep  and  original 
views  of  Scripture  facts  and  prophecies." — Du.  E. 
WILLIAMS  :  Christian  Preacher. 

THE  NEW  COMMANDMENT. 

In  that  memorable  night  when  divine  love 
and  infernal  malice  had  each  their  perfect 
work, — the  night  when  Jesus  was  betrayed 
into  the  hands  of  those  who  thirsted  for  his 
blood,  and  the  mysterious  scheme  of  man's 
redemption  was  brought  to  its  accomplish- 
ment, Jesus,  having  finished  the  Paschal 
supper,  and  instituted  those  holy  mysteries 
by  which  the  thankful  remembrance  of  his 
oblation  of  himself  is  continued  in  the 
church  until  his  second  coining,  and  the 
believer  is  nourished  with  the  food  of  ever- 
lasting life,  the  body  and  blood  of  the  cruci- 
fied Redeemer  ; — when  all  this  was  finished, 
and  nothing  now  remained  of  his  great  and 
p'ainful  undertaking  but  the  last  trying  part 
of  it,  to  be  led  like  a  sheep  to  the  slaughter, 
and  to  make  his  life  a  sacrifice  for  sin, — in 
that  trying  hour,  just  before  he  retired  to 
the  garden,  where  the  power  of  darkness 
was  to  be  permitted  to  display  on  him  its 
last  and  utmost  effort,  Jesus  gave  it  solemnly 
in  charge  to  the  eleven  apostles  (the  twelfth, 
the  son  of  perdition,  was  already  lost ;  he 
was  gone  to  hasten  the  execution  of  his  in- 
tended treason), — to  the  eleven,  whose  loy- 
alty remained  as  yet  unshaken,  Jesus  in  that 
awful  hour  gave  it  solemnly  in  charge  ''to 
love  one  another,  as  he  had  loved  them." 
And  because  the  perverse  wit  of  man  is  ever 
fertile  in  plausible  evasions  of  the  plainest 
duties, — lest  this  command  should  be  inter- 
preted, in  after-ages,  as  an  injunction  in 
which  the  apostles  only  were  concerned,  im- 
posed upon  them  in  their  peculiar  character 
of  the  governors  of  the  church,  our  great 
Master,  to  obviate  any  such  wilful  miscon- 
struction of  his  dying  charge,  declared  it  to 
be  his  pleasure  and  his  meaning,  that  the 
exercise  of  mutual  love,  in  all  ages,  and  in 


all  nations,  among  men  of  all  ranks,  call- 
ings, and  conditions,  should  be  the  general 
badge  and  distinction  of  his  disciples:  "  By 
this  shall  all  men  know  that  ye  are  my  dis- 
ciples, if  ye  love  one  another."  And  this 
inj unction  of  loving  one  another  as  he  had 
loved  them,  he  calls  a  new  commandment: 
"A  new  commandment  I  give  unto  you,  that 
ye  love  one  another." 

It  is  commonly  said,  and  sometimes  strenu- 
ously insisted,  as  a  circumstance  in  which 
the  ethic  of  all  religions  falls  short  of  the 
Christian,  that  the  precept  of  universal  be- 
nevolence, embracing  all  mankind,  without 
distinction  of  party,  sect,  or  nation,  had 
never  been  heard  of  till  it  was  inculcated 
by  our  Saviour.  But  this  is  a  mistake. 
Were  it  not  that  experience  and  observation 
afford  daily  proof  how  easily  a  sound  judg- 
ment is  misled  by  the  exuberance  even  of  an 
honest  zeal,  we  should  be  apt  to  say  that  this 
could  be  maintained  by  none  who  had  ever 
read  the  Old  Testament.  The  obligation 
indeed  upon  Christians  to  make  the  avowed 
enemies  of  Christianity  the  objects  of  their 
prayers  and  of  their  love,  arises  out  of  the 
peculiar  nature  of  Christianity,  considered 
as  the  work  of  reconciliation.  Our  Saviour 
too  was  the  first  who  showed  to  what  extent 
the  specific  duty  of  mutual  forgiveness  is 
included  in  the  general  command  of  mutual 
love;  but  the  command  itself,  in  its  full  extent, 
"  That  every  man  should  love  his  neighbour 
as  himself,"  we  shall  find,  if  we  consult  the 
Old  Testament,  to  be  just  as  old  as  any  part 
of  the  religion  of  the  Jews.  The  two  max- 
ims to  which  our  Saviour  refers  the  whole 
of  the  law  and  the  prophets  were  maxims 
of  the  Mosaic  law  itself.  Had  it  indeed 
been  otherwise,  our  Saviour,  when  he  alleged 
these  maxims  in  answer  to  the  lawyer's 
question,  "  Which  is  the  chief  commandment 
of  the  law?"  would  not  have  answered  with 
that  wonderful  precision  and  discernment 
which  on  so  many  occasions  put  his  adver- 
saries to  shame  and  silence. 

Indeed  had  these  maxims  not  been  found 
in  the  law  of  Moses,  it  would  still  have  been 
true  of  them  that  .they  contain  everything 
which  can  be  required  of  man  as  matter  of 
general,  indispensable  duty  ;  insomuch  that 
nothing  can  become  an  act  of  duty  to  God 
or  to  our  neighbour  otherwise  than  as  it  is 
capable  of  being  referred  to  the  one  or  the 
other  of  these  two  general  topics.  They 
might  be  said  therefore  to  be,  in  the  nature 
of  the  thing,  the  supreme  and  chief  of  all 
commandments ;  being  those  to  which  all 
others  are  naturally  and  necessarily  subor- 
dinate, and  in  which  all  others  are  contained 
as  parts  in  the  whole.  All  this  would  have 
been  true  though  neither  of  these  maxims 
had  had  a  place  in  the  law  of  Moses.  But 


250 


JOSEPH  PRIESTLEY. 


it  would  not  have  been  a  pertinent  answer 
to  the  lawyers  question,  nor  would  it  have 
taken  the  effect  which  our  Lord's  answer 
actually  took  with  the  subtle  disputants  with 
whom  he  was  engaged,  "  that  no  man  durst 
ask  him  any  more  questions."  The  lawyer's 
question  was  not,  what  thing  might,  in  its 
own  nature,  be  the  best  to  be  commanded. 
To  this  indeed  it  might  have  been  wisely 
answered,  that  the  love  of  God  is  the  best 
of  all  things,  and  that  the  next  best  is  the 
love  of  man  ;  although  Moses  had  not  ex- 
pressly mentioned  either.  But  the  question 
was,  "  Which  is  the  great  commandment  in 
the  law?" — that  is,  in  Moses's  law;  for  the 
expression  "the  law,"  in  the  mouth  of  a 
Jew,  could  carry  no  other  meaning.  To  this 
it  had  been  vain  to  allege  "  the  love  of  God 
or  man,"  had  there  been  no  express  requisi- 
tion of  them  in  the  law,  notwithstanding  the 
confessed  natural  excellence  of  the  things  ; 
because  the  question  was  not  about  natural 
excellence,  but  what  was  to  be  reckoned  the 
first  in  authority  and  importance  among  the 
written  commandments.  Those  masters  of 
sophistry  with  whom  our  Saviour  had  been 
for  some  hours  engaged,  felt  themselves  over- 
come when  he  produced  from  the  books  of 
the  law  two  maxims  which,  forming  a  com- 
plete and  simple  summary  of  the  whole, — 
and  not  only  of  the  whole  of  the  Mosaic 
law,  but  of  every  law  which  God  ever  did 
or  ever  will  prescribe  to  man, — evidently 
claimed  to  be  the  first  and  chief  command- 
ments. 

Sermons :  Sermon  xi. 


JOSEPH    PRIESTLEY,   LL.D., 

a  Unitarian  divine,  born  near  Leeds,  Eng- 
land, 1733,  died  at  Northumberland,  Penn- 
sylvania, 1804,  published  141  works  and 
treatises,  great  and  small,  for  a  list  of  which 
we  must  refer  to  Rutt's  Collection  of  his 
Theological  and  Miscellaneous  Works  (ex- 
cluding the  Scientific),  Hackney,  1817-32 
(new  title-pnge  1824),  26  vols.  8vo.  Vols. 
i.  and  ii.  comprise  his  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence. Among  his  works  are  the  following: 
History  and  Present  State  of  Electricity, 
Lond.,  1767,  4to,  5th  edit.,  1794,  4to;  Es- 
says on  the  Principles  of  Government,  and 
on  the  Nature  of  Political,  Civil,  and  .Reli- 
gious Liberty,  1768,  8vo.  1771,  8vo :  Chart 
of  History,  1770,  8vo ;  History  and  Present 
State  of  Discoveries  relating  to  Vision,  Light, 
and  Colours,  1772,  2  vols.  4to ;  Institutes 
of  Natural  and  Revealed  Religion,  1772-3-4, 
3  vols.  12mo;  On  the  Elements  of  Natural 
Religion,  1772,  8vo ;  Experiments  and  Ob- 
servations on  Different  Kinds  of  Air,  1774- 


77,  3  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1781-86,  6  vols.  8vo ; 
Abridged,  with  Additions,  1790,  5  vols.  8vo; 
Harmony  of  the  Evangelists  in  Greek,  1777, 
'88,  4to  ;  in  English,  1780,  4to  ;  Experiments 
and  Observations  relating  to  Natural  Phi- 
losophy, 1779-86,  3  vols.  8vo ;  History  of 
the  Corruptions  of  Christianity,  Birrn.,  1782, 
2  vols.  8vo,  2d  ed.,  1793,  2  vols.  8vo ;  His- 
tory of  Early  Opinions  concerning  Jesus 
Christ,  compiled  from  Original  Writers ; 
Proving  that  the  Christian  Church  was  at 
first  Unitarian,  Birm.,  1786,  4  vols.  8vo,  2d 
edit,  1806,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"  He  laid  the  basis  of  the  chemistry  of  the  gases, 
and  of  those  modes  of  investigation  in  the  pneu- 
matic branch  of  the  science  which  are  still  pur- 
sued. He  discovered  a  great  variety  of  facts  in 
this  department  of  the  science;  To  him  we  are 
indebted  for  the  knowledge  of  oxygon,  binoxide 
of  nitrogen,  sulphurous  acid,  fluosilicic  acid,  mu- 
riatic acid,  ammonia,  carburetted  hydrogen,  and 
carbonic  acid." — DR.  R.  D.  THOMPSON. 

"  Dr.  Priestley's  metaphysical  creed  embraces 
four  leading  doctrines :  he  adopted  the  theory  of 
vibrations,  the  association  of  ideas,  the  scheme  of 
philosophical  necessity,  and  the  soul's  materiality. 
On  all  these  topics  he  hns  furnished  us  with  ex- 
tended dissertations;  and,  whatever  opinions  may 
be  entertained  of  any  or  all  of  them,  there  are  few 
persons  but  will  readily  admit  that  the  doctor  has 
displayed  both  great  zeal  and  great  ability  in  de- 
fence of  them.  .  .  .  Dr.  Priestley  is  Dr.  Reid's 
most  able  and  popular  opponent." — BLAKBY  :  Hint. 
o/Philoa.  <>f  Mind,  iii.  202,  303. 

FRANKLIN  AND  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

NORTHUMBERLAND,  Nov.  10,  1802. 
To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 
SIR, — I  have  just  read  in  the  [London] 
Monthly  Review,  vol.  36,  p.  357  [359],  that 
the  late  Mr.  Pennant  said  of  Dr.  Franklin 
that  "  living  under  the  protection  of  our 
mild  government  he  was  secretly  playing 
the  incendiary,  and  too  successfully  inflam- 
ing the  minds  of  our  fellow-subjects  in  Amer- 
ica, till  that  great  explosion  happened,  which 
forever  disunited  us  from  our  once  happy 
colonies  [colonists]."  As  it  is  in  my  power, 
as  far  as  my  testimony  will  be  regarded,  to 
refute  this  charge,  I  think  it  due  to  our 
friendship  to  do  it.  It  is  probable  that  no 
person  now  living  was  better  acquainted 
with  Dr.  Franklin,  and  his  sentiments  on 
all  subjects  of  importance,  than  myself,  for 
several  years  before  the  American  war.  I 
think  I  knew  him  as  well  as  one  man  can 
generally  know  another.  At  that  time  I 
spent  the  winters  in  London,  in  the  family 
of  the  Marquis  of  Lansdown,  and  few  days 
passed  without  my  seeing  more  or  less  of 
Dr.  Franklin  ;  and  the  last  day  that  he 
passed  in  England,  having  given  out  that 
he  should  depart  the  day  before,  we  spent 
together,  without  any  interruption,  from 
morning  to  night. 


JOSEPH  PRIESTLEY. 


251 


Now,  he  was  so  far  from  wishing  for  a 
rupture  with  the  colonies,  that  he  did  more 
than  most  men  would  have  done  to  prevent 
it.  His  constant  advice  to  his  countrymen, 
he  always  said,  was  "  to  bear  everything 
from  England,  however  unjust;"  saying, 
that  "  it  could  not  last  long,  as  they  would 
soon  outgrow  all  their  hardships."  On  tliis 
account,  Dr.  Price,  who  then  corresponded 
with  some  of  the  principal  persons  in  Amer- 
ica, said,  he  began  to  be  very  unpopular 
there,  lie  always  said,  "  If  there  must  be 
a  war,  it  will  be  a  war  of  ten  years,  and  I 
shall  not  live  to  see  the  end  of  it."  This  I 
have  heard  him  say  many  times. 

It  was  at  his  request,  enforced  by  that  of 
Dr.  Fothergill,  that  I  wrote  an  anonymous 
pamphlet,  calculated  to  show  the  injustice 
and  impolicy  of  a  war  with  the  colonies, 
previous  to  the  meeting  of  a  new  parlia- 
ment. As  I  then  lived  at  Leeds,  he  cor- 
rected the  press  himself;  and  to  a  passage 
in  which  I  lamented  the  attempt  to  estab- 
lish arbitrary  power  in  so  Large  a  part  of 
the  British  empire,  he  added  the  following 
clause,  "  to  the  imminent  danger  of  our 
most  valuable  commerce,  and  of  that  na- 
tional strength,  security,  and  felicity  which 
depend  on  union  and  on  liberty." 

The  unity  of  the  British  empire,  in  all  its 
parts,  was  a  favourite  idea  of  his.  He  used 
to  compare  it  to  a  beautiful  China  vase, 
which,  if  once  broken,  could  never  be  put 
together  again  :  and  so  great  an  admirer  was 
he,  at  the  time,  of  the  British  constitution, 
that  he  said  he  saw  no  inconvenience  from 
its  being  extended  over  a  great  part  of  the 
globe.  With  these  sentiments  he  left  Eng- 
land ;  but  when,  on  his  arrival  in  America. 
he  found  the  war  begun,  and  that  there  was 
no  receding,  no  man  entered  more  warmly 
into  the  interests  of  what  he  then  considered 
as  his  country,  in  opposition  to  that  of  Great 
Britain.  Three  of  his  letters  to  me,  one 
written  immediately  on  his  landing,  and 
published  in  the  collection  of  his  Miscella- 
neous Works,  pp.  365,  552,  and  555,  will 
prove  this. 

By  many  persons  Dr.  Franklin  is  consid- 
ered as  having  been  a  cold-hearted  man,  so 
callous  to  every  feeling  of  humanity,  that 
the  prospect  of  all  the  horrors  of  a  civil  war 
could  not  affect  him.  This  was  far  from 
being  the  case.  A  great  part  of  the  day, 
above  mentioned,  that  we  spent  together,  he 
was  looking  over  a  number  of  American 
newspapers,  directing  me  what  to  extract 
from  them  for  the  English  ones ;  and  in 
reading  them,  he  was  frequently  not  able  to 
proceed  for  the  tears  literally  running  down 
his  cheeks.  To  strangers  he  was  cold  and  re- 
served ;  but  where  he  was  intimate,  no  man 
indulged  in  more  pleasantry  and  good  hu- 


mour. By  this  he  was  the  delight  of  a  club, 
to  which  he  alludes  in  one  of  the  letters 
above  referred  to,  called  the  Whig-club,  that 
met  at  the  London  coffee-house,  of  which  Dr. 
Price,  Dr.  Kippis,  Mr.  John  Lee,  and  others 
of  the  same  stamp,  were  members. 

Hoping  that  this  vindication  of  Dr.  Frank- 
lin will  give  pleasure  to  many  of  your 
readers,  I  shall  proceed  to  relate  some  par- 
ticulars relating  to  his  behaviour  when  Lord 
Loughborough,  then  Mr.  Wedderburn,  pro- 
nounced his  violent  invective  against  him  at 
the  privy-council,  on  his  presenting  the  com- 
plaints of  the  province  of  Massachusetts  (I 
think  it  was)  against  their  governor.  Some 
of  the  particulars  may  be  thought  amusing. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the 
cause  was  to  be  heard,  I  met  Mr.  Burke  in 
Parliament-street,  accompanied  by  Dr.  Doug- 
las, afterwards  bishop  of  Carlisle ;  and, 
after  introducing  us  to  each  other,  as  men 
of  letters,  he  asked  me  whither  I  was  going. 
I  said  I  could  tell  him  where  I  wished  to  go. 
He  then  asked  me  where  that  was.  I  said 
to  the  privy-council,  but  that  I  was  afraid  I 
could  not  get  admission.  He  then  desired 
me  to  go  along  with  him.  Accordingly  I 
did  ;  but  when  we  got  into  the  ante-room  we 
found  it  quite  filled  with  persons  as  desirous 
of  getting  admittance  as  ourselves.  Seeing 
this,  I  said  we  should  never  get  through  the 
crowd.  He  said,  "  Give  me  your  arm  ;"  and 
locking  it  fast  in  his,  he  soon  made  his  way 
to  the  door  of  the  privy-council.  I  then  said, 
"Mr.  Burke,  you  are  an  excellent  leader;" 
he  replied,  "I  wish  other  persons  thought 
so  too." 

After  waiting  a  short  time,  the  door  of  the 
privy-council  opened,  and  we  entered  the 
first;  when  Mr.  Burke  took  his  stand  behind 
the  first  chair  next  to  the  president,  and  I 
behind  that  the  next  to  his.  When  the  busi- 
ness was  opened,  it  was  sufficiently  evident, 
from  the  speech  of  Mr.  Wedderburn,  who 
was  counsel  for  the  governor,  that  the  real 
object  of  the  court  was  to  insult  Dr.  Frank- 
lin. All  this  time  he  stood  in  a  corner  of 
the  room,  not  far  from  me,  without  the  least 
apparent  emotion. 

Mr.  Dunning,  who  was  the  leading  coun- 
sel on  the  part  of  the  colony,  was  so  hoarse 
that  he  could  hardly  make  himself  heard; 
and  Mr.  Lee,  who  was  the  second,  spoke  but 
feebly  in  reply  ;  so  that  Mr.  Wedderburn 
had  a  complete  triumph.  At  the  sallies  of 
his  sarcastic  wit  all  the  members  of  the 
council,  the  president  himself  (Lord  Gower) 
not  excepted,  frequently  laughed  outright. 
No  person  belonging  to  the  council  behaved 
with  decent  gravity,  except  Lord  North, 
who,  corning  late,  took  his  stand  behind  the 
chair  opposite  to  me. 

When  the  business  was  over,  Dr.  Frank- 


252 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


lin,  in  going  out,  took  me  by  the  hand,  in  a 
manner  that  indicated  some  feeling.  I  soon 
followed  him,  and  going  through  the  ante- 
room, saw  Mr.  Wedderburn  there  surrounded 
with  a  circle  of  his  friends  and  admirers. 
Being  known  to  him,  he  stepped  forwards  as 
if  to  speak  to  me ;  but  I  turned  .aside,  and 
made  what  haste  I  could  out  of  the  place. 

The  next  morning  I  breakfasted  with  the 
doctor,  when  he  said,  "  lie  had  never  before 
been  so  sensible  of  the  power  of  a  good 
conscience  ;  for  that,  if  he  had  not  considered 
the  thing  for  which  he  had  been  so  much  in- 
sulted as  one  of  the  best  actions  of  his  life, 
and  what  he  should  certainly  do  again  in 
the  same  circumstances,  he  could  not  have 
supported  it."  lie  was  accused  of  clandes- 
tinely procuring  certain  letters,  containing 
complaints  against  the  governor,  and  send- 
ing them  to  America  with  a  view  to  excite 
their  animosity  against  him,  and  thus  to  em- 
broil the  two  countries.  But  he  assured  me 
that  he  did  not  even  know  that  such  letters 
existed  till  they  were  brought  to  him  as 
agent  for  the  colony,  in  order  to  be  sent  to 
his  constituents  :  and  the  cover  of  the  letters 
on  which  the  direction  had  been  written 
being  lost,  he  only  guessed  at  the  person 
to  whom  they  were  addressed  by  the  con- 
tents. 

That  Dr.  Franklin,  notwithstanding  he  did 
not  show  it  at  the  time,  was  much  impressed 
by  the  business  of  the  privy-council,  ap- 
peared from  this  circumstance:  when  he  at- 
tended there,  he  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of 
Manchester  velvet;  and  Silas  Deane  told  me 
that,  when  they  met  at  Paris  to  sign  the 
treaty  between  France  and  America  he  pur- 
posely put  on  that  suit. 

Hoping  that  this  communication  will  be 
of  some  service  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Frank- 
lin, and  gratify  his  friends,  I  am,  sir,  yours, 
&c.  J.  PRIESTLEY. 

Monthly  Magazine,  Feb.  1803. 


JAMES  BEATTIE,  LL.D., 

born  1735,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy 
and  Logic  in  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen, 
from  1760  until  within  a  short  time  before 
his  death  in  1803,  published  in  1770  An 
Essay  on  Truth  (7th  edit.,  Lond.,  1807, 
8vo),  intended  as  an  antidote  to  the  scepti- 
cal philosophy  of  Hume;  in  1771  Book 
First,  and  in  1774  Book  Second  (Book 
Third  by  Mr.  Merivale,  1808,  4to),  of  The 
Minstrel  (with  other  Poems,  and  Life  by 
Alex.  Chalmers,  Lond.,  1811,  12mo)  ;  in 
1776,  Edin.,  4to,  a  new  edition  of  An  Essay 
on  Truth,  with  Essays  on  Poetry  and  Music, 
etc. ;  in  1786,  Lond.,  "2  vols.  8vo,  Disserta- 


tions Moral  and  Critical ;  in  the  same  year, 
Lond.,  2  vols.  I2mo,  Evidences  of  the  Chris- 
tian Religion,  reprinted  1788,  2  vols.,  1814, 
1  vol.  ;  in  1788,  8vo,  Theory  of  Language 
(first  published  in  his  Dissertations,  vupra)] 
in  1790-93,  2  vols.  8vo.  Elements  of  Moral 
Science,  reprinted,  Edin.,  1807,  2  vols.  8vo, 
and  in  1817,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  in  1779,  Lond., 
12mo,  he  published  the  Miscellanies  of  his 
son,  James  Hay  Beattie.  See  Account  of 
the  Life  and  Writings  of  James  Beattie, 
LL.D.,  including  many  of  his  Original  Let- 
ters, by  Sir  W.  Forbes,  Edin.,  18()ii,  2  vols. 
4to,  some  large  paper ;  again,  1807,  3  vols. 
8vo,  and  1824,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"  Beattie,  the  most  agreeable  and  amiable  writer 
I  ever  met  with,  the  only  author  I  have  seen 
whose  critical  and  philosophical  researches  are 
diversified  and  embellished  by  a  poetical  imagina- 
tion, that  makes  even  the  driest  subject  and  the 
leanest  a  feast  for  an  epicure  in  books.  He  is  so 
much  at  his  ease,  too,  that  his  own  character  ap- 
pears in  every  page,  and,  which  is  very  rare,  we 
see  not  only  the  writer,  but  the  man  ;  and  the  man 
so  gentle,  so  well-tempered,  so  happy  in  his  religion, 
and  so  humane  in  his  philosophy,  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  love  him  if  one  has  any  sense  of  what  is 
lovely." — Cow  PER. 

"  Superior  to  the  whole  crew  of  Scotch  metaphy- 
sicians."— BISHOP  WARBURTON. 

To  THE  RIGHT   IIox.  THE  DOWAGER   LADY 
FORCES. 

ABERDEEN,  "12th  October,  1772. 
I  wish  the  merit  of  the  "  Minstrel"  were 
such  .as  would  justify  all  the  kind  things 
you  have  said  of  it.  That  it  has  merit, 
every  body  would  think  me  a  hypocrite  if  I 
were  to  deny  :  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  it 
has  even  considerable  merit ;  and  I  acknowl- 
edge, with  much  gratitude,  that  it  has  ob- 
tained from  the  public  a  reception  far  more 
favourable  than  I  expected.  There  are  in 
it  many  passages,  no  doubt,  which  I  admire 
more  than  others  do ;  and,  perhaps,  there 
are  some  passages  which  others  are  more 
struck  with  than  I  am.  In  all  poetry  this. 
I  believe,  is  the  case,  more  or  less  ;  but  it  is 
much  more  the  case  in  poems  of  a  senti- 
mental cast,  such  as  the  "  Minstrel"  is,  than  in 
those  of  the  narrative  species.  In  epic  and 
dramatic  poesy  there  is  a  standard  acknowl- 
edged, by  which  we  may  estimate  the  merit 
of  the  piece:  whether  the  narrative  be  prob- 
able, and  the  characters  well  drawn  and  well 
preserved  ;  whether  all  the  events  be  con- 
ducive to  the  catastrophe ;  whether  the  action 
is  unfolded  in  such  a  way  as  to  command  per- 
petual attention,  and  undiminished  curiosity, 
— these  are  points  of  which,  in  reading  an 
epic  poem,  or  tragedy,  every  reader  possessed 
of  good  sense,  or  tolerable  knowledge  of  the 
art,  may  hold  himself  to  be  a  competent 
judge.  Common  life,  and  the  general  tenour 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


253 


of  human  affairs,  is  the  standard  to  which 
these  points  may  be  referred,  and  according 
to  which  they  may  be  estimated.  But  of 
sentimental  poetry  (if  I  may  use  the  ex- 
pression) there  is  no  external  standard.  By 
it  the  heart  of  the  reader  must  be  touched 
at  once,  or  it  cannot  be  touched  at  all. 
Here  the  knowledge  of  critical  rules,  and 
a  general  acquaintance  of  human  affairs, 
will  not  form  a  true  critic:  sensibility  and 
a  lively  imagination  are  the  qualities  which 
alone  constitute  a  true  taste  for  sentimental 
poetry.  Again,  your  ladyship  must  have 
observed  that  some  sentiments  are  common 
to  all  men  ;  others  peculiar  to  persons  of  a 
certain  character.  Of  the  former  sort  are 
those  which  Gray  has  so  elegantly  expressed 
in  his  "  Church-yard  Elegy,''  a  poem  which 
is  universally  understood  and  admired,  not 
only  for  its  poetical  beauties,  but  also,  and 
perhaps  chiefly,  for  its  expressing  senti- 
ments in  which  every  man  thinks  himself 
interested,  and  which,  at  certain  times,  are 
familiar  to  all  men.  Now  the  sentiments 
expressed  in  the  "  Minstrel,"  being  not  com- 
mon to  all  men,  but  peculiar  to  persons  of  a 
certain  cast,  cannot  possibly  be  interesting, 
because  the  generality  of  readers  will  not 
understand  nor  feel  them  so  thoroughly  as 
to  think  them  natural.  That  a  boy  should 
take  pleasure  in  darkness  or  a  storm,  in  the 
noise  of  thunder,  or  the  glare  of  lightning; 
should  be  more  gratified  with  listening  to 
music  at  a  distance  than  Avith  mixing  in 
the  merriment  occasioned  by  it;  should  like 
better  to  see  every  bird  happy  and  free  than 
to  exert  his  ingenuity  in  destroying  or  en- 
snaring them, — these  and  such  like  senti- 
ments, which,  I  think,  would  be  natural  to 
persons  of  a  certain  cast,  will,  I  know,  be 
condemned  as  unnatural  by  others  who  have 
never  felt  them  in  themselves,  nor  observed 
them  in  the  generality  of  mankind.  Of  all 
this  I  was  sufficiently  aware  before  I  pub- 
lished the  "  Minstrel,"  and,  therefore,  never 
expected  that  it  would  be  a  popular  poem. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  'structure  of  the  verse 
(which,  though  agreeable  to  some,  is  not 
to  all)  and  the  scarcity  of  incidents  may 
contribute  to  make  it  less  relished  than  it 
would  have  been  if  the  plan  had  been  differ- 
ent in  these  particulars. 

From  the  questions  your  ladyship  is 
pleased  to  propose  in  the  conclusion  of 
your  letter,  as  well  as  from  some  things  I 
have  had  the  honour  to  hear  you  advance 
in  conversation,  I  find  you  are  willing  to 
suppose  that  in  Edwin  I  have  given  only  a 
picture  of  myself,  as  I  was  in  my  younger 
days.  I  confess  the  supposition  is  not 
groundless.  I  have  mnde  him  take  pleas- 
ure in  the  scenes  in  which  I  took  pleas- 
ure, and  entertain  sentiments  similar  to 


those  of  which,  even  in  my  early  youth,  I 
had  repeated  experience.  The  scenery  of  a 
mountainous  country,  the  ocean,  the  sky, 
thoughtfulness  and  retirement,  and  some- 
times melancholy  objects  and  ideas,  had 
charms  in  my  eyes,  even  when  I  was  a 
school-boy ;  and  at  a  time  when  I  was  so 
far  from  being  able  to  express,  that  I  did 
not  understand,  my  own  feelings,  or  per- 
ceive the  tendency  of  such  pursuits  and 
amusements;  and  as  to  poetry  and  music, 
before  I  was  ten  years  old  I  could  play  a 
little  on  the  violin,  and  was  as  much  master 
of  Homer  and  Virgil  as  Pope's  and  Dryden's 
translations  could  make  me.  But  I  am 
ashamed  to  write  so  much  on  a  subject  so 
trifling  as  myself  and  my  own  works.  Be- 
lieve me,  madam,  nothing  but  your  ladyship's 
comments  could  have  induced  me  to  do  it. 

O.v  THE  LOVE  OF  NATURE. 

Homer's  beautiful  description  of  the 
heavens  and  earth,  as  they  appear  in  a  calm 
evening  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars, 
concludes  with  this  circumstance. — "And 
the  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  glad."  Madame 
Daeier,  from  the  turn  she  gives  to  the  pas- 
sage in  her  version,  seems  to  think,  and 
Pope,  in  order  perhaps  to  make  out  his 
couplet,  insinuates,  that  the  gladness  of  the 
shepherd  is  owing  to  his  sense  of  the  utility 
of  those  luminaries.  And  this  may  in  part 
be  the  case;  but  this  is  not  in  Homer-,  nor 
is  it  a  necessary  consideration.  It  is  true 
that,  in  contemplating  the  material  universe, 
they  who  discern  the  causes  and  effects  of 
things  must  be  more  rapturously  entertained 
than  those  who  perceive  nothing  but  shape 
and  size,  colour  and  motion.  Yet,  in  the 
mere  outside  of  nature's  works  (if  I  may  so 
express  myself),  there  is  a  splendour  and  a 
magnificence  which  even  untutored  minds 
cannot  attend  without  great  delight. 

Not  that  all  peasants  or  all  philosophers 
are  equally  susceptible  of  these  charming 
impressions.  It  is  strange  to  observe  the 
callousness  of  some  men  before  whom  all 
the  glories  of  heaven  and  earth  pass  in  daily 
succession,  without  touching  their  hearts, 
elevating  their  fancy,  or  leaving  any  durable 
remembrance.  Even  of  those  who  pretend 
to  sensibility  how  many  are  there  to  whom 
the  lustre  of  the  rising  or  setting  sun,  the 
sparkling  concave  of  the  midnight  sky,  the 
mountain  forest  tossing  and  roaring  to  the 
storm,  or  warbling  with  all  the  melodies  of 
a  summer  evening;  the  sweet  interchange 
of  hill  and  dale,  shade  and  sunshine,  grove, 
lawn,  and  water,  which  an  extensive  land- 
scape offers  to  the  view  ;  the  scenery  of  the 
ocean,  so  lovely,  so  majestic,  and  so  tremen- 
dous, and  the  many  pleasing  varieties  of  the 
animal  and  vegetable  kingdom,  could  never 


254 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


afford  so  much  real  satisfaction  as  the  steams 
and  noise  of  a  ball-room,  the  insipid  fiddling 
and  squeaking  of  an  opera,  or  the  vexations 
and  wranglings  of  a  card-table  I 

But  some  minds  there  are  of  a  different 
make,  who,  even  in  the  early  part  of  life, 
receive  from  the  contemplation  of  nature  a 
species  of  delight  which  they  would  hardly 
exchange  for  any  other  ;  and  who,  as  avarice 
and  ambition  are  not  the  infirmities  of  that 
period,  would,  with  equal  sincerity  and 
rapture,  exclaim, — 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny  : 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace  ; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening 

face; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns  by  living  streams  at  eve." 

Such  minds  have  always  in  them  the  seeds 
of  true  taste,  and  frequently  of  imitative 
genius.  At  least,  though  their  enthusiastic 
or  visionary  turn  of  mind,  as  the  man  of  the 
world  would  call  it,  should  not  always  in- 
cline them  to  practise  poetry  or  painting,  we 
need  not  scruple  to  affirm  that,  without  some 
portion  of  this  enthusiasm,  no  person  ever 
became  a  true  poet  or  painter.  For  he  who 
would  imitate  the  works  of  nature  must 
first  accurately  observe  them,  and  accurate 
observation  is  to  be  expected  from  those  only 
who  take  great  pleasure  in  it. 

To  a  mind  thus  disposed,  no  part  of  crea- 
tion is  indifferent.  In  the  crowded  city  and 
howling  wilderness,  in  the  cultivated  prov- 
ince and  solitary  isle,  in  the  flowery  lawn 
and  craggy  mountain,  in  the  murmur  of  the 
rivulet  and  in  the  uproar  of  the  ocean,  in 
the  radiance  of  summer  and  gloom  of  winter, 
in  the  thunder  of  heaven  and  in  the  whisper 
of  the  breeze,  he  still  finds  something  to 
rouse  or  to  soothe  his  imagination,  to  draw 
forth  his  affections,  or  to  employ  his  under- 
standing. And  from  every  mental  energy 
that  is  not  attended  with  pain,  and  even 
from  some  of  those  that  are,  as  moderate 
terror  and  pity,  a  sound  mind  derives  satis- 
faction :  exercise  being  equally  necessary  to 
the  body  and  the  soul,  and  to  both  equally 
productive  of  health  and  pleasure. 

This  happy  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of 
nature  should  be  cherished  in  young  per- 
sons. It  engages  them  to  contemplate  the 
Creator  in  his  wonderful  works;  it  purifies 
and  harmonizes  the  soul,  and  prepares  it 
for  moral  and  intellectual  discipline;  it  sup- 
plies a  never-failing  source  of  amusement ; 
it  contributes  even  to  bodily  health  ;  and,  as 
a  strict  analogy  subsists  between  material 
and  moral  beauty,  it  leads  the  heart  by  an 
easy  transition  from  the  one  to  the  other, 
and  thus  recommends  virtue  for  its  transcen- 
dent loveliness,  and  makes  vice  appear  the 


object  of  contempt  and  abomination.  An 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  best  descrip- 
tive poets, — Spenser,  Milton,  and  Thomson, 
but  above  all  with  the  divine  Georgics, — 
joined  to  some  practice  in  the  art  of  draw- 
ing, will  promote  this  amiable  sensibility 
in  early  years  ;  for  then  the  face  of  nature 
has  novelty  superadded  to  its  other  charms, 
the  passions  are  not  pre-engaged,  the  heart 
is  free  from  care,  and  the  imagination  is 
warm  and  romantic. 

But  not  to  insist  longer  on  those  ardent 
emotions  that  are  peculiar  to  the  enthusiastic 
disciple  of  nature,  may  it  not  be  affirmed  of 
all  men  without  exception,  or  at  least  of  all 
the  enlightened  part  of  mankind,  that  they 
are  gratified  by  the  contemplation  of  things 
natural  as  opposed  to  unnatural?  Mon- 
strous sights  please  but  for  a  moment,  if  they 
please  at  all  ;  for  they  derive  their  charm 
from  the  beholder's  amazement,  which  is 
quickly  over.  I  have  read,  indeed,  of  a  man 
of  rank  in  Sicily  who  chooses  to  adorn  his 
villa  with  pictures  and  statues  of  most 
unnatural  deformity;  but  it  is  a  singular 
instance  ;  and  one  would  not  be  much  more 
surprised  to  hear  of  a  person  living  without 
food,  or  growing  fat  by  the  use  of  poison.  To 
say  of  anything  that  it  is  contrary  to  nature 
denotes  censure  and  disgust  on  the  part  of 
the  speaker ;  as  the  epithet  natural  intimates 
an  agreeable  quality,  and  seems  for  the  most 
part  to  imply  that  a  thing  is  as  it  ought  to 
be,  suitable  to  our  own  taste,  and  congenial 
with  our  own  constitution.  Think  with 
what  sentiments  we  should  peruse  a  poem 
in  which  nature  was  totally  misrepresented, 
and  principles  of  thought  and  of  operation 
supposed  to  take  place  repugnant  to  every- 
thing we  had  seen  or  heard  of:  in  which, 
for  example,  avarice  and  coldness  were 
ascribed  to  youth,  and  prodigality  and  pas- 
sionate attachment  to  the  old ;  in  which 
men  were  made  to  act  at  random,  sometimes 
according  to  character,  and  sometimes  con- 
trary to  it;  in  which  cruelty  and  envy  were 
productive  of  love,  and  beneficence  and  kind 
affection  of  hatred ;  in  which  beauty  was 
invariably  the  object  of  dislike,  and  ugli- 
ness of  desire  ;  in  which  society  was  ren- 
dered happy  by  atheism  and  the  promiscuous 
perpetration  of  crimes,  and  justice  and  forti- 
tude were  held  in  universal  contempt.  Or 
think  how  we  should  relish  a  painting 
where  no  regard  was  had  to  the  propor- 
tions, colours,  or  any  of  the  physical  laws 
of  nature  ;  where  the  eyes  and  ears  of  ani- 
mals were  placed  in  their  shoulders ;  where 
the  sky  was  green  and  the  grass  crimson ; 
where  trees  grew  with  their  branches  in  the 
earth,  and  their  roots  in  the  air;  where  men 
were  seen  fighting  after  their  heads  were  cut 
off,  ships  sailing  on  the  land,  lions  entangled 


RICHARD   WATSON. 


255 


in  cobwebs,  sheep  preying  on  dead  carcasses, 
fishes  sporting  in  the  woods,  and  elephants 
walking  on  the  sea.  Could  such  figures  and 
combinations  give  pleasure,  or  merit  the  ap- 
pellation of  sublime  or  beautiful?  Should 
we  hesitate  to  pronounce  their  author  mad? 
And  are  the  absurdities  of  madmen  proper 
subjects  either  of  amusement  or  of  imitation 
to  reasonable  beings  ? 
Essays. 


RICHARD   WATSON,  D.D., 

born  1737,  Bishop  of  LlnndafF,  1782,  died 
1816,  published  Institutionum  Chemicarum, 
Pars  Metallurgies,  Camb.,  1768,  8vo;  Essay 
on  the  Subjects  of  Chemistry  and  their  Gen- 
eral Divisions,  1771,  8vo  ;  An  Apology  for 
Christianity,  in  a  Series  of  Letters  to  Ed- 
ward Gibbon,  1770,  12mo,  6th  edit.,  Lond., 
1797,  12uio;  Chemical  Essays,  1781-87,  5 
vols.  12mo,  7th  edit.,  18UO,  5  vols.  12mo; 
Collection  of  Theological  Tracts,  Camb., 
1785,  6  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  Lond.,  1791,  6 
vols.  8vo,  large  paper,  royal  8vo ;  Sermons, 
Camb.,  1788,  8vo ;  An  Apology  for  the 
Bible,  in  a  Scries  of  Letters  addressed  to 
Thomas  Paine,  Lond.,  1796,  12mo,  8th  edit., 
1799 ;  Miscellaneous  Tracts,  1815,  2  vols. 
8vo;  and  other  publications.  See  Anecdotes 
of  his  Life  by  Himself,  1817,  4to,  2d  edit., 
1818,  2  vols.  8vo,  Phila.,  1818,  8vo. 

"  His  autobiography  affords  a  singular  display 
of  great  tulents,  high  independence,  iinJ  disap- 
pointed pride." — OKME  :  liibl.  Bib.,  460. 

CHRISTIANITY  AND  NATURAL  RELIGION. 

GENTLEMEN, — Suppose  the  mighty  work 
accomplished,  the  cross  trampled  upon, 
Christianity  everywhere  proscribed,  and  the 
religion  of  nature  once  more  become  the 
religion  of  Europe ;  what  advantage  will 
you  have  derived  to  your  country,  or  to 
yourselves,  from  the  exchange?  I  know 
your  answer. — you  will  have  freed  the  world 
from  the  hypocrisy  of  priests  and  the  tyr- 
anny of  superstition.  No;  you  forget  that 
Lycurgus,  and  Numa,  and  Odin,  and  Mango- 
Copac,  and  all  the  great  legislators  of  ancient 
or  modern  story,  have  been  of  the  opinion 
that  the  affairs  of  civil  society  could  not  well 
be  conducted  without  some  religion ;  you 
must  of  necessity  introduce  a  priesthood, 
with,  probably,  as  much  hypocrisy ;  a  reli- 
gion with,  assuredly,  more  superstition  than 
that  which  you  now  reprobate  with  such  in- 
decent and  ill-grounded  contempt.  But  I 
will  tell  you  from  what  you  will  have  freed 
the  world :  you  will  have  freed  it  from  its 
abhorrence  of  vice,  and  from  every  powerful 
incentive  to  virtue  ;  you  will,  with  the  re- 
ligion, have  brought  back  the  depraved  mo- 


rality of  Paganism ;  you  will  have  robbed 
mankind  of  their  firm  assurance  of  another 
life ;  and  thereby  you  will  have  despoiled 
them  of  their  patience,  of  their  humility, 
of  their  charity,  of  their  chastity,  of  all 
those  mild  and  silent  virtues  which  (however 
despicable  they  may  appear  in  your  eyes) 
are  the  only  ones  which  meliorate  and  sub- 
lime our  nature  ;  which  Paganism  never 
knew,  which  spring  from  Christianity  alone, 
which  do  or  might  constitute  our  comfort  in 
this  life,  and  without  the  possession  of  which, 
another  life,  if  after  all  there  should  happen 
to  be  one,  must  be  more  vicious  and  more 
miserable  than  this  is,  unless  a  miracle  be 
exerted  in  the  alteration  of  our  disposition. 

Perhaps  you  will  contend  that  the  univer- 
sal light  of  religion,  that  the  truth  and  fit- 
ness of  things,  are  of  themselves  sufficient 
to  exalt  the  nature  and  regulate  the  man- 
ners of  mankind.  Shall  we  never  have  done 
with  this  groundless  commendation  of  nat- 
ural law?  Look  into  the  first  chapter  of 
Paul's  epistle  to  the  Romans,  and  you  will 
see  the  extent  of  its  influence  over  the  Gen- 
tiles of  those  days;  or,  if  you  dislike  Paul's 
authority  and  the  manners  of  antiquity,  look 
into  the  more  admired  accounts  of  modern 
voyagers,  and  examine  its  influence  over  the 
Pagans  of  our  own  times,  over  the  sensual 
inhabitants  of  Otaheite,  over  the  cannibals 
of  New  Zealand,  or  the  remorseless  savages 
of  America.  But  these  men  are  Barbarians. 
— Your  law  of  nature,  notwithstanding,  ex- 
tends even  to  them, — but  they  have  mis- 
used their  reason, — they  have  then  the  more 
need  of.  and  would  be  more  than  thankful 
for,  that  revelation  which  you,  with  an  ig- 
norant and  fastidious  self-sufficiency,  deem 
useless.  But  they  might,  of  themselves,  if 
they  thought  fit,  become  wise  and  virtuous. 
— I  answer  with  Cicero,  Ut  nihil  interest, 
utrum  nemo  valeat,  au  nemo  valere  possit ; 
sic  non  intelligo  quid  intersit,  utrum  nemo 
sit  sapiens,  au  nemo  esse  possit. 

These,  however,  you  will  think,  are  ex- 
traordinary instances ;  and  that  we  ought  not 
from  these  to  take  our  measure  of  the  excel- 
lency of  the  law  of  nature  ;  but  rather  from 
the  civilized  states  of  China  and  Japan,  or 
from  the  nations  which  flourished  in  learn- 
ing and  arts  before  Christianity  was  heard 
of  in  the  world.  You  mean  to  say  that  by 
the  law  of  nature,  which  you  are  desirous  of 
substituting  in  the  room  of  the  gospel,  you 
do  not  understand  those  rules  of  conduct 
which  an  individual,  abstracted  from  the 
community,  and  deprived  of  the  institution 
of  mankind,  could  excogitate  for  himself; 
but  such  a  system  of  precepts  as  the  most 
enlightened  men  of  the  most  enlightened 
ages  have  recommended  to  our  observance. 
Where  do  you  find  this  system  ?  We  cannot 


256 


EDWARD    GIBBON. 


meet  with  it  in  the  works  of  Stobaeus,  or 
the  Scythian  Anacharsis,  nor  in  those  of 
Plato,  nor  in  Cicero,  nor  in  those  of  the 
Emperor  Antoninus,  or  the  slave  Epictetus  : 
for  we  are  persuaded  that  the  most  animated 
considerations  of  the  wfen-oy,  and  the  hones- 
tum,  of  the  beauty  of  virtue,  and  the  fit- 
ness of  things,  are  not  able  to  furnish  even 
a  Brutus  himself  with  permanent  princi- 
ples of  action  ;  much  less  are  they  able 
to  purify  the  polluted  recesses  of  a  vitiated 
heart,  to  curb  the  irregularities  of  appetite, 
or  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  passion  in 
common  men.  If  you  order  us  to  examine 
the  works  of  Grotius,  or  Puffendorf,  of  Bur- 
lamaqui,  or  Ilutchinson,  for  what  you  un- 
derstand by  the  law  of  nature,  we  appre- 
hend that  you  are  in  a  great  error  in  taking 
your  notions  of  natural  law,  as  discoverable 
by  natural  reason,  from  the  elegant  systems 
of  it  which  have  been  drawn  up  by  Chris- 
tian philosophers;  since  they  have  all  laid 
their  foundations,  either  tacitly  or  expressly, 
upon  a  principle  derived  from  revelation, 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  being  and  at- 
tributes of  God  :  and  even  those  amongst 
ourselves  who.  rejecting  Christianity,  still 
continue  Theists,  are  indebted  to  revelation 
(whether  you  are  either  aware  of,  or  disposed 
to  acknowledge,  the  debt  or  not)  for  those 
sublime  speculations  concerning  the  Deity, 
which  you  have  fondly  attributed  to  the 
excellency  of  your  own  unassisted  reason. 
If  you  would  know  the  real  strength  of  nat- 
ural reason,  and  how  far  it  can  proceed  in 
the  investigation  or  enforcement  of  moral 
duties,  you  must  consult  the  manners  and 
the  writings  of  those  who  have  never  heard 
of  either  the  Jewish  or  the  Christian  dispen- 
sation, or  of  those  other  manifestations  of 
himself  which  God  vouchsafed  to  Adam  and 
to  the  patriarchs  before  and  after  the  flood. 
It  would  be  difficult  perhaps  any  where  to 
find  a  people  entirely  destitute  of  tradition- 
ary notices  concerning  a  deity,  and  of  tra- 
ditionary fears  or  expectations  of  another 
life  ;  and  the  morals  of  mankind  may  have, 
perhaps,  been  no  where  quite  so  abandoned 
as  they  would  have  been  had  they  been  left 
wholly  to  themselves  in  these  points:  how- 
ever, it  is  a  truth  which  cannot  be  denied, 
how  much  soever  it  may  be  lamented,  that 
though  the  generality  of  mankind  have 
always  had  some  faint  conception  of  God 
and  his  providence ;  yet  they  have  been 
always  greatly  inefficacious  in  the  produc- 
tion of  good  morality,  and  highly  deroga- 
tory to  his  nature,  amongst  all  the  people 
of  the  earth  except  the  Jews  and  Chris- 
tians; and  some  may  perhaps  be  desirous 
of  excepting  the  Mahometans,  who  derive 
all  that  is  good  in  their  Koran  from  Chris- 
tianity. 


EDWARD   GIBBON, 

born  at  Putney,  Surrey,  England,  1737, 
spent  fourteen  months  at  Magdalene  Col- 
lege, Oxford;  in  1753  abjured,  at  the  feet 
of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  in  London,  what 
he  considered  the  errors  of  Protestantism  : 
eighteen  months  afterwards,  on  Christinas, 
1754.  received  the  sacrament  in  theCalvin- 
istic  church  at  Lausanne;  in  1761,  Lond., 
small  8vo  (in  English,  Lond.,  1764,  sm.  8vo) 
published,  in  French,  Essai  sur  1'etude  de  la 
Litterature ;  in  1767-68,  Lond.,  2  vols. 
sin.  8vo,  published  in  conjunction  with  his 
friend  Deyverdun,  Memoires  Litteraires  de 
la  Grande  Bretagne,  1767  et  1768;  from 
1768  was  employed  chiefly  in  the  composition 
of  his  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire,  Lond.,  1776-88,  6  vols.  4to; 
from  1783  to  1793  resided  at  Lausanne, 
where,  in  1789,  he  lost  by  death  his  attached 
friend  Deyverdun,  in  whose  house  he  had 
resided  since  his  settlement  in  Switzerland  ; 
died  at  the  house  of  Lord  Sheffield,  London, 
Jan.  16,  1794.  Referring  to  his  admission 
to  the  Protestant  church  at  Lausanne,  Gib- 
bon remarks :  '•  It  was  here  that  I  suspended 
my  religious  inquiries,  acquiescing  with  im- 
plicit belief  in  the  tenets  and  mysteries 
which  are  adopted  by  the  general  consent 
of  Catholics  and  Protestants."  Gibbon  "  no- 
where openly  avows  his  disbelief,"  and  it 
is  impossible  to  discover  from  his  writings 
and  recorded  conversation  how  far  his  faith 
went. 

See  the  Miscellaneous  "Works  of  Edward 
Gibbon,  Esq.,  with  Memoirs  of  his  Life  and 
Writings,  Composed  by  Himself:  Illustrated 
from  his  Letters,  with  Occasional  Notes  and 
Narrative,  bv  John,  Lord  Sheffield,  Lond., 
1799-1815,  3"  vols.  4to  (vols.  i.  and  ii.,  Dubl., 
1796,  3  vols.  8vo;  Basil,  1796-97,  7  vols. 
8vo) ;  Lond.,  1814,  5  vols.  8vo,  large  paper, 
r.  8vo;  1837,  8vo;  Life  [autobiography], 
with  Selections  from  his  Correspondence, 
and  Illustrations,  by  the  Rev.  II.  II.  Mil- 
man,  Lond.,  1839.  8vo. 

As  regards  Gibbon's  History  we  recom- 
mend the  third  edition  of  Milman's  edition, 
with  Additional  Notes  by  Dr.  Win.  Smith, 
portrait  and  maps,  Lond.,  Murray,  1854-55, 
5  vols.  8vo. 

"This  book,  in  spite  of  its  faults,  will  always 
be  a  noble  work.  .  .  .  We  may  correct  his  errors, 
and  combat  his  prejudices,  without  ceasing  to  admit 
that  few  men  have  combined,  if  we  are  not  to  sny 
in  so  high  a  degree,  at  least  in  a  manner  so  com- 
plete and  so  well  regulated,  the  necessary  qualifi- 
cations for  a  writer  of  history." — GUIZOT.  See 
Lond.  Qitar.  Ken.,  \.  290. 

"Whenever  the  subject  is  suited  to  his  style,  nnd 
when  his  phlegmatic  temper  is  warmed  by  those 
generous  emotions  of  which,  as  we  have  said,  it 
was  sometimes  susceptible,  he  exhibits  his  ideas 
in  the  most  splendid  and  imposing  forms  of 


EDWARD    GIBBON. 


which  the  English  language  is  capable.'1 — WM.  H. 
PRESCOTT  :  Biog.  and  Crit.  Miscellanies. 

OPINIONS   OF   THE   ANCIENT   PHILOSOPHERS 
ox  THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE  SOUL. 

The  writings  of  Cicero  represent  in  the 
most  lively  colours  the  ignorance,  the  errors, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  the  ancient  philoso- 
phers with  regard  to  the  immortality  of  the 
soul.  When  they  are  desirous  of  arming 
their  disciples  against  the  fear  of  death, 
they  inculcate,  as  an  obvious  though  melan- 
choly position,  that  the  fatal  stroke  of  our 
dissolution  releases  us  from  the  calamities 
of  life  ;  and  that  those  can  no  longer  suffer 
who  no  longer  exist.  Yet  there  were  a  few 
sages  of  Greece  and  Rome  who  had  con- 
ceived a  more  exalted  and,  in  some  respects, 
a  justcr  idea  of  human  nature;  though  it 
must  be  confessed  that  in  the  sublime  in- 
quiry their  reason  had  often  been  guided 
by  their  imagination,  and  that  their  imagi- 
nation had  been  prompted  by  their  vanity. 
When  they  viewed  with  complacency  the 
extent  of  their  own  mental  powers;  when 
they  exercised  the  various  faculties  of 
memory,  of  fancy,  and  of  judgment,  in  the 
most  profound  speculations,  or  the  most  im- 
portant labours  ;  and  when  they  reflected  on 
the  desire  of  fame,  which  transported  them 
into  future  ages,  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
death  and  of  the  grave;  they  were  unwill- 
ing to  confound  themselves  with  the  beasts 
of  the  field,  or  to  suppose  that  a  being  for 
whose  dignity  they  entertained  the  most 
sincere  admiration  could  be  limited  to  a 
spot  of  earth,  and  to  a  few  years  of  dura- 
tion. With  this  favourable  prepossession 
they  summoned  to  their  aid  the  science,  or 
rather  the  language,  of  metaphysics.  They 
soon  discovered,  that  as  none  of  the  proper- 
ties of  matter  will  apply  to  the  operations 
of  the  mind,  the  human  soul  must  conse- 
quently be  a  substance  distinct  from  the 
body, — pure,  simple,  and  spiritual,  incap- 
able of  dissolution,  and  susceptible  of  a 
much  higher  degree  of  virtue  and  happiness 
after  the  release  from  its  corporeal  prison. 
From  these  specious  and  noble  principles 
the  philosophers  who  trod  in  the  footsteps 
of  Plato  deduced  a  very  unjustifiable  con- 
clusion, since  they  asserted  not  only  the 
future  immortality,  but  the  past  eternity, 
of  the  human  soul,  which  they  were  too  apt 
to  consider  as  a  portion  of  the  infinite  and 
self-existing  spirit  which  pervades  and  sus- 
tains the  universe.  A  doctrine  thus  removed 
beyond  the  senses  and  the  experience  of  man- 
kind might  serve  to  amuse  the  leisure  of  a 
philosophic  mind;  or,  in  the  silence  of  soli- 
tude, it  might  sometimes  impart  a  ray  of 
comfort  to  desponding  virtue  ;  but  the  faint 
impression  which  had  been  received  in  the 
17 


school  was  soon  obliterated  by  the  commerce 
and  business  of  active  life.  We  are  suffici- 
ently acquainted  with  the  eminent  persona 
who  flourished  in  the  age  of  Cicero,  and  of 
the  first  Caesars,  with  their  actions,  their 
characters,  and  their  motives,  to  be  assured 
that  their  conduct  in  this  life  was  never 
regulated  by  any  serious  conviction  of  the 
rewards  and  punishments  of  a  future  state. 
At  the  bar  and  in  the  senate  of  Rome  the 
ablest  orators  were  not  apprehensive  of  giv- 
ing offence  to  their  hearers  by  exposing  that 
doctrine  as  an  idle  and  extravagant  opinion, 
which  was  rejected  with  contempt. by  every 
man  of  a  liberal  education  and  understanding. 
Since,  therefore,  the  most  sublime  efforts 
of  philosophy  can  extend  no  farther  than 
feebly  to  point  out  the  desire,  the  hope,  or 
at  most  the  possibility,  of  a  future  state, 
there  is  nothing  except  a  divine  revelation 
that  can  ascertain  the  existence  and  describe 
the  condition  of  the  invisible  country  which 
is  destined  to  receive  the  souls  of  men  after 
their  separation  from  the  body. 

DESCRIPTION  OF  MAHOMET. 

According  to  the  tradition  of  his  com- 
panions Mahomet  was  distinguished  by  the 
beauty  of  his  person, — an  outward  gift  which 
is  seldom  despised  except  by  those  to  whom 
it  has  been  refused.  Before  he  spoke  the 
orator  engaged  on  his  side  the  affections 
of  a  public  or  private  audience.  They  ap- 
plauded his  commanding  presence,  his  ma- 
jestic aspect,  his  piercing  eye  ;  his  gracious 
smile,  his  flowing  beard,  his  countenance 
that  painted  every  sensation  of  the  soul,  and 
his  gestures  that  enforced  each  expression 
of  the  tongue.  In  the  familiar  offices  of 
life  he  scrupulously  adhered  to  the  grave 
and  ceremonious  politeness  of  his  country: 
his  respectful  attention  to  the  rich  and  pow- 
erful was  dignified  by  his  condescension 
and  affability  to  the  poorest  citizens  of 
Mecca;  the  frankness  of  his  manner  con- 
cealed the  artifice  of  his  views;  and  the 
habits  of  courtesy  were  imputed  to  personal 
friendship  or  universal  benevolence.  His- 
memory  was  capacious  and  retentive,  his 
wit  easy  and  social,  his  imagination  sublime, 
his  judgment  clear,  rapid,  and  decisive.  He 
possessed  the  courage  both  of  thought  and 
action  ;  and  although  his  designs  might 
gradually  expand  with  his  success,  the  first 
idea  which  he  entertained  of  his  divine  mis- 
sion bears  the  stamp  of  an  original  and  su- 
perior genius.  The  son  of  Abdallah  was 
educated  in  the  bosom  of  the  noblest  race, 
in  the  use  of  the  purest  dialect,  of  Arabia ; 
and  the  fluency  of  his  speech  was  corrected 
and  enhanced  by  the  practice  of  discreet 
and  sensible  silence.  With  these  powers  of 


258 


EDWARD    GIBBON. 


eloquence.  Mahomet  was  an  illiterate  bar- 
barian :  his  youth  had  never  been  instructed 
in  the  arts  of  reading  and  writing ;  the 
common  ignorance  exempted  him  from 
shame  and  reproach,  but  he  was  reduced  to 
a  narrow  circle  of  existence,  and  deprived 
of  those  faithful  mirrors  which  reflect  to 
our  mind  the  minds  of  sages  and  heroes. 
Yet  the  book  of  nature  and  of  man  was 
open  to  his  view  ;  and  some  fancy  has  been 
indulged  in  the  political  and  philosophical 
observations  which  are  ascribed  to  the  Ara- 
bian traveller.  He  compares  the  nations 
and  religions  of  the  earth  ;  discovers  the 
weakness  of  the  Persian  and  Roman  mon- 
archies ;  beholds  with  pity  and  indignation 
the  degeneracy  of  the  times ;  and  resolves 
to  unite,  under  one  God  and  one  king,  the 
invincible  spirit  and  primitive  virtues  of  the 
Arabs. 

Our  more  accurate  inquiry  will  suggest 
that,  instead  of  visiting  the  courts,  the 
camps,  the  temples  of  the  east,  the  two 
journeys  of  Mahomet  into  Syria  were  con- 
fined to  the  fairs  of  Bostra  and  Damascus  ; 
that  he  was  only  thirteen  years  of  age  when 
he  accompanied  the  caravan  of  his  uncle, 
and  that  his  duty  compelled  him  to  return 
as  soon  as  he  had  disposed  of  the  merchan- 
dise of  Cadijah.  In  these  hasty  and  super- 
ficial excursions  the  eye  of  genius  might 
discern  some  objects  invisible  to  his  grosser 
companions  :  some  seeds  of  knowledge  might 
be  cast  upon  a  fruitful  soil ;  but  his  igno- 
rance of  the  Syriac  language  must  have 
checked  his  curiosity,  and  I  cannot  perceive 
in  the  life  or  writings  of  Mahomet  that  his 
prospect  was  far  extended  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  Arabian  world.  From  every  region 
of  that  solitary  world  the  pilgrims  of  Mecca 
were  annually  assembled  by  the  calls  of  de- 
votion and  commerce  :  in  the  free  concourse 
of  multitudes,  a  simple  citizen,  in  his  native 
tongue,  might  study  the  political  state  and 
character  of  the  tribes,  the  theory  and  prac- 
tice of  the  Jews  and  Christians.  Some  use- 
ful strangers  might  be  tempted  or  forced  to 
implore  the  rites  of  hospitality ;  and  the 
enemies  of  Mahomet  have  named  the  Jew, 
the  Persian,  and  the  Syrian  monk,  whom 
they  accuse  of  lending  their  aid  to  the  com- 
position of  the  Koran.  Conversation  en- 
riches the  understanding,  but  solitude  is  the 
school  of  genius;  and  the  uniformity  of  a 
work  denotes  the  hand  of  a  single  artist. 
From  his  earliest  youth  Mahomet  was  ad- 
dicted to  religious  contemplation  :  each  year, 
during  the  month  of  Ramadan,  he  withdrew 
from  the  world  and  from  the  arms  of  Ca- 
dijah: in  the  cave  of  Hera,  three  miles  from 
Mecca,  he  consulted  the  spirit  of  fraud  or  en- 
thusiasm, whose  abode  is  not  in  the  heavens 
but  in  the  mind  of  the  prophet.  The  faith 


which,  under  the  name  of  Islam,  lie  preached 
to  his  family  and  nation,  is  compounded 
of  an  eternal  truth  and  a  necessary  fiction. — 
that  there  is  only  one  God,  and  that  Ma- 
homet is  the  apostle  of  God. 

History  of  the  Decline   and  Fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire. 

ON  READING. 

"  Reading  is  to  the  mind,"  said  the  Duke 
of  Vivonne  to  Louis  XIV.,  "what  your 
partridges  are  to  my  chops."  It  is  in  fact 
the  nourishment  of  the  mind  :  for  by  reading 
we  know  our  Creator,  his  works,  ourselves 
chiefly,  and  our  fellow-creatures.  But  this 
nourishment  is  easily  converted  into  poison. 
Salmasius  had  read  as  much  as  Grotius, 
perhaps  more;  but  their  different  modes  of 
reading  made  the  one  an  enlightened  phi- 
losopher, and  the  other,  to  speak  plainly,  a 
pedant,  puffed  up  with  a  useless  erudition. 

Let  us  read  with  method,  and  propose  to 
ourselves  an  end  to  which  all  our  studies 
may  point.  Through  neglect  of  this  rule, 
gross  ignorance  often  disgraces  great  read- 
ers :  who,  by  skipping  hastily  and  irregu- 
larly from  one  subject  to  another,  render 
themselves  incapable  of  combining  their 
ideas.  So  many  detached  parcels  of  knowl- 
edge cannot  form  a  whole.  This  inconstancy 
weakens  the  energies  of  the  mind,  creates 
in  it  a  dislike  to  application,  and  even  roba 
it  of  the  advantages  of  natural  good  sense. 

Yet  let  us  avoid  the  contrary  extreme,  and 
respect  method,  without  rendering  ourselves 
its  slaves.  While  we  propose  an  end  in  our 
reading,  let  not  this  end  be  too  remote ; 
and  when  once  we  have  attained  it,  let  our 
attention  be  directed  to  a  different  subject. 
Inconstancy  weakens  the  understanding ;  a 
long  and  exclusive  application  to  a  single 
object  hardens  and  contracts  it.  Our  ideas 
no  longer  change  easily  into  a  different 
channel,  and  the  course  of  reading  to  which 
we  have  too  long  accustomed  ourselves  is  the 
only  one  that  we  can  pursue  with  pleasure. 

\Ve  ought,  besides,  to  be  careful  not  to 
make  the  order  of  our  thoughts  subservient 
to  that  of  our  subjects;  this  would  be  to 
sacrifice  the  principal  to  the  accessory.  The 
use  of  our  reading  is  to  aid  us  in  thinking. 
The  perusal  of  a  particular  work  gives  birth, 
perhaps,  to  ideas  unconnected  with  the  sub- 
ject of  which  it  treats.  I  wish  to  pursue 
these  ideas  ;  they  withdraw  me  from  ray 
proposed  plan  of  reading,  and  throw  me  into 
a  new  track,  and  from  thence,  perhaps,  into 
a  second  and  a  third.  At  length  I  begin  to 
perceive  whither  my  researches  tend.  Their 
results  perhaps,  may  be  profitable;  it  is 
worth  while  to  try  :  whereas,  had  I  followed 
the  high  road,  I  should  not  have  been  able, 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON. 


259 


at  the  end  of  my  long  journey,  to  retrace 
the  progress  of  my  thoughts. 

Tliis  plan  of  reading  is  not  applicable  to 
our  early  studies,  since  the  severest  method 
is  scarcely  sufficient  to  make  us  conceive 
objects  altogether  new.  Neither  can  it  be 
adopted  by  those  who  read  in  order  to  write, 
and  who  ought  to  dwell  on  their  subject  till 
they  have  sounded  its  depths.  These  reflec- 
tions, however,  I  do  not  absolutely  warrant. 
On  the  supposition  that  they  are  just,  they 
may  be  so,  perhaps,  for  myself  alone.  The 
constitution  of  minds  differs  like  that  of 
bodies ;  the  same  regimen  will  not  suit  all. 
Each  individual  ought  to  study  his  own. 

To  read  with  attention,  exactly  to  define 
the  expressions  of  our  author,  never  to  ad- 
mit a  conclusion  without  comprehending  its 
reason,  often  to  pause,  reflect,  and  interro- 
gate ourselves,  these  are  so  many  advices 
which  it  is  easy  to  give,  but  difficult  to  fol- 
low. The  same  may  be  said  of  that  almost 
evangelical  maxim  of  forgetting  friends, 
country,  religion,  of  giving  merit  its  due 
praise,  and  embracing  truth  wherever  it  is 
to  lie  found. 

But  what  ought  we  to  read?  Each  indi- 
vidual must  answer  this  question  for  him- 
self, agreeably  to  the  object  of  his  studies. 
The  only  general  precept  that  I  would  ven- 
ture to  give  is  that  of  Pliny,  "to  read 
much,  rather  than  many  things,"  to  make  a 
careful  selection  of  the  best  works,  and  to 
render  them  familiar  to  us  by  attentive  and 
repeated  perusals.  Without  expatiating  on 
the  authors  so  generally  known  and  ap- 
proved, I  would  simply  observe,  that  in 
matters  of  reasoning,  the  best  are  those 
who  have  augmented  the  number  of  useful 
truths  ;  who  have  discovered  truths,  of  what- 
ever nature  they  may  be;  in  one  word, 
those  bold  spirits  who,  quitting  the  beaten 
track,  prefer  being  in  the  wrong  alone  to 
being  in  the  right  with  the  multitude.  Such 
authors  increase  the  number  of  our  ideas, 
and  even  their  mistakes  are  useful  to  their 
successors.  With  all  the  respect  due  to 
Mr.  Locke,  I  would  not,  however,  neglect 
the  works  of  those  academicians  who  destroy 
errors  without  hoping  to  substitute  truth  in 
their  stead.  In  works  of  fancy,  invention 
ought  to  bear  away  the  palm;  chiefly  that 
invention  which  creates  a  new  kind  of 
writing;  and  next,  that  which  displays  the 
charms  of  novelty  in  its  subject,  character, 
situation,  pictures,  thoughts,  and  sentiments. 
Yet  this  invention  will  miss  its  effect  un- 
less it  be  accompanied  Avith  a  genius  capa- 
ble of  adapting  itself  to  every  variety  of 
the  subject. — successively  sublime,  pathetic, 
flowery,  majestic,  and  playful  :  and  with  a 
judgment  which  admits  nothing  indecorous, 
and  a  style  which  expresses  well  whatever 


ought  to  be  said.  As  to  compilations  which 
are  intended  merely  to  treasure  up  the 
thoughts  of  others,  i  ask  whether  they  are 
written  with  perspicuity,  whether  superflu- 
ities are  lopped  off,  and  dispersed  observa- 
tions skilfully  collected:  and  agreeably  to 
my  answers  to  those  questions  I  estimate 
the  merit  of  such  performances. 
Abstract  of  my  Readings,  Preface. 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON, 

born  at  Shadwell,  Albemarle  County.  Vir- 
ginia, April  2,  1743,  became  a  member  of 
the  National  Congress,  1775,  and  in  177(5 
reported  the  celebrated  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence, of  which  he  has  the  credit 
of  the  authorship ;  Governor  of  Virginia, 
1779-1781,  member  of  Congress,  1783,  Min- 
ister of  the  United  States  at  Paris,  1785- 
1789,  Secretary  of  State,  1789-1793,  Vice- 
President  of  the  United  States,  1797-1801, 
and  President  of  the  Republic,  1801-1809, 
died  July  4,  1826.  See  The  Writings  of 
Thomas  Jefferson  ;  being  his  Autobiography, 
Correspondence,  Reports,  Messages,  Ad- 
dresses, and  other  Writings,  etc.,  edited  by 
II.  A.  Washington,  New  York,  1854,  9  vols. 
8vo  ;  and  The  Life  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  by 
Henry  S.  llandall,  LL.D.,  New  York,  1857, 
3  vols.  8vo.  Mr.  Jefferson's  best-known 
work  is  Notes  on  the  State  of  Virginia, 
Paris,  1782  (really  1784),  8vo:  200  copies 
privately  printed;  in  French,  by  the  Abbe 
Morellet,  with  some  alterations  by  the  au- 
thor, Paris,  1786,  8vo ;  in  English,  Lond., 
1787,  8vo  :  other  editions. 

"  The  merit  of  this  paper  [Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence] is  Mr.  Jefferson's.  Some  changes  were 
made  in  it  at  the  suggestion  of  other  members  of 
the  committee,  and  others  by  Congress  while  it 
was  under  discussion.  But  none  of  them  altered 
the  tone,  the  frame,  the  arrangement,  or  the  gen- 
eral character  of  the  instrument.  As  a  composi- 
tion, the  Declaration  is  Mr.  Jefferson's.  It  is  the 
production  of  his  mind,  and  the  high  honour  of  it 
belongs  to  him  clearly  and  absolutely.  To  say 
that  he  performed  his  great  work  well  would  be 
doing  him  injustice.  To  say  thnt  he  did  excel- 
lently well,  admirably  well,  would  be  inadequate 
and  halting  praise.  Let  us  rather  say  that  he  so 
discharged  the  duty  assigned  him,  that  all  Ameri- 
cans may  well  rejoice  that  the  work  of  drawing  the 
title-deed  of  their  liberties  devolved  upon  him." — 
DANIEL  WEBSTER  :  Discourse  in  Commemoration 
of  the  Lives  and  Services  of  John  Adams  <nid 
Thomas  Je/er son  :  Webster's 'Works,  1854,  i.  126, 
127. 

"  After  Washington  and  Franklin,  there  is  no 
person  who  fills  so  eminent  a  place  among  the  great 
men  of  America  as  Jefferson." — LORD  BROUGHAM  : 
Eilin.  Rev.,  1837,  and  in  his  Contrib.  to  Ediit.  Rev., 
1856,  iii.  443. 


2GO 


WILLIAM  PALEY. 


CHARACTER  OF  FRANKLIN. 

To  DOCTOR  WILLIAM  SMITH,  PROVOST  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA,  PHILADEL- 
PHIA. 

I  feel  both  the  wish  and  the  duty  to  com- 
municate, in  compliance  with  your  request, 
whatever,  within  my  knowledge,  might  ren- 
der justice  to  the  memory  of  our  great 
countryman,  Dr.  Franklin,  in  whom  philos- 
ophy has  to  deplore  one  of  its  principal 
luminaries  extinguished.  But  my  opportu- 
nities of  knowing  the  interesting  facts  of  his 
life  have  not  been  equal  to  my  desire  of 
making  them  known. 

I  can  only,  therefore,  testify,  in  general, 
that  there  appeared  to  me  more  respect  and 
veneration  attached  to  the  character  of  Dr. 
Franklin  in  France  than  to  that  of  any 
other  person  in  the  same  country,  foreign  or 
native.  I  had  opportunities  of  knowing 
particularly  how  far  these  sentiments  were 
felt  by  the  foreign  ambassadors  and  minis- 
ters at  the  court  of  Versailles.  The  fable 
of  his  capture  by  the  Algerines,  propagated 
by  the  English  newspapers,  excited  no  un- 
easiness, as  it  was  seen  at  once  to  be  a  dish 
cooked  up  to  please  certain  readers  ;  but 
nothing  could  exceed  the  anxiety  of  his  dip- 
lomatic brethren  on  a  subsequent  report  of 
his  death,  which,  although  premature,  bore 
some  marks  of  authenticity. 

I  found  the  ministers  of  France  equally 
impressed  with  his  talents  and  integrity. 
The  Count  de  Vergennes,  particularly,  gave 
me  repeated  and  unequivocal  demonstrations 
of  his  entire  confidence  in  him. 

When  he  left  Passy  it  seemed  as  if  the 
village  had  lost  its  patriarch.  On  taking 
leave  of  the  court,  which  he  did  by  letter, 
the  king  ordered  him  to  be  handsomely  com- 
plimented, and  furnished  him  with  a  litter 
and  mules  of  his  own,  the  only  kind  of  con- 
veyance the  state  of  his  health  could  bear. 

The  succession  to  Dr.  Franklin  at  the 
court  of  France  was  an  excellent  school  of 
humility  to  me.  On  being  presented  to  any 
one,  as  the  minister  of  America,  the  com- 
monplace question  was,  "  (Test  vous,  mon- 
sieur, qui  remplacez  le  Docteur  Franklin?" 
Is  it  you,  sir,  who  replace  Dr.  Franklin? 
I  generally  answered,  "  No  one  can  replace 
him,  sir;  I  am  only  his  successor." 

I  could  here  relate  a  number  of  those 
bon  mots  with  which  he  was  wont  to  charm 
every  society  as  having  heard  many  of  them  ; 
but  these  are  not  your  object.  Particulars 
of  greater  dignity  happened  not  to  occur 
during  his  stay  of  nine  months  after  my  ar- 
rival in  France. 

A  little  before  that  time,  Argand  had  in- 
vented his  celebrated  lamp,  in  which  the 
flame  is  spread  into  a  hollow  cylinder,  and 


thus  brought  into  contact  with  the  air.  with- 
in as  well  as  without.  Dr.  Franklin  had 
been  on  the  point  of  the  same  discovery. 
The  idea  had  occurred  to  him :  but  lie  had 
tried  a  bulrush  as  a  wick,  which  did  not 
succeed.  His  occupations  did  not  permit 
him  to  repeat  and  extend  his  trials  to  the 
introduction  of  a  larger  column  of  air  than 
could  puss  through  the  stem  of  a  bulrush. 

About  that  time,  also,  the  king  of  France 
gave  him  a  signal  testimony  of  respect,  by 
joining  him  with  some  of  the  most  illus- 
trious men  of  the  nation,  to  examine  that 
ignis-fatuus  of  philosophy,  the  animal  mag- 
netism of  the  maniac  Mesmer  ;  the  pretended 
effects  of  which  had  astonished  all  Paris. 
From  Dr.  Franklin's  hand,  in  conjunction 
with  his  brethren  of  the  learned  committee, 
that  compound  of  fraud  and  folly  was  un- 
veiled, and  received  its  death-wound.  After 
this  nothing  very  interesting  was  before  the 
public,  either  in  philosophy  or  politics,  dur- 
ing his  stay  ;  and  he  was  principally  occupied 
in  winding  up  his  affairs,  and  preparing  for 
his  return  to  America. 

These  small  offerings  to  the  memory  of 
our  great  and  dear  friend  (whom  time  will 
be  making  still  greater,  while  it  is  sponging 
us  from  its  records)  must  be  accepted  by 
you,  sir,  in  that  spirit  of  love  and  veneration 
for  him  in  which  they  are  made  ;  and  not 
according  to  their  insignificancy  in  the  eyes 
of  a  world  which  did  not  want  this  mite  to 
fill  up  the  measure  of  his  worth. 

His  death  was  an  affliction  which  was  to 
happen  to  us  at  some  time  or  other.  We 
have  reason  to  be  thankful  he  was  so  long 
spared  ;  that  the  most  useful  life  should  be 
the  longest  also ;  that  it  was  protracted  so 
far  beyond  the  ordinary  space  allotted  to 
humanity,  as  to  avail  us  of  his  wisdom  and 
virtue  in  the  establishment  of  our  freedom 
in  the  west;  and  to  bless  him  with  a  view 
of  its  dawn  in  the  east,  where  men  seemed 
till  now  to  have  learned  everything — but 
how  to  be  free. 


WILLIAM    PALEY,    D.D., 

born  1743,  Senior  Wrangler,  Fellow,  and 
tutor  of  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  Pre- 
bendary of  Carlisle,  1780,  Archdeacon  of 
Carlisle,  1782,  Chancellor  of  Carlisle,  1785, 
Prebendary  of  St.  Paul's,  1793,  and  rector 
of  Bishop  Wearmouth  from  1795  until  his 
death,  1805,  gained  great  reputation  by  The 
Principles  of  Moral  and  Political  Philoso- 
phy, Lond.,  1785, 4to,  Iloroe  Paulinae,  Lond., 
1790,  8vo,  A  View  of  the  Evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity, Lond.,  1794,  3  vols.  12mo,  and  Nat- 
ural Theology,  Lond.,  1802.  8vo,  with  Notes 
by  Lord  Brougham  and  Sir  Charles  Bell, 


WILLIAM  PALEY. 


261 


Lond.,  1835-39,  5  vols.  p.  8vo.  Paley's  En- 
tire Works,  with  an  Account  of  his  Life  and 
Writings,  by  his  son,  Lond.,  1825,  7  vols. 
8vo. 

"All  the  theological  works  of  all  the  numerous 
bishops  whom  he  [Pitt]  made  and  translated  are 
not,  when  put  together,  worth  fifty  pages  of  the 
Horse  Paulinas,  of  the  Natural  Philosophy,  or  of 
the  View  of  the  Evidences  of  Christianity.  But 
on  Paley  this  all-pyweri'ul  minister  never  bestowed 
the  smallest  bcnetice." — LORD  MACAULAY:  Life  of 
Pitt,  in  EHCIJC.  liril.,  8th  edit.,  xvii.,  1859. 

THE  DIVINE  BENEVOLENCE. 

When  God  created  the  human  species, 
either  he  wished  their  happiness,  or  he 
wished  their  misery,  or  he  was  indifferent 
and  unconcerned  about  both. 

If  he  had  wished  our  misery,  he  might 
have  made  sure  of  his  purpose  by  forming 
our  senses  to  be  so  many  sores  and  pains  to 
us,  as  they  are  now  instruments  of  gratifi- 
cation and  enjoyment,  or  by  placing  us 
amidst  objects  so  ill  suited  to  our  percep- 
tions as  to  have  continually  offended  us,  in- 
stead of  ministering  to  our  refreshment  and 
delight.  He  might  have  made,  for  example, 
every  thing  we  tasted  bitter ;  every  thing 
we  saw  loathsome;  every  thing  we  touched 
a  sting;  every  smell  a  stench;  and  every 
sound  a  discord. 

If  he  had  been  indifferent  about  our  hap- 
piness or  misery,  we  must  impute  to  our 
good  fortune  (as  all  design  is  by  this  suppo- 
sition excluded)  both  the  capacity  of  our 
senses  to  receive  pleasure,  and  the  supply 
of  external  objects  fitted  to  produce  it.  But 
either  of  these  (and  still  more  both  of  them) 
being  too  much  to  be  attributed  to  accident, 
nothing  remains  but  the  first  supposition, 
that  God,  when  he  created  the  human  spe- 
cies, wished  their  happiness;  and  made  for 
them  the  provision  which  he  has  made,  with 
that  view,  and  for  that  purpose. 

The  same  argument  may  be  proposed  in 
different  terms,  thus :  Contrivance  proves 
design  :  and  the  predominant  tendency  of 
the  contrivance  indicates  the  disposition  of 
the  designer.  The  world  abounds  with  con- 
trivances; .and  all  the  contrivances  which 
we  are  acquainted  with  are  directed  to  bene- 
ficial purposes.  Evil,  no  doubt,  exists;  but 
is  never,  that  we  can  perceive,  the  object  of 
contrivance.  Teeth  are  contrived  to  eat,  not 
to  ache  ;  their  aching  now  and  then  is  inci- 
dental to  the  contrivance,  perhaps  insepara- 
ble from  it ;  or  even,  if  you  will,  let  it  be 
called  a  defect  in  the  contrivance ;  but  it  is 
not  the  object  of  it.  This  is  a  distinction 
which  well  deserves  to  be  attended  to.  In 
describing  instruments  of  husbandry  you 
would  hardly  say  of  the  sickle  that  it  is 
made  to  cut  the  reaper's  fingers,  though, 


from  the  construction  of  the  instrument, 
and  the  manner  of  using  it,  this  mischief 
often  happens. 

But  if  you  had  occasion  to  describe  in- 
struments of  torture  or  execution,  This  en- 
gine, you  would  say,  is  to  extend  the  sinews : 
this  to  dislocate  the  joints;  this  to  break  the 
bones ;  this  to  scorch  the  soles  of  the  feet. 
Here,  pain  and  misery  are  the  very  objects 
of  the  contrivance.  Now,  nothing  of  this 
sort  is  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  nature. 
We  never  discover  a  train  of  contrivance  to 
bring  about  an  evil  purpose.  No  anatomist 
ever  discovered  a  system  of  organization 
calculated  to  produce  pain  and  disease;  or, 
in  explaining  the  parts  of  the  human  body, 
ever  said  :  This  is  to  irritate,  this  to  inflame  ; 
this  duct  is  to  convey  the  gravel  to  the  kid- 
neys ;  this  gland  to  secrete  the  humour  which 
forms  the  gout:  if  by  chance  he  come  at  a 
part  of  which  he  knows  not  the  use,  the 
most  that  he  can  say  is,  that  it  is  useless: 
no  one  ever  suspects  that  it  is  put  there  to 
incommode,  to  annoy,  or  to  torment.  Since 
then  God  hath  called  forth  his  consummate 
wisdom  to  contrive  and  provide  for  our  hap- 
piness, and  the  world  appears  to  have  been 
constituted  with  this  design  at  first;  so  long 
as  this  constitution  is  upholden  by  him,  we 
must  in  reason  suppose  the  same  design  to 
continue. 

The  contemplation  of  universal  nature 
rather  bewilders  the  mind  than  affects  it. 
There  is  always  a  bright  spot  in  the  pros- 
pect upon  which  the  eye  rests;  a  single 
example,  perhaps,  by  which  each  man  finds 
himself  more  convinced  than  by  all  others 
put  together.  I  seem,  for  my  own  part,  to 
see  the  benevolence  of  the  Deity  more  clearly 
in  the  pleasures  of  very  young  children  than 
in  any  thing  in  the  world.  The  pleasures 
of  grown  persons  may  be  reckoned  partly 
of  their  own  procuring;  especially  if  there 
has  been  any  industry  or  contrivance,  or 
pursuit,  to  come  at  them  ;  or  if  they  are 
founded,  like  music,  painting,  &c.,  upon 
any  qualification  of  their  own  acquiring. 
But  the  pleasures  of  a  healthy  infant  are 
so  manifestly  proy-ided  for  it  by  another,  and 
the  benevolence  of  the  provision  is  so  un- 
questionable, that  every  child  I  see  at  its 
sports  affords  to  my  mind  a  kind  of  sensible 
evidence  of  the  finger  of  God,  and  of  the 
disposition  which  directs  it. 

But  the  example  which  strikes  each  man 
most  strongly  is  the  true  example  for  him: 
and  hardly  two  minds  hit  upon  the  same : 
which  shows  the  abundance  of  such  exam- 
ples about  us. 

We  conclude,  therefore,  that  God  wills 
and  wishes  the  happiness  of  his  creatures. 
And  this  conclusion  being  once  established, 
we  are  at  liberty  to  go  on  with  the  rule 


262 


HENRY  MACKENZIE. 


built  upon  it,  namely,  "  that  the  method  of 
coming  at  the  will  of  God,  concerning  any 
action,  by  the  light  of  nature,  is  to  inquire 
into  the  tendency  of  that  action  to  promote 
or  diminish  the  general  happiness." 
Moral  and  Pout.  Pkilos.,  Chap.  v. 


HENRY  MACKENZIE, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1745,  Comptroller  of 
Taxes  for  Scotland  from  18U4  until  his 
death,  in  1831,  was  author  of  The  Man  of 
Feeling,  a  Novel,  1771,  8vo,  anonymous, 
and  claimed  by  Mr.  Eccles,  of  Bath  ;  The 
Man  of  the  World,  a  Novel,  1773,  2  vols. 
12mo ;  The  Prince  of  Tunis,  a  Tragedy, 
1773,  8vo  ;  Julia  de  lloubigne,  a  Talc,  1777, 
2  vols.  8vo ;  Translations  from  the  German 
of  Lessing's  Set  of  Horses,  and  some  other 
dramatic  pieces,  1791,  12mo;  also,  minor 
publications.  Works,  Edin.,  1808,  8  vols. 
crown  8vo. 

"The  principal  object  of  Mackenzie,  in  all  his 
novels,  has  been  to  reach  and  sustain  a  tone  of 
moral  pathos,  by  representing  the  effect  of  inci- 
dents, whether  important  or  trifling,  upon  the 
human  mind,  nnd  especially  on  those  which  are 
not  only  just,  honourable,  and  intelligent,  but  so 
framed  as  to  be  responsive  to  those  finer  feelings 
to  which  ordinary  hearts  are  callous." — SIR  WAL^ 
TEH  SCOTT  :  Life  of  Mackenzie. 

THE  DEATH  OF  HARLEV. 
"There  are  some  remembrances,"  said 
Ilarley,  "  which  rise  involuntarily  on  my 
heart,  and  make  me  almost  wish  to  live. 
I  have  been  blessed  with  a  few  friends  who 
redeem  my  opinion  of  mankind.  I  recollect 
with  the  tenderest  emotion  the  scenes  of 
pleasure  I  have  passed  among  them ;  but 
we  shall  meet  again,  my  friend,  never  to  be 
separated.  There  are  some  feelings  which 
perhaps  are  too  tender  to  be  suffered  by 
the  world.  The  world  is  in  general  selfish, 
interested,  and  unthinking,  and  throws  the 
imputation  of  romance  or  melancholy  on 
every  temper  more  susceptible  than  its  own. 
I  cannot  think  but  in  those  regions  which  I 
contemplate,  if  there  is  anything  of  mortality 
left  about  us,  that  these  feelings  will  subsist; 
they  are  called — perhaps  they  are — weak- 
nesses here  ;  but  there  may  be  some  better 
modifications  of  them  in  heaven,  which  may 
deserve  the  name  of  virtues."  He  sighed  as 
lie  spoke  these  last  words.  He  had  scarcely 
finished  them  when  the  door  opened,  and 
his  aunt  appeared,  leading  in  Miss  Walton. 
'•  My  dear,"  says  she,  "here  is  Miss  Walton, 
who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  come  and  inquire 
for  you  herself."  I  could  observe  a  tran- 
sient glow  upon  his  face,  lie  rose  from  his 
seat.  "  If  to  know  Miss  Walton's  goodness," 
said  he,  "be  a  title  to  deserve  it,  I  have  some 


claim."  She  begged  him  to  resume  his  seat, 
and  placed  herself  on  the  sofa  beside  him. 
I  took  my  leave.  Mrs.  Margery  accom- 
panied me  to  the  door.  He  was  left  with 
Miss  Walton  alone.  She  inquired  anxiously 
about  his  health.  "  I  believe."  said  he, 
"  from  the  accounts  which  my  physicians 
unwillingly  give  me,  that  they  have  no 
great  hopes  of  my  recovery."  She  started 
as  he  spoke ;  but  recollecting  herself  im- 
mediately, endeavoured  to  natter  him  into 
a  belief  that  his  apprehensions  were  ground- 
less. "I  know,"  said  he,  "that  it  is  usual 
with  persons  at  my  time  of  life  to  have  these 
hopes  which  your  kindness  suggests,  but  I 
would  not  wish  to  be  deceived.  To  meet 
death  as  becomes  a  man  is  a  privilege  be- 
stowed on  few.  I  would  endeavour  to  make 
it  mine  ;  nor  do  I  think  that  I  can  ever 
be  better  prepared  for  it  than  now :  it  is 
that  chiefly  which  determines  the  fitness 
of  its  approach."  "  Those  sentiments,1'  an- 
swered Miss  Walton,  "are  just;  but  your 
good  sense,  Mr.  Ilarley,  will  own  that  life 
has  its  proper  value.  As  the  province  of 
virtue,  life  is  ennobled;  as  such,  it  is  to  be 
desired.  To  virtue  has  the  Supreme  Direc- 
tor of  all  things  assigned  rewards  enough 
even  here  to  fix  its  attachment." 

The  subject  began  to  overpower  her.  Ilar- 
ley lifted  his  eyes  from  the  ground  :  "  There 
are,"  said  he,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  there 
are  attachments,  Miss  Walton."  His  glance 
met  hers.  They  both  betrayed  a  confusion, 
and  were  both  instantly  withdrawn.  He 
paused  some  moments :  "  I  am  in  such  a 
state  as  calls  for  sincerity,  let  that  also  ex- 
cuse it, — it  is  perhaps  the  last  time  we  shall 
ever  meet.  I  feel  something  particularly 
solemn  in  the  acknowledgment,  yet  my 
heart  swells  to  make  it,  awed  as  it  is  by 
a  sense  of  my  presumption,  by  a  sense 
of  your  perfections."  He  paused  again. 
"  Let  it  not  offend  you  to  know  their  power 
over  one  so  unworthy.  It  will,  I  believe, 
soon  cease  to  beat,  even  with  that  feeling 
which  it  shall  lose  the  latest.  To  love 
Miss  Walton  could  not  be  a  crime ;  if  to 
declare  it  is  one,  the  expiation  will  be 
made."  Her  tears  were  now  flowing  with- 
out control.  "Let  me  entreat  you,"  said 
she,  "  to  have  better  hopes.  Let  not  life 
be  so  indifferent  to  you,  if  my  wishes  can 
put  any  value  on  it.  I  will  not  pretend 
to  misunderstand  you, — I  know  your  worth, 
— I  have  known  it  long, — I  have  esteemed 
it.  What  would  you  have  me  say?  I  have 
loved  it  as  it  deserved."  He  seized  her 
hand,  a  languid  colour  reddened  his  cheek, 
a  smile  brightened  faintly  in  his  eye.  As 
he  gazed  on  her  it  grew  dim,  it  fixed,  it 
closed.  He  sighed,  and  fell  back  on  his 
seat.  Miss  Walton  screamed  at  the  sight. 


SIR   WILLIAM  JONES. 


263 


His  aunt  and  the  servants  rushed  into  the 
room.  They  found  them  lying  motionless 
together.  Ills  physician  happened  to  call 
at  that  instant.  Every  art  was  tried  to  re- 
cover them.  'With  Miss  Walton  they  suc- 
ceeded, but  Harley  was  gone  forever ! 
The  Man  of'  Feeling. 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES, 

born  in  1746,  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1774,  and  appointed  a  Commissioner  of 
Bankrupts,  1776;  Judge  of  the  Supreme 
Court  of  Judicature  at  Fort  William  in  Ben- 
gal from  1783  (when  he  was  knighted)  until 
his  death  at  Calcutta,  April  27,  1794.  He 
was  more  or  less  familiar  with  twenty-eight 
languages.  A  collective  edition  of  his 
Works — philological,  legal,  poetical,  trans- 
lations, etc. — was  published,  London,  1799, 
6  vols.  4to,  Supplement,  1801,  2  vols.  4to, 
Life  by  Lord  Teignmouth,  18U4,  4to :  in  all 
9  vols.  4to:  reprinted  (without  the  Supple- 
ment, which  were  not  written  by  Sir  Wil- 
liam, but  are  the  contributions  of  others  to 
the  Asiatic  Researches),  Lond.,  1807,  13 
vols.  8vo. 

"William  Jones  has  as  yet  had  no  rivals  in  the 
department  which  he  selected;  no  one  appears  to 
have  comprehended  as  he  did  the  antiquities  of 
Asia,  and,  above  all,  of  India,  with  the  acutcness 
of  a  philosopher,  or  to  have  seen  the  mode  of  rec- 
onciling every  thing  with  the  doctrine  and  history 
of  the  Scriptures." — FRED.  VON  SCHLKGEL:  Lects. 
on  the  Hist,  nf  Lit.,  Ancient  and  Modern,  Lect.  xiv. 
See  also  Lcc.t.  v. 

Of  the  inspired  volume  this  great  master 
of  Oriental  learning  thus  writes: 

"  I  have  regularly  and  attentively  read  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  and  am  of  opinion  that  this  volume, 
independent  of  its  divine  origin,  contains  more 
sublimity  and  beauty,  more  pure  morality,  more 
important  history,  and  finer  strains  of  poetry  and 
eloquence,  than  can  be  collected  from  all  other 
books,  in  whatever  language  or  age  they  may  have 
been  composed." 

To  which  we  may  appropriately  add  the 
following: 

"  I  find  more  sure  marks  of  the  authenticity  of 
the  Bible  than  in  any  profane  history  whatever." 
• — SIR  ISAAC  NEWTOX. 

and  both  of  these  great  men  illustrated  by 
their  lives  the  beneficial  influence  of  the  re- 
ligion in  which  they  thus  placed  their  trust. 

MILTON'S  COUNTRY  RETREAT. 

September  7,  1769. 
To  LADY  SPENCER. 

The  necessary  trouble  of  correcting  the 
first  printed  sheets  of  my  history  [Ilistoire 
de  Nader-Chan,  connu  sous  le  noia  de 


Tharnas-Kouli-Kan,  traduit  d'un  MS.  Per- 
san,  avec  un  Traite  sur  la  Poesie  Orientale, 
Londres,  1770,  2  vols.  in  1,  large  4to,  in 
English,  Lond.,  1773,  8vo]  prevented  me 
to-day  from  paying  a  proper  respect  to  the 
memory  of  Shakspeure,  by  attending  his 
jubilee.  But  I  was  resolved  to  do  all  the 
honour  in  my  power  to  as  great  a  poet,  and 
set  out  in  the  morning,  in  company  with  a 
friend,  to  visit  a  place  where  Milton  spent 
some  part  of  his  life,  and  where,  in  all  prob- 
ability, he  composed  several  of  his  earliest 
productions.  It  is  a  small  village,  situated 
on  a  pleasant  hill,  about  three  miles  from 
Oxford,  and  called  Forest  Hill,  because  it 
formerly  lay  contiguous  to  a  forest,  which 
has  since  been  cut  down.  The  poet  chose 
this  place  of  retirement  after  his  first  mar- 
riage, and  he  describes  the  beauties  of  his 
retreat  in  thatfine  passageof  hisL'  Allegro, — 

"Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  or  hillocks  green 
*  *  *  -£  a-  * 

While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand, 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land; 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe; 

And  ev'ry  shepherd  tells  his  tale, 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures : 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  grey, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  lab'ring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees, 

Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees. 

****** 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes, 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks,"  &e. 

It  was  neither  the  proper  season  of  the 
year,  nor  time  of  the  day,  to  hear  all  the 
rural  sounds,  and  see  all  the  objects  men- 
tioned in  this  description  ;  but  by  a  pleasing 
concurrence  of  circumstances,  we  were  sa- 
luted, on  our  approach  to  the  village,  with  the 
music  of  the  mower  and  his  scythe  ;  we  saw 
the  ploughman  intent  upon  his  labour,  and 
the  milkmaid  returning  from  her  country 
employment. 

As  we  ascended  the  hill,  the  variety  of 
beautiful  objects,  the  agreeable  stillness  and 
natural  simplicity  of  the  whole  scene,  gave 
us  the  highest  pleasure.  We  at  length 
reached  the  spot  whence  Milton  undoubtedly 
took  most  of  his  images:  it  is  on  the  top  of 
the  hill,  from  which  there  is  a  most  exten- 
sive prospect  on  all  sides:  the  distant  moun- 
tains, that  seemed  to  support  the  clouds,  the 
villages  and  turrets,  partly  shaded  with  trees 
of  the  finest  verdure,  and  partly  raised  above 
the  groves  that  surrounded  them,  the  dark 
plains  and  meadows  of  a  greyish  colour, 


264 


SIR   WILLIAM  JONES. 


where  the  sheep  were  feeding  at  large;  in 
short,  the  view  of  the  streams  and  rivers, 
convinced  us  that  there  was  not  a  single  use- 
less or  idle  word  in  the  above-mentioned  de- 
scription, but  that  it  was  a  most  exact  and 
lively  representation  of  nature.  Thus  will 
this  fine  passage,  which  has  always  been  ad- 
mired for  its  elegance,  receive  an  additional 
beauty  from  its  exactness.  After  we  had 
walked,  with  a  kind  of  poetical  enthusiasm, 
over  this  enchanted  ground,  we  returned  to 
the  village. 

The  poet's  house  was  close  to  the  church  ; 
the  greatest  part  of  it  has  been  pulled  down, 
and  what  remains  belongs  to  an  adjacent 
farm.  I  am  informed  that  several  papers 
in  Milton's  own  hand  were  found  by  the 
gentleman  who  was  last  in  possession  of  the 
estate.  The  tradition  of  his  having  lived 
there  is  current  among  the  villagers  :  one  of 
them  showed  us  a  ruinous  wall  that  made 
part  of  his  chamber;  and  I  was  much  pleased 
with  another,  who  had  forgotten  the  name 
of  Milton,  but  recollected  him  by  the  title 
of  The  Poet. 

It  must  not  be  omitted,  that  the  groves 
near  this  village  are  famous  for  nightingales, 
which  are  so  elegantly  described  in  the  Pen- 
seroso.  Most  of  the  cottage  windows  are 
overgrown  with  sweet-briars,  vines,  and 
honeysuckles;  and  that  Milton's  habitation 
had  the  same  rustic  ornament,  we  may  con- 
clude from  his  description  of  the  lark  bid- 
ding him  good-morrow, 

"Thro*  the  sweet-briar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 

for  it  is  evident  that  he  meant  a  sort  of 
honeysuckle  by  the  eglantine,  though  that 
word  is  commonly  used  for  the  sweet-briar, 
•which  he  could  not  mention  twice  in  the 
same  couplet. 

If  I  ever  pass  a  month  or  six  weeks  at 
Oxford  in  the  summer,  I  shall  be  inclined  to 
hire  and  repair  this  venerable  mansion,  and 
to  make  a  festival  for  a  circle  of  friends,  in 
honour  of  Milton,  the  most  perfect  scholar, 
as  well  as  the  sublimest  poet,  that  our  coun- 
try ever  produced.  Such  an  honour  will  be 
less  splendid,  but  more  sincere  and  respect- 
ful, than  all  the  pomp  and  ceremony  on  the 
banks  of  the  Avon.  I  have,  &c. 

Ox  SALLUST  AND  CICERO. 

Oct.  4,  1774. 
To  F.  P.  BAYER,  PRECEPTOR  TO  Dox  GABRIEL, 

IXFAXT  OF  SPAIN. 

I  can  scarcely  find  words  to  express  my 
thanks  for  your  obliging  present  of  a  most 
beautiful  and  splendid  copy  of  Sallust,  with 
an  elegant  Spanish  translation.  You  have 
bestowed  upon  me,  a  private,  untitled  indi- 


vidual, an  honour  which  heretofore  has  only 
been  conferred  upon  great  monarchs  and 
illustrious  universities.  I  really  was  at  loss 
to  decide  whether  I  should  begin  my  letter 
by  congratulating  you  on  having  so  excellent 
a  translator,  or  by  thanking  you  for  this 
agreeable  proof  of  your  remembrance.  I 
look  forward  to  the  increasing  splendour 
which  the  arts  and  sciences  must  attain  in  a 
country  where  the  son  of  the  king  possesses 
genius  and  erudition  capable  of  translating 
and  illustrating  with  learned  notes  the  first 
of  the  Roman  historians.  How  few  youths 
amongst  the  nobility  in  other  countries  pos- 
sess the  requisite  ability  or  inclination  for 
such  a  task!  T«he  history  of  Sallust  is  a 
performance  of  great  depth,  wisdom,  and 
dignity  to  understand  it  well  is  no  small 
praise ;  to  explain  it  properly  is  still  more 
commendable  ;  but  to  translate  it  elegantly, 
excites  admiration.  If  all  this  had  been 
accomplished  by  a  private  individual,  he 
would  have  merited  applause;  if  by  a  youth, 
he  would  have  had  a  claim  to  literary  hon- 
ours;  but  when  to  the  title  of  youth  that 
of  Prince  [Don  Gabriel,  Madrid,  1772,  fol.j 
is  added,  we  cannot  too  highly  extol,  or  too 
highly  applaud,  his  distinguished  merit. 

Many  years  are  elapsed  since  I  applied 
myself  to  the  study  of  your  learned  lan- 
guage, but  I  well  remember  to  have  read  in 
it,  with  great  delight,  the  heroic  poem  of 
Alonzo,  the  odes  of  Garcilasso,  and  the 
humorous  stories  of  Cervantes :  but  I  most 
sincerely  declare  that  I  never  perused  a 
more  elegant  or  polished  composition  than 
the  translation  of  Sallust;  and  I  readily 
subscribe  to  the  opinion  of  the  learned 
author  in  his  preface,  that  the  Spanish  lan- 
guage approaches  very  nearly  to  the  dignity 
of  the  Latin. 

May  the  accomplished  youth  continue  to 
deserve  well  of  his  country  and  mankind, 
and  establish  his  claim  to  distinction  above 
all  the  princes  of  his  age  !  If  I  may  be 
allowed  to  offer  my  sentiments,  I  would  ad- 
vise him  to  study  most  diligently  the  divine 
works  of  Cicero,  which  no  man,  in  my 
opinion,  ever  perused  without  improving  in 
eloquence  and  wisdom.  The  epistle  which 
he  wrote  to  his  brother  Quintus,  on  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  province,  deserves  to  be  daily 
repeated  by  every  sovereign  in  the  world  ; 
his  books  on  offices,  on  moral  ends,  and  the 
Tusculan  question,  merit  a  hundred  perusals; 
and  his  orations,  nearly  sixty  in  number,  de- 
serve to  be  translated  into  every  European 
language;  nor  do  I  scruple  to  affirm  that 
his  sixteen  books  of  letters  to  Atticus  are 
superior  to  almost  all  histories,  that  of  Sal- 
lust  excepted.  With  respect  to  your  own 
compositions,  I  have  read  with  great  atten- 
tion, and  will  again  read,  your  most  agree- 


JOSEPH   WHITE. 


265 


able  book.  I  am  informed  that  you  propose 
giving  a  Latin  translation  of  it,  and  I  hope 
you  will  do  it  for  the  benefit  of  foreigners. 
I  see  nothing  in  it  which  requires  alteration, 
• — nothing  which  is  not  entitled  to  praise.  I 
much  wish  that  you  would  publish  more  of 
your  treatises  on  the  antiquities  of  Asia  and 
Africa.  I  am  confident  they  would  be  most 
acceptable  to  such  as  study  those  subjects.  I 
have  only  for  the  present  to  conclude  by  bid- 
ding you  farewell  in  my  own  name  and  that 
of  the  republic  of  letters.  Farewell. 


JOSEPH    WHITE,  D.D., 

an  eminent  Orientalist,  the  son  of  a  weaver, 
and  born  1746,  Laudian  Professor  of  Arabic, 
Oxford,  1774,  Regius  Professor  of  Hebrew, 
Oxford,  1802,  died  1814,  gained  great  celeb- 
rity by  Sermons  Preached,  1784,  at  the  Lec- 
ture founded  by  the  Rev.  John  Bampton, 
containing  a  View  of  Christianity  and  Ma- 
hometanism,  in  their  History,  their  Evi- 
dence, and  their  Effects,  Oxford,  1784,  8vo, 
London,  1785,  8vo  :  unfortunately,  however, 
for  Dr.  White's  reputation,  it  was  discovered 
that  the  discourses  owed  much  of  their  merit 
to  the  Rev.  Samuel  Badcock  and  the  Rev. 
Samuel  Parr.  Dr.  White  also  published  a 
number  of  learned  Latin  treatises.  The 
Bampton  Lectures  are  commended  by  a 
great  authority  as 

"  Elegant  and  ingenious.  .  .  .  His  observations 
on  the  character  and  religion  of  Mahomet  are 
always  adapted  to  his  argument,  and  generally 
founded  in  truth  and  reason.  He  sustains  the 
part  of  a  lively  and  eloquent  advocate,  and  some- 
times rises  to  the  merit  of  an  historian  and  philo- 
sopher."— GIBBON:  Decline  and  Fad,  ch.  iii.,  n. 
See  also  I.,  n. 

CHRIST  AND  SOCRATES. 

I  beg  your  permission  to  introduce  some 
interesting  and,  I  hope,  not  impertinent  re- 
flections on  the  nature  of  that  historical  form 
in  which  the  Christian  Revelation  has  been 
transmitted  to  us. 

This  form  involves  the  correctness  of 
system  without  its  abstruseness,  and  the  en- 
ergy of  eloquence  without  its  ostentation. 
It  happily  unites  the  brightness  of  example 
with  the  precision  and  perspicuity  of  pre- 
cept. To  the  minuteness  of  detail  which 
belongs  to  biography,  it  adds  much  of  that 
regular  arrangement,  and  of  that  vivid  col- 
ouring by  which  the  more  eminent  writers 
of  poetry  have  endeavoured  to  mark  the 
distinguishing  and  appropriate  qualities  of 
their  favourite  heroes.  Instead  of  some- 
times amusing,  and  sometimes  astonishing, 
us  with  those  brilliant  but  indistinct  and 
fleeting  impressions  which  are  excited  by 


general  descriptions,  or  elaborate  panegy- 
ric, it  leads  us  through  a  series  of  uniform 
and  characteristic  actions  into  a  clear  and 
full  knowledge  of  the  agent.  It  enables 
and  gently  impels  the  mind  to  combine,  by 
its  own  operation,  all  the  detached  instances 
of  virtue  into  one  bright  assemblage.  It 
transports  the  imagination,  as  it  were,  into 
the  presence  of  the  person  whose  excellences 
are  recorded,  and  gives  all  the  sensibilities 
of  the  soul  an  immediate  and  warm  interest 
in  every  word  and  every  action.  Hence  the 
manner  in  which  the  sacred  writers  have 
described  the  actions  of  Christ  not  only  in- 
creases the  efficacy  of  His  instructions,  but 
constitutes  a  new,  a  striking,  and  peculiar 
species  of  evidence  for  the  truth  of  His 
religion. 

This  position  it  may  be  of  use  to  illustrate 
yet  further.  To  compare  the  character  of 
Socrates  with  that  of  Christ  is  foreign  to 
our  present  purpose  :  but  of  the  manner  in 
which  their  lives  have  been  respectively 
written  we  may  properly  take  some  notice. 
On  the  history  of  Socrates,  then,  have  been 
employed  the  exquisite  taste  of  Xenophon 
and  the  sublime  genius  of  Plato.  The  vir- 
tues of  this  extraordinary  man  are  selected 
by  them  as  the  noblest  subject  for  the  fullest 
display,  and  most  active  exertions  of  their 
talents  :  and  they  have  brought  to  the  task 
not  merely  the  sagacity  of  philosophers,  but 
the  affection  of  friends  and  the  zeal  of  en- 
thusiasts. 

Now  the  different  style  of  their  writings, 
and  the  different  tempers  as  well  as  capaci- 
ties of  the  writers  themselves,  have  produced 
some  variety  both  in  the  scenes  in  which  they 
have  exhibited  their  master  and  in  the  opin- 
ions which  they  have  ascribed  to  him.  But, 
in  the  composition  of  each,  Socrates  is  dis- 
tinguished by  a  noble  contempt  of  popular 
prejudice  and  perverted  science;  by  an 
ardent  admiration  and  steady  pursuit  of 
virtue;  by  an  anxious  concern  for  the  moral 
improvement  of  his  hearers;  and  by  an 
heroic  superiority  to  the  pleasures  of  life, 
and  to  the  terrors  of  impending  death.  What 
his  illustrious  biographers  have  performed 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  engage  the  attention 
and  excite  the  admiration  of  successive  ages, 
has  been  accomplished  with  yet  greater  suc- 
cess by  the  sacred  writers.  They  have  at- 
tained the  same  end  under  heavier  diffi- 
culties, and  by  the  aid  of  means  which,  if 
they  are  considered  as  merely  human,  must 
surely  be  deemed  inadequate  to  the  task 
which  they  undertook.  They  were  by  no 
means  distinguished  by  literary  attainments, 
or  by  intellectual  powers.  Their  education 
could  not  bestow  on  them  very  exalted  or 
correct  ideas  of  morality;  and  their  writings 
were  destitute  of  every  recommendation  from 


266 


ALEXANDER  FRASER    TYTLER. 


the  artificial  ornaments  of  style.  Yet  have 
these  four  unlearned  men  effected,  by  their 
artless  simplicity,  a  work  to  which  the  tal- 
ents of  the  two  greatest  writers  of  antiquity 
were  not  more  than  equal. 

They  have  exhibited  a  character  far  more 
lovely  in  itself,  and  far  more  venerable,  than 
fiction  lias  ever  painted  ;  and  in  their  mode 
of  exhibiting  it,  they  surpass  the  fidelity, 
the  distinctness,  and  precision  which  two 
of  the  most  celebrated  writers  have  been 
able  to  preserve,  when  exerting  the  whole 
powers  of  their  genius,  and  actuated  by  the 
fondest  attachment,  they  were  endeavouring 
to  do  justice  to  the  noblest  pattern  of  real 
virtue  of  which  antiquity  can  boast.  In 
Jesus  have  the  Evangelists  described  brighter 
and  more  numerous  virtues  than  Socrates  is 
said  even  by  his  professed  admirers  to  have 
possessed.  In  their  description  they  have, 
without  effort,  and  under  the  influence,  it 
must  be  allowed,  of  sincere  conviction  only, 
maintained  agreater  uniformity  than  the  most 
prejudiced  reader  can  discover  in  the  beauti- 
ful compositions  of  Plato  and  Xenophon. 

If  the  desire  of  communicating  their  own 
favourite  opinions,  or  the  mutual  jealousy 
of  literary  fame,  be  assigned  as  a  reason 
for  the  diversity  of  representation  in  the 
two  Greek  Avriters,  we  allow  the  probability 
of  both  suppositions  ;  but  we  contend  that 
each  of  these  motives  is  inconsistent  with 
that  love  of  truth  which  is  necessary  to  es- 
tablish the  credibility  of  a  biographer.  We 
also  contend  that  the  Evangelists  were  really 
possessed  of  this  excellent  quality  ;  that  they 
never  deviated  from  it  in  order  to  indulge 
their  enmity  or  envy  ;  and  that,  witli  appa- 
rent marks  of  difference  in  their  language, 
their  dispositions,  and,  perhaps,  in  their 
abilities,  they  have  yet  exhibited  the  char- 
acter of  Christ  the  most  striking,  if  their 
narratives  be  separately  considered  ;  and  the 
most  consistent,  if  they  be  compared  with 
each  other.  Be  it  observed  too,  that  the 
difficulty  of  preserving  that  consistence  in- 
creases both  with  the  peculiarity  and  mag- 
nitude of  the  excellences  described,  and  with 
the  number  of  the  persons  who  undertake 
the  office  of  describing  them. 

If  it  be  said  that  the  superior  pretensions 
of  Christ,  as  a  divine  teacher,  required  more 
splendid  virtues  than  what  are  expected  from 
Socrates,  who  taught  morality  upon  princi- 
ples of  human  reason  only,  whence  is  it  that 
the  unpolished,  uncultivated  minds  of  the 
Evangelists  should  even  conceive  a  more 
magnificent  character  than  the  imagination 
of  a  Plato  or  a  Xenophon  ?  What  aids  did 
they  apparently  possess  for  representing  it 
more  advantageously?  That  those  four  un- 
lettered men  should  have  drawn  such  a  char- 
acter, with  more  uniformity  in  the  whole, 


and  with  more  sublimity  in  the  parts,  is 
therefore  a  fact  which  can  be  accounted  for 
only  by  admitting  the  constant  and  imme- 
diate guidance  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  the  real 
existence  of  Christ's  perfections,  and  the 
strong  and  lasting  impression  they  made 
upon  those  who  conversed  with  him.  Those 
perfections  themselves  were,  indeed,  extraor- 
dinary both  in  kind  and  degree.  In  their 
kind  they  are  admirable  patterns  for  the  con- 
duct of  Christ's  followers  ;  and  in  their  de- 
gree, they  are  eminently  and  indisputably 
proportioned  to  the  transcendent  and  unri- 
valled dignity  of  his  own  mission. 

Sermons  before  the  University  of  Oxford,  at 
the  Bampton  Lecture,  178Jf. 


ALEXANDER  FRASER   TYT- 
LER, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1747,  was  from  1780  to 
1786  Conjunct-Professor  (with  John  Prin- 
gle),  and  from  1786  to  1800  sole  Professor, 
of  Civil  History  and  Greek  and  Roman  An- 
tiquities in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
Judge  Advocate  of  Scotland,  1790,  raised 
to  the  Bench  of  the  Court  of  Session  as  Lord 
Woodhouselee,  1802,  Lord  of  Justiciary, 
1811,  died  1813.  He  was  the  author  of 
Supplement  to  Lord  Kames's  Dictionary  of 
Decisions  to  1778,  Edin.,  1778,  fol.,  2d  edit., 
1797,  fol.,  Supplement  to  1796,  1797,  fol.; 
Plan  and  Outlines  of  a  Course  of  Lectures 
on  Universal  History,  Edin.,  1782,  8vo ; 
Lectures.  Lond.,  1834,  6  vols.  18mo;  Essay 
on  the  Life  and  Character  of  Petrarch :  to 
which  are  added  Seven  of  his  Sonnets,  trans- 
lated from  the  Italian,  Lond..  1785,  8vo, 
Edin.,  1810,  p.  8vo,  1812,  8vo;  Essay  on  the 
Principles  of  Translation,  Lond.,  1791,  8vo; 
England  Profiting  by  Example,  Edin.,  1799, 
8vo ;  Essay  on  the  Military  Law  and  the 
Practice  of  Courts-Martial,  Edin.,  1800,  8vo; 
Elements  of  General  History,  Ancient  and 
Modern,  Edin.,  1801,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  Memoirs 
of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  the  Hon.  Henry 
Home  of  Kames,  Edin.,  1807,  2  vols.  4to, 
large  paper,  r.  4to,  Supplement,  1810,  4to, 
large  paper,  r.  4to,  2d  edit.,  Edin.,  1814,  3 
vols.  8vo.  He  contributed  to  The  Mirror, 
The  Lounger,  etc. 

"Mr.  Mackenzie  returning  from  his  lordship's 
literary  retirement,  meeting  Mr.  Alison,  finely 
said  that  he  hoped  he  was  going  to  Woodhouselee; 
for  no  man  could  go  there  without  being  happier, 
or  return  from  it  without  being  better." 

SUFFERINGS  UNDER  AN  ECONOMICAL  WIFE. 

To  THE  LOUNGER. 

SIR, — I  am  a  middle-aged  man,  possessed 
of  a  moderate  income,  arising  chiefly  from 


ALEXANDER  FRASER    TYTLER. 


267 


the  profits  of  an  office  of  which  the  emolu- 
ment is  more  than  sufficient  to  compensate 
the  degree  of  labour  with  which  the  dis- 
charge of  its  duties  is  attended.  About  my 
forty-fifth  year  I  became  tired  of  the  bach- 
elor state  ;  and  taking  the  hint  from  some 
little  twinges  of  the  gout,  I  began  to  think 
it  was  full  time  for  me  to  look  out  for  an 
agreeable  help-mate.  The  last  of  the  juve- 
nile tastes  that  forsakes  a  man  is  his  admi- 
ration of  youth  and  beauty;  and  I  own  I 
was  so  far  from  being  insensible  to  these 
attractions,  that  I  felt  myself  sometimes 
tempted  to  play  the  fool,  and  marry  for 
love.  I  had  sense  enough,  however,  to  re- 
sist this  inclination,  and,  in  my  choice  of  a 
wife,  to  sacrifice  rapture  and  romance  to  the 
prospect  of  ease  and  comfort.  I  wedded  the 
daughter  of  a  country  gentleman  of  small 
fortune,  a  lady  much  about  my  own  time 
of  life,  who  bore  the  character  of  a  discreet, 
prudent  woman,  who  was  a  stranger  to  fash- 
ionable folly  and  dissipation  of  every  kind, 
and  whose  highest  merit  was  that  of  an  ex- 
cellent housewife. 

When  I  begin  by  telling  you  that  I  re- 
pent of  my  choice,  you  will  naturally  sup- 
pose, Mr.  Lounger  (a  very  common  case), 
that  I  have  been  deceived  in  the  idea  I  had 
formed  of  my  wife's  character.  Not  at  all, 
Sir:  I  found  it  true  to  a  tittle.  She  is  a 
perfect  paragon  of  prudence  and  discretion. 
Her  moderation  is  exemplary  in  the  highest 
degree ;  and  as  to  economy  she  is  all  that  I 
expected,  and  a  great  deal  more  too.  You 
will  ask,  then,  of  what  it  is  that  I  complain  ? 
I  shall  lay  my  grievances  before  you  with- 
out reserve. 

A  man,  Sir,  who,  with  no  bad  disposi- 
tions, and  with  some  pretensions  to  common 
sense,  has  arrived  at  the  age  of  five-and-forty, 
may  be  presumed  to  have  formed  for  himself 
a  plan  of  life  which  he  will  not  care  hastily 
to  relinquish,  merely  to  gratify  the  caprices 
of  another.  I  entered  the  matrimonial  state 
with  a  firm  resolution  not  to  quarrel  with 
my  wife  for  trifles;  but  really,  Sir,  the  sac- 
rifices daily  exacted  on  my  own  part,  and 
the  mortifications  I  have  been  forced  to  sub- 
mit to,  are  at  length  become  so  numerous 
and  so  intolerable,  that  I  must  either  come 
to  a  downright  rupture,  or  be  hooted  at  for 
a  silly  fellow  by  all  my  acquaintance. 

Before  I  married,  having,  as  I  already 
informed  you,  a  decent  income,  I  thought 
myself  entitled  to  many  of  those  little  indul- 
gences to  which  a  social  disposition  inclines 
a  man  who  is  possessed  of  the  means  of 
gratifying  it.  The  necessary  business  in 
which  my  office  engaged  me,  occupying  sev- 
eral hours  of  the  day,  it  was  my  highest 
pleasure  to  pass  the  evening  with  a  few  sen- 
sible friends  either  at  my  own  lodgings,  at 


theirs,  or  in  the  tavern.  I  found  myself,  like- 
wise, a  very  welcome  guest  in  many  respect- 
able families,  where,  as  the  humour  struck 
me,  I  could  go  in  at  any  hour  and  take  my 
part  of  a  domestic  meal  without  the  for- 
mality of  an  invitation.  I  was  a  member 
too  of  a  weekly  club,  which  met  on  the  Sat- 
urday evenings,  most  of  them  people  of 
talents,  and  some  of  them  not  unknown  in 
the  world  of  letters.  Here  the  entertain- 
ment was  truly  Attic.  A  single  bottle  was 
the  modicum,  which  no  man  was  allowed  to 
exceed.  Wit  and  humour  flowed  without 
reserve,  where  all  were  united  by  the  bonds 
of  intimacy ;  and  learning  lost  her  gravity 
over  the  enlivening  glass.  0  Nodes  cce- 
nosque  Deum  I 

As  my  profession  was  a  sedentary  one, 
I  kept,  for  the  sake  of  exercise,  a  couple  of 
good  geldings,  and  at  my  leisure  hours  con- 
trived frequently  to  indulge  myself  in  a 
scamper  of  a  dozen  miles  into  the  country. 
It  was  my  pride  to  keep  my  horses  in  ex- 
cellent order;  and  when  debarred  by  busi- 
ness from  riding  them,  I  consoled  myself 
with  a  visit  to  the  stable.  Shooting  was 
likewise  a  favourite  amusement;  and  though 
1  could  not  often  indulge  it.  I  had  a  brace  of 
springing  spaniels,  and  a  couple  of  excellent 
pointers.  In  short,  between  my  business 
and  amusement  my  time  passed  most  de- 
lightfully; and  I  really  believe  I  was  one 
of  the  happiest  bachelors  in  Great  Britain. 

Alas,  Sir,  how  little  do  we  know  what 
is  for  our  good  !  Like  the  poor  gentleman 
who  killed  himself  by  taking  physic  when 
he  was  in  health,  I  wanted  to  be  happier 
than  I  was,  and  I  have  made  myself  mis- 
erable. 

My  wife's  ruling  passion  is  the  care  of 
futurity.  We  had  not  been  married  above 
a  month  before  she  found  my  system,  which 
was  to  enjoy  the  present,  was  totally  incon- 
sistent with  those  provident  plans  she  had 
formed  in  the  view  of  a  variety  of  future 
contingencies,  which,  if  but  barely  possible, 
she  looks  upon  as  absolutely  certain.  The 
prospect  of  an  increase  to  our  family 
(though  we  have  ^jiow  lived  five  years  to- 
gether without  the  slightest  symptom  of 
any  such  accident)  has  been  the  cause  of  a 
total  revolution  of  our  domestic  economy, 
and  a  relinquishment,  on  my  part,  of  all  the 
comforts  of  my  life.  The  god  of  Health,  we 
are  informed,  was  gratified  by  the  sacrifice 
of  a  cock ;  but  the  god  of  Marriage,  it 
would  seem,  is  not  so  easily  propitiated : 
for  I  have  sacrificed  to  him  my  horses,  my 
dogs,  and  even  my  friends,  without  the 
smallest  prospect  of  securing  his  favour. 

In  accomplishing  this  economical  refor- 
mation my  wife  displayed  no  small  address. 
.  .  .  What  ways  women  have  of  working 


268 


ALEXANDER   FRASER    TYTLER. 


out  their  points!  She  began  by  giving  me 
frequent  hints  of  the  necessity  there  was  of 
cutting  off  all  superfluous  expenses:  and 
frequently  admonished  me  that  it  was  bet- 
ter to  save  while  our  family  was  small,  than 
to  retrench  when  it  grew  larger.  When  she 
perceived  that  this  argument  had  very  little 
force  (as  indeed  it  grew  every  day  weaker), 
and  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  by 
general  admonition,  she  found  it  necessary 
to  come  to  particulars.  She  endeavoured  to 
convince  me  that  I  was  cheated  in  every 
article  of  my  family-expenditure.  It  is  a 
principle  with  her  that  all  servants  are 
thieves.  When  they  offer  themselves  to  be 
hired,  if  they  demand  what  she  thinks  high 
wages,  she  cannot  afford  to  pay  at  the  rate 
of  a  Duchess;  if  their  demand  is  moderate, 
she  is  sure  they  must  make  it  up  by  stealing. 
To  prove  their  honesty,  ulie  lays  temptations 
in  their  way,  and  watches  in  a  corner  to 
catch  them  in  the  fact.  In  the  first  six 
months  after  our  marriage  we  had  five 
search-warrants  in  the  house.  My  groom 
(as  honest  a  fellow  as  ever  handled  a  curry- 
comb) was  indicted  for  embezzling  oats  ;  and 
though  the  sleek  sides  of  my  geldings  gave 
strong  testimony  to  his  integrity,  he  was 
turned  off  at  a  day's  warning.  This  I  soon 
found  was  but  a  prelude  to  a  more  serious, 
attack  ;  and  the  battery  wras  levelled  at  a 
quarter  where  I  wras  but  too  vulnerable.  I 
never  went  out  to  ride  but  I  found  my  poor 
spouse  in  tears  at  my  return.  She  had  an 
uncle,  it  seems,  who  broke  a  collar-bone  by 
a  fall  from  a  horse.  My  pointers,  stretched 
upon  the  hearth,  were  never  beheld  by  her 
without  uneasiness.  They  brought  to  mind 
a  third  cousin  who  lost  a  finger  by  the  burst- 
ing of  a  fowling-piece;  and  she  had  a  sad  pre- 
sentiment that  my  passion  for  sport  might 
make  her  one  day  the  most  miserable  of 
wromen.  "  Sure,  my  dear,"  she  would  say, 
"you  would  not  for  the  sake  of  a  trifling 
gratification  to  yourself  render  your  poor 
wife  constantly  unhappy  !  yet  I  must  be  so 
while  you  keep  those  vicious  horses  and 
nasty  curs."  What  could  I  do,  Sir?  A  man 
would  not  choose  to  pass  for  a  barbarian. 

It  was  a  more  difficult  task  to  wean  me 
from  those  social  enjoyments  I  mentioned, 
and  to  cure  me  of  a  dangerous  appetite  I 
had  for  the  company  of  rny  friends.  If  I 
passed  the  evening  in  a  tavern  I  was  sure 
to  have  a  sermon  against  intemperance,  a 
warning  of  the  too  sensible  decay  of  my 
constitution,  and  a  most  moving  complaint 
of  the  heaviness  of  those  solitary  hours 
which  she  spent  in  my  absence.  Those 
hours,  indeed,  she  attempted  sometimes  to 
shorten  by  sending  my  servant  to  acquaint 
me  that  she  had  gone  to  bed  indisposed. 
This  device,  however,  after  two  or  three 


repetitions,  being  smoked  by  my  compan- 
ions, I  was  forced  to  vindicate  my  honour 
before  them  by  kicking  the  messenger  down 
stairs. 

Matters  were  yet  worse  with  me  when  T 
ventured  to  inyite  my  old  cronies  to  a  friendly 
supper  at  my  own  house.  In  the  place  of 
that  ease  and  freedom  which  indicates  a  cor- 
dial reception,  they  found,  on  my  wife's  part, 
a  cold  and  stiff  formality  which  repressed  all 
social  enjoyment;  and  the  nonsensical  pa- 
rade of  a  figure  of  empty  show  upon  the 
table,  which  convinced  them  of  the  trouble 
their  visit  had  occasioned.  Under  this  im- 
pression, you  may  believe  there  is  no  great 
danger  of  a  debauch  in  my  house.  Indeed, 
my  wife  commonly  sits  out  the  company.  If 
it  happens  otherwise,  we  have  a  stated  allow- 
ance of  wine;  and  if  more  is  called  for,  it  is 
so  long  in  coming  that  my  friends  take  the 
hint  and  wish  me  a  good-night. 

But  even  were  I  more  at  liberty  to  in- 
dulge my  social  dispositions  than  I  unfor- 
tunately find  myself,  there  are  other  reasons, 
no  less  powerful,  which  would  prevent  me 
from  inviting  my  friends  to  rny  house.  My 
wife,  Sir,  is  absolutely  unfit  for  any  kind 
of  rational  conversation.  Bred  from  her  in- 
fancy under  an  old  maiden  aunt,  who  had 
the  management  of  her  father's  household 
and  country  farm,  she  has  no  other  ideas 
than  what  are  accommodated  to  that  station. 
Unluckily  her  transplantation  to  town,  by 
removing  her  from  her  calves,  her  pigs,  and 
her  poultry,  has  given  her  fewer  opportuni- 
ties of  displaying  the  capital  stock  of  her 
knowledge.  She  still  finds,  however,  a  tol- 
erable variety  of  conversation  in  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  markets,  the  qualities  and 
prices  of  butcher-meat,  the  making  of  pota- 
toe-starch,  the  comparative  excellence  of 
Leith  and  Kensington  candles,  and  many 
other  topics  of  equally  amusing  disquisition. 
Seriously,  Sir,  when  alone,  I  can  find  refuge 
in  books;  but  when  with  her  in  company, 
she  never  opens  her  mouth  but  I  am  in 
terror  for  what  is  to  come  out  of  it. 

I  should  perhaps  complain  the  less  of 
being  reduced  to  this  state  of  involuntary 
domestication,  if  I 'saw  any  endeavours  on 
her  part  to  make  my  home  somewhat  comfort- 
able to  me.  I  am  no  epicure,  Mr.  Lounger; 
but  I  own  to  you  I  like  a  good  dinner,  and 
have  somehow  got  the  reputation  of  being 
a  pretty  good  judge  of  wines.  In  this  last 
article  I  piqued  myself  on  having  a  critical 
palate;  and  this  my  friends  knew  so  well, 
that  I  was  generally  consulted  when  their 
cellars  needed  a  supply,  and  was  sure  to  be 
summoned  to  give  my  opinion  at  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  hogshead  or  the  piercing  of  a 
butt.  You  may  believe  I  took  good  care 
that  my  own  small  stock  of  liquors  should 


ANNA   SEWARD. 


269 


not  discredit  my  reputation ;  and  I  have 
often,  with  some  exultation,  heard  it  re- 
marked, that  there  was  no  such  claret  in 
Edinburgh  as  Bob  Easy's  yellow  seal. 

Good  claret,  which  I  have  long  been  ac- 
customed to  consider  as  a  panacea  for  all 
disorders,  my  wife  looks  upon  as  a  little 
better  than  slow  poison.  She  is  convinced 
of  its  pernicious  effects  both  on  my  purse 
and  constitution,  and  recommends  to  me, 
for  the  sake  of  both,  some  brewed  stuff  of 
her  own,  which  she  dignifies  with  the  name 
of  wine,  but  which  to  me  seems  nothing  but 
ill-fermented  vinegar.  She  tells  with  much 
satisfaction  how  she  has  passed  her  currant 
wine  for  cape,  and  her  gooseberry  for  cham- 
pagne; but  for  my  part,  I  never  taste  them 
without  feeling  very  disagreeable  effects; 
and  I  once  drank  half  a  bottle  of  her  cham- 
pagne, which  gave  me  a  cholic  for  a  week. 

In  the  article  of  victuals  I  am  doomed 
to  yet  greater  mortification.  Here,  Sir,  my 
wife's  frugality  is  displayed  in  a  most  re- 
markable manner.  As  every  thing  is  to  be 
bought  when  at  the  lowest  price,  she  lays  in 
during  the  summer  all  her  stores  for  the 
winter.  For  six  months  we  live  upon  salt 
provisions,  and  the  rest  of  the  year  on  fly- 
blown lamb  and  stale  mutton.  If  a  joint  is 
roasted  the  one  day,  it  is  served  cold  the 
next,  and  hashed  on  the  day  following.  All 
poultry  is  contraband.  Fish  (unless  salt 
herrings  and  dried  ling,  when  got  a  bar- 
gain) I  am  never  allowed  to  taste. 

Thus  mortified  in  my  appetites,  divorced 
as  I  am  from  my  friends,  having  lost  all  my 
mirth,  and  foregone  all  custom  of  my  exer- 
cise, I  am  told  that  even  my  face  and  figure 
are  totally  changed;  and  in  place  of  the 
jolly  careless  air  of  a  bon  vivant,  I  have  got 
the  sneaking  look  and  starved  appearance 
of  a  poor  wretch  escaped  from  a  spunging- 
house,  and  dreading  a  dun  in  every  human 
being  that  accosts  him. — That  it  should 
come  to  this! — But  I  am  determined  no 
longer  to  endure  it.  My  wife  shall  read 
this  letter  in  my  presence:  and  while  she 
contemplates  her  own  picture,  I  shall  take 
iny  measures  according  to  the  effect  it  pro- 
duces on  her.  If  she  takes  it  as  she  ought, 
'tis  well : — if  not, 'and  a  rupture  is  the  con- 
sequence, still  better 1  shall  be  my  own 

man  again. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours,  &c., 

ROBERT  EASY. 

The  Lounger,  No.  63,  Saturday,  April  15, 
1786. 


ANNA  SEWARD, 

horn   1747,  died   1809,  was  the   author  of 
Monody  on  the  Unfortunate  Major  Andre, 


Lichfield,  1781,  4to,  2d  edit.,  New  York, 
179:2,  12mo,  with  Elegy  on  Captain  Cook, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1817,  12mo;  Louisa,  a  Poetical 
Novel,  Lond.,  1782,  4to,  several  editions  ; 
Llangollen  Vale,  with  other  Poems,  1796, 
4to  ;  Original  Sonnets,  etc.,  1799,  4to;  Poeti- 
cal Works,  with  Extracts  from  her  Literary 
Correspondence,  edited  [against  his  will] 
with  a  Prefatory  Memoir  by  Walter  Scott, 
Esq.,  Edin..  1810,  3  vols.  post  8vo.  Letters 
of  Anna  Seward  Written  between  the  Years 
1784  and  1807,  Edin.,  1811,  6  vols.  post  8vo. 
Bishop  Percy  was  concerned  to  find  in 

"this  voluminous  publication  such  a  display  of 
vanitjT,  egotism,  and,  it  grieves  him  to  add,  ma- 
lignity, as  is  scarce  compensated  for  by  the  better 
parts  of  her  epistles.'' — NICHOLS'S  Illust.  of  Lit., 
viii.  427.  See  also  429. 

See  the  Beauties  of  Anna  Seward,  by  W.  C. 
Oulton,  Lond.,  1813,  12mo. 

Ox    POPE,    MILTON,    THOMSON,    AND    MRS. 
INCIIBALD. 

LICHFIELD,  Ju'y  31,  1796. 
To  MRS.  STOKES. 

I  have  not  seen  Wakefield's  observations 
on  Pope.  They  may,  as  you  tell  me  they 
are,  be  very  ingenious  ;  but  as  to  plagiarism, 
Pope  would  lose  little  in  my  esteem  from 
whatever  of  that  may  be  proved  against 
him  ;  since  it  is  allowed  that  he  always  rises 
above  his  clumsy  models  in  their  tinsel  dra- 
pery. 

Poetry,  being  the  natural  product  of  a 
highly-gifted  mind,  however  uncultivated, 
must  exist,  in  a  rude  form  at  least,  from 
the  instant  that  the  social  compact  gives  to 
man  a  superplus  of  time  from  that  which  is 
employed  in  providing  for  his  natural  wants, 
together  with  liberation  from  that  anxiety 
about  obtaining  such  provision,  which  is 
generally  incompatible  with  those  abstracted 
ideas  from  which  poetry  results.  As  this 
leisure,  and  freedom  to  thought,  arises  with 
the  progress  of  subordination  and  inequality 
of  rank,  men  become  poets,  and  this  long 
before  their  language  attains  its  copiousness 
and  elegance. 

The  writers  of'such  periods,  therefore, 
present  poetic  ideas  in  coarse  and  shapeless 
ingenuity.  In  the  unskilled  attempt  to  re- 
fine them  they  become,  in  the  next  stnge  of 
the  progress,  an  odd  mixture  of  quaintness 
and  simplicity  :  but  it  is  reserved  for  genius, 
learning,  and  judgment  in  combination,  sup- 
ported by  the  ample  resources  of  a  various, 
mature,  and  complete  language,  to  elevate, 
polish,  and  give  the  last  perfection  to  the 
rudiments  of  poetry,  first  so  coarse  and  abor- 
tive, afterwards  so  quaint,  and  so  shredded 
out  into  wearisome  redundance.  That  work 
of  ever-new  poetic  information  and  instruc- 


270 


JEREMY  BENTHAM. 


tion,  T.  Warton's  Critical  Notes  to  Milton's 
Lesser  Poems,  will  show  you  how  very 
largely  Milton  took,  not  only  from  the  clas- 
sics, but  from  his  verse- predecessors  in  our 
own  language:  from  Burton's  writings,  in- 
terlarded with  verse  ;  from  Drayton  ;  from 
Spenser ;  from  Shakspeare ;  from  the  two 
Fletchers,  and  from  Drummond.  The  en- 
tire plan,  and  almost  all  the  outlines,  of  the 
sweet  pictures  in  L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso, 
are  in  Burton's  Anatomic  of  Melancholy,  or 
a  Dialogue  between  Pleasure  and  Pain,  in 
verse,  with  a  passage  of  his  in  prose ;  and 
these  were  taken  and  combined  in  Milton's 
imagination  with  the  fine  hints  in  a  song 
in  Beaumont  and  Fletchers  play,  the  Nice 
Valour,  or  Passionate  Madman. 

In  Comus,  Milton  was  much  indebted  to 
Fletchers  beautiful  pastoral  play,  The  Faith- 
ful Shepherdess ;  but  Milton  and  Pope, 
though  with  excellence  different  both  in 
nature  and  degree,  were  arch-chymists,  and 
turned  the  lead  and  tinsel  of  others  to  the 
purest  and  finest  gold. 

Dr.  Stokes  is  mistaken  in  supposing  Mil- 
ton my  first  poetic  favourite.  Great  as  I 
deem  him,  the  superior  of  Virgil,  and  the 
equal  of  Homer,  my  heart  and  imagination 
acknowledge  yet  greater  the  matchless  bard 
of  Avon. 

I  tliank  you  for  the  discriminating  obser- 
vations in  your  letter  of  April  the  24th  upon 
my  late  publication.  Milton  says,  that  from 
Adam's  lip,  not  words  alone  pleased  Eve ; 
so  may  I  say,  that  from  your  pen  praise 
alone  would  not  satisfy  my  avidity  of  pleas- 
ing you.  The  why  and  wherefore  you  are 
pleased,  which  is  always  so  ingenious  when 
you  write  of  verse,  from  the  zest,  which 
makes  encomium  nectar.  Mr.  Haley's  [Hay- 
ley's?]  letter  to  me  on  the  subject  is  very 
gratifying:  it  joins  to  a  generous  ardency 
of  praise  the  elegance,  spirit,  and  affection 
of  his  former  epistles.  Ah  !  yes,  it  is  very 
certain  that  not  only  some,  but  all  our 
finest  poets,  frequently  invert  the  position 
of  the  verb,  and  prove  that  the  British 
Critic,  who  says  it  is  not  the  habit  of  good 
writers,  is  a  stranger  to  their  compositions. 
When  Thomson  says, 

"Vanish  the  woods,  the  dim-seen  river  seems 
Sullen  and  slow  to  roll  his  misty  train," 

it  is  picture  ;  which  it  would  not  have  been, 
if  he  had  coldly  written, 

"  The  woods  are  vanished ;" 

since  in  the  former,  by  the  precedence  of 
the  verb  to  the  noun,  we  see  the  fog  in  the 
very  act  of  shrouding  the  woods :  but  to 
these  constituent  excellencies  of  poetry  the 
eye  of  a  reviewer  is  the  mole's  dim  curtain. 
Again,  in  the  same  poem,  Autumn,  this  in- 


version is  beautifully  used,  while  its  author 
is  paying,  in  a  simile,  the  finest  compliment 
imaginable  to  the  talents  and  excursive 
spirit  of  his  countrymen  : — 

"As  from  their  own  clear  north,  in  radiant  streams, 
Bright  over  Europe  bursts  the  Boreal  morn." 

And  what  spirit  does  Pope  often  give  his 
lines  by  using  this  inversion  in  the  impera- 
tive mood : — 

"  Rise,  crown'd  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise  !" 

Then,  as  to  the  imputed  affectation  of  the 
word  Lyceum,  Thomson  calls  the  woods 
"Nature's  vast  Lyceum."  For  his  pur- 
pose it  was  necessary  to  elevate  the  term 
by  its  epithet,  for  mine  to  lower  it  by  that 
which  I  applied,— minute  Lyceum  ;  and  in 
neither  place  is  its  application  affected.  I 
am  allowed  to  be  patient  of  criticism,  and 
trust  no  one  is  readier  to  feel  its  force,  and, 
when  just,  to  .acknowledge  and  to  profit  by 
it;  but  to  a  censor  who  does  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word  thrill,  I  may,  without 
vanity,  exclaim, 

"  Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests !" 

Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Inchbald's  late  work, 
Nature  and  Art?  She  is  a  favourite  novelist 
with  me.  Her  late  work  has  improbable 
situations,  and  is  inferior  to  her  Simple 
Story,  which  ought  to  have  been  the  title 
of  this  composition,  to  which  it  is  better 
suited  than  to  the  history  of  Dorriforth : 
yet  we  find  in  Art  and  Nature  the  charac- 
teristic force  of  her  pen,  which,  with  an  air 
of  undesigning  simplicity,  places  in  a  strong 
point  of  view  the  worthlessness  of  such  char- 
acters as  pass  with  the  world  for  respectable. 
She  seems  to  remove,  as  by  accident,  their 
specious  veil,  and  without  commenting  upon 
its  removal :  and  certain  strokes  of  blended 
pathos  and  horror  indelibly  impress  the 
recollection. 


JEREMY  BENTHAM, 

the  eminent  Law  Reformer,  horn  1748,  died 
1832,  was  the  author  of  A  Fragment  on  Gov- 
ernment, Lond.,  1776,  8vo:  Principles  of 
Morals  and  Legislation,  printed  1780,  pub- 
lished 1789;  Defence  of  Usury,  1787;  Traitea 
de  Legislation  Civile  et  P6nale,  Paris,  1802, 
in  English  by  R.  Hildreth,  Boston,  1840.  2 
vols.  12mo;  Theorie  des  Peines  et  des  Re- 
compenses, Lond..  1811,  2  vols.  8vo,  in  Eng- 
lish, as  follows:  The  Rationale  of  Reward, 
Lond.,  1825,  8vo,  and  the  Rationale  of  Pun- 
ishment, Lond.,  1825,  8vo;  and  other  works. 
Works  Published  under  the  Superintendence 
of  his  Executor,  John  Bowrmg,  with  an 
Introduction  by  John  Hill  Burton,  Esq., 
Edin.,  1843,  8vo. 


JEREMY  BENTHAM. 


271 


"It  cannot  be  denied  without  injustice  and 
ingratitude,  that  Mr.  Bentham  has  done  more  than 
any  other  writer  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  juridicial 
reformation  which  is  now  gradually  examining 
every  part  of  law;  and  when  further  progress  is 
facilitated  by  digesting  the  present  laws,  will 
doubtless  proceed  to  the  improvement  of  all. 
Greater  praise  it  is  given  to  few_  to  earn." — SIR 
J.  MACKINTOSH  :  Prelim.  Dissert,  to  Eucyc.  Brit. 

"  Of  Mr.  Bentham  we  would  at  all  times  speak 
with  the  reverence  which  is  due  to  a  great  original 
thinker,  and  to  a  sincere  and  ardent  friend  of  the 
human  race.  .  .  .  Posterity  will  pronounce  its 
calm  and  impartial  decision  :  and  that  decision 
will,  we  firmly  believe,  place  in  the  same  rank 
with  Galileo,  and  with  Locke,  the  man  who  found 
jurisprudence  a  gibberish  and  left  it  a  science." — 
LORD  MACAU  LAY  :  Edin.  Review,  July,  1832  :  Mira- 
beau  ;  and  his  Ensays. 

ON  SLEEPING  LAWS. 

Tyranny  and  anarchy  are  never  far  asun- 
der. Dearly  indeed  must  the  laws  pay  for 
the  mischief  of  which  they  are  thus  made 
the  instruments.  The  weakness  they  are 
thus  struck  with  does  not  confine  itself  to 
the  peccant  spot ;  it  spreads  itself  over  their 
whole  frame.  The  tainted  parts  throw  sus- 
picion upon  those  that  are  yet  sound.  Who 
can  say  which  of  them  the  disease  has  gained, 
which  of  them  it  has  spared  ?  You  open  the 
statute-book,  and  look  into  a  clause:  does  it 
belong  to  the  sound  part,  or  to  the  rotten  ? 
How  can  you  say?  by  what  token  are  you 
to  know  ?  A  man  is  not  safe  in  trusting  to 
his  own  eyes.  You  may  have  the  whole 
statute-book  by  heart,  and  all  the  while  not 
know  what  ground  you  stand  upon  under 
the  law.  It  pretends  to  fix  your  destiny: 
and  after  all,  if  you  want  to  know  your 
destiny,  you  must  learn  it,  not  from  the 
law,  but  from  the  temper  of  the  times.  The 
temper  of  the  times,  did  I  say?  you  must 
know  the  temper  of  every  individual  in  the 
nation  ;  you  must  know,  not  only  what  it  is 
at  the  present  instant,  but  what  it  will  be 
at  every  future  one  :  all  this  you  must  know, 
before  you  can  lay  your  hand  upon  your 
bosom,  and  say  to  yourself,  /  am  safe. 
What,  all  this  while,  is  the  character  and 
condition  of  the  law?  Sometimes  a  bug- 
bear, at  other  times  a  snare:  her  threats 
inspire  no  efficient  terror;  her  promises  no 
confidence.  The  canker-worm  of  uncertainty, 
naturally  the  peculiar  growth  and  plague  of 
the  unwritten  law,  insinuates  itself  thus  into 
the  body,  and  preys  upon  the  vitals  of  the 
written. 

All  this  mischief  shows  as  nothing  in  the 
eyes  of  the  tyrant  by  whom  this  policy  is 
upheld  and  pursued,  and  whose  blind  and 
malignant  passions  it  has  for  its  cause.  His 
appetites  receive  that  gratification  which  the 
times  allow  of:  and  in  comparison  with  that, 
what  are  laws,  or  those  for  whose  sake  laws 


were  made?  His  enemies,  that  is,  those 
whom  it  is  his  delight  to  treat  as  such,  whose 
enemy  he  has  thought  fit  to  make  himself, 
are  his  footstool :  their  insecurity  is  his  com- 
fort;  their  sufferings  are  his  enjoyments; 
their  abasement  is  his  triumph. 

Whence  comes  this  pernicious  and  unfeel- 
ing policy  ?  It  is  tyranny's  last  shift,  among 
a  people  who  begin  to  open  their  eyes  in  the 
calm  which  has  succeeded  the  storms  of 
civil  war.  It  is  her  last  stronghold,  retained 
by  a  sort  of  capitulation  made  with  good 
government  and  good  sense.  Common  hu- 
manity would  not  endure  such  laws,  were 
they  to  give  signs  of  life:  negligence,  and 
the  fear  of  change,  suffer  them  to  exist  so 
long  as  they  promise  not  to  exist  to  any  pur- 
pose. Sensible  images  govern  the  bulk  of 
men.  What  the  eye  does  not  see,  the  heart 
does  not  rue.  Fellow-citizens  dragged  in 
crowds  for  conscience'  sake  to  prison,  or  to 
the  gallows,  though  seen  but  for  the  moment, 
might  move  compassion.  Silent  anxiety 
and  inward  humiliation  do  not  meet  the  eye, 
and  draw  little  attention,  though  they  fill  up 
the  measure  of  a  whole  life. 

Of  this  base  and  malignant  policy  an  ex- 
ample would  scarcely  be  found,  were  it  not 
for  religious  hatred,  of  all  hatred  the  bitter- 
est and  the  blindest.  Debarred  by  the  infidel- 
ity of  the  age  from  that  most  exquisite  of 
repasts,  the  blood  of  heretics,  it  subsists  as  it 
can  upon  the  idea  of  secret  sufferings, — sad 
remnant  of  the  luxury  of  better  times. 

It  is  possible  that,  in  the  invention  of  this 
policy,  timidity  may  have  had  some  share: 
for  between  tyranny  and  timidity  there  is 
a  near  alliance.  Is  it  probable?  Hardly: 
the  less  so,  as  tyranny,  rather  than  let  go 
its  hold,  such  is  its  baseness,  will  put  on  the 
mask  of  cowardice.  It  is  possible,  shall  we 
say,  that  in  England  forty  should  be  in  dread 
of  one:  but  can  it  be  called  probable,  when 
in  Ireland  forty  suffer  nothing  from  four- 
score ? 

When  they  who  stand  up  in  the  defence 
of  tyrannical  laws  on  pretence  of  their  being 
in  a  dormant  state  vouchsafe  to  say  they 
wish  not  to  see  them  in  any  other,  is  it  pos- 
sible they  should  fcpeak  true?  I  will  not 
say:  the  bounds  of  possibility  are  wide.  Is 
it  probable?  That  is  a  question  easier  an- 
swered. To  prevent  a  law  from  being  exe- 
cuted, which  is  the  most  natural  course  to 
take?  to  keep  it  alive,  or  to  repeal  it?  Were 
a  man's  wishes  to  see  it  executed  ever  so 
indisputable,  what  stronger  proof  could  he 
give  of  his  sincerity  than  by  taking  this  very 
course,  in  taking  which  he  desires  to  be  con- 
sidered as  wishing  the  law  not  to  be  exe- 
cuted? When  words  and  actions  give  one 
another  the  lie,  is  it  possible  to  believe  both  ? 
If  not,  which  have  the  best  title  to  be  be- 


272 


CHARLES  JAMES  FOX. 


lieved?  The  task  they  give  to  faith  and 
charity  is  rather  a  severe  one.  They  speak 
up  for  laws  against  thieves  and  smugglers: 
they  speak  up  for  the  same  laws,  or  worse, 
against  the  worshippers  according  to  con- 
science: in  the  first  instance,  you  are  to  be- 
lieve they  mean  to  do  what  they  do;  in  the 
other,  you  are  to  believe  they  mean  the  con- 
trary. Their  words  and  actions  are  at  vari- 
ance, and  they  declare  it:  they  profess  insin- 
cerity, and  insist  upon  being,  shall  we  say, 
or  upon  not  being,  believed.  They  give  the 
same  vote  that  was  given  by  the  authors  of 
these  laws  ;  they  act  over  again  the  part  that 
was  acted  by  the  first  persecutors:  but  what 
was  persecution  in  those  their  predecessors, 
is  in  these  men,  it  seems,  moderation  and 
benevolence.  This  is  rather  too  much.  To 
think  to  unite  the  profit  of  oppression  with 
tlie  praise  of  moderation  is  drawing  rather 
too  deep  upon  the  credulity  of  mankind. 

For  those  who  insist  there  is  no  hardship 
in  a  state  of  insecurity  there  is  one  way  of 
proving  themselves  sincere  :  let  them  change 
places  with  those  they  doom  to  it.  One  wish 
may  be  indulged  without  a  breach  of  char- 
ity: may  they,  and  they  only,  be  subject  to 
proscription,  in  whose  eyes  it  is  no  griev- 
ance ! 

Draught  for  the  Organization  of  Judi- 
cial Establishments  compared  with  the 
Draught  by  the  Committee  of  the  Na- 
tional Assembly  of  France,  Tit.  vi.  6. 


CHARLES   JAMES    FOX, 

the  famous  Whig  orator  and  statesman, 
second  son  of  the  first  Lord  Holland  and 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Charles,  Duke  of 
Ilichmond,  was  born  1749,  entered  Parlia- 
ment 17G8,  and,  after  a  brilliant  political 
career,  died  1806.  lie  was  the  author  of 
some  juvenile  Greek  and  Latin  compositions, 
some  pieces  in  the  New  Foundling  Hospital 
for  Wits,  an  Essay  on  Wind  (50  copies,  pri- 
vately printed),  papers  in  The  Englishman, 
political  pamphlets,  and  A  History  of  the 
Early  Part  of  the  Reign  of  James  the  Second, 
etc.,  L'md.,  1808,  4fo,  large  paper,  royal  4to. 
and  50  copies  elephant  folio,  Speeches  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  Lond.,  1815,  6  vola. 
8vo.  See  Characters  of  the  late  Charles 
James  Fox,  Selected  and  in  part  Written 
by  Philopatris  Varvicensis  (S.  Parr,  D.D.), 
Lond.,  1809,  8vo :  Memoirs  of  the  Latter 
Years  of  the  lit.  Hon.  C.  J.  Fox,  by  J.  B.  Trot- 
ter, Lond.,  1811,8vo;  Memorials  and  Cor- 
respondence of  C.  J.  Fox,  Lond.,  1853-57, 
4  vols.  8vo,  and  Life  and  Times  of  C.  J. 
Fox,  Lond.,  1859,  2  vols.  p.  8vo,  both  by  Lord 
John  [Earl]  Russell. 


"  If  I  were  to  be  asked  what  was  the  nature  of 
Mr.  Fox's  eloquence,  I  should  answer  that  it  was 
only  asking  me  in  other  words  what  I  understood 
to  be  the  character  of  eloquence  itself,  when  ap- 
plied to  the  transactions  of  British  eloquence  and 
laws." — LOKD  CHANCELLOR  ERSKINE. 

Mr.  Fox  was  an  excellent  classical  scholar, 
in  evidence  of  which  see  his  letters  to  Gil- 
bert Wakefield. 

To  GILBERT  WAKEFIELD. 

ST.  ANNE'S  HILL,  Feb.  16,  1798. 

SIR,  —  I  should  have  been  exceedingly 
sorry  if,  in  all  the  circumstances  you  men- 
tion, you  had  given  yourself  the  trouble  of 
writing  me  your  thoughts  upon  Homer's 
poetry ;  indeed,  in  no  circumstances  should 
I  have  been  indiscreet  enough  to  make  a 
request  so  exorbitant;  in  the  present,  I 
should  be  concerned  if  you  were  to  think 
of  attending  to  my  limited  question,  re- 
specting the  authenticity  of  the  24th  Iliad, 
or  to  any  thing  but  your  own  business. 

I  am  sorry  your  work  is  to  be  prosecuted  ; 
because,  though  I  have  no  doubt  of  a  prosecu- 
tion failing,  yet  I  fear  it  may  be  very  trouble- 
some to  you.  If,  either  by  advice  or  other- 
wise, I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  it  will 
make  me  very  happy ;  and  I  beg  you  to 
make  no  scruple  about  applying  to  me :  but 
I  do  not  foresee  that  I  can,  in  any  shape,  be 
of  any  use,  unless  it  should  be  in  pressing 
others,  whom  you  may  think  fit  to  consult, 
to  give  every  degree  of  attention  to  your 
cause.  I  suppose  there  can  be  little  or  no 
difficulty  in  removing,  as  you  wish  it,  the 
difficulty  from  the  publisher  to  yourself:  for 
to  prosecute  a  printer  who  is  willing  to  give 
up  his  author  would  be  a  very  unusual,  and 
certainly  a  very  odious,  measure. 

I  have  looked  at  the  three  passages  you 
mention,  and  am  much  pleased  with  them  : 
I  think  "  curalium,"  in  particular,  a  very 
happy  conjecture  :  for  neither  "  cseruleum" 
nor  '^beryllum"  can,  I  think,  be  right;  and 
there  certainly  is  a  tinge  of  red  in  the  necks 
of  some  of  the  dove  species.  After  all,  the 
Latin  words  for  colour  are  very  puzzling: 
for,  not  to  mention  ';  purpura,"  which  is 
evidently  applied  to  three  different  colours 
at  least,— scarlet,  porphyry,  and  what  we 
call  purple,  that  is,  amethyst,  and  possibly 
to  many  others,  —  the  chapter  of  Aulus 
Gellius  to  which  you  refer  has  always  ap- 
peared to  me  to  create  many  more  difficulties 
than  it  removes;  and  most  especially  that 
passage  which  you  quote,  "virides  equos." 
I  can  conceive  that  a  poet  might  call  a  horse 
"  viridis,"  though  I  should  think  the  term 
rather  forced  ;  but  Aulus  Gellius  says  that 
Virgil  gives  the  appellation  of  "  glauci," 
rather  than  "caerulei,"  to  the  virides  equos, 
not  as  if  it  were  a  poetical  or  figurative 


VICESIMUS  KNOX. 


273 


way  of  describing  a  certain  colour  of  horses, 
but  as  if  it  were  the  usual  and  most  gener- 
ally intelligible  term.  Now,  what  colour 
usual  to  horses  could  be  called  viridis,  is 
difficult  to  conceive;  and  the  more  so,  be- 
cause there  are  no  other  Latin  and  English 
words  for  colours,  which  we  have  such  good 
grounds  for  supposing  corresponding  one  to 
the  other  as  viridis  and  green,  on  account 
of  grass,  trees,  &c.,  &c.  However,  these  are 
points  which  may  be  discussed  by  us,  as 
you  say.  at  leisure,  if  the  system  of  tyranny 
should  proceed  to  its  maturity.  Whether  it 
will  (ir  not,  I  know  not;  but  if  it  should, 
sure  I  am  that  to  have  so  cultivated  litera- 
ture as  to  have  laid  up  a  store  of  consola- 
tion and  amusement  will  be,  in  such  an 
event,  the  greatest  advantage  (next  to  a 
good  conscience)  which  one  man  can  have 
over  another.  My  judgment,  as  well  as  my 
wishes,  leads  me  to  think  that  we  shall  not 
experience  such  dreadful  times  as  you  sup- 
pose possible :  but  if  we  do  not,  what  has 
passed  in  Ireland  is  a  proof  that  it  is  not  to 
the  moderation  of  our  governors  that  we 
shall  be  indebted  for  whatever  portion  ,of 
ease  or  liberty  may  be  left  us. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  nust  obedient  servant, 
C.  J.  Fox. 


VICESIMUS    KNOX,  D.D., 

for  thirty-three  years  Master  of  Tunbridge 
School,  was  born  1752,  and  died  1821.  He 
published  Essays,  Moral  and  Literary,  Lond., 
1777,  12uio;  Liberal  Education,  Lond.,  178U, 
8vo  ;  Elegant  Extracts  in  Prose,  Verse,  Epis- 
tles, 1783-90-92,  3  vols.  8vo,  Boston,  by  J. 
G.  Percival  (Mass.),  6  vols.  8vo ;  Winter 
Evenings,  Lond.,  1788,  3  vols.  12mo  ;  Family 
Lectures,  Lond.,  1791,  8vo ;  Sermons  (23), 
Lond.,  1792,  8vo  ;  Personal  Nobility,  Lond., 
1793,  12mo ;  Christian  Philosophy,  Lond., 
1795,  2  vols.  12mo;  Nature  and  Efficacy  of 
the  Lord's  Supper,  Lond.,  1799,  12rno:  Re- 
marks on  the  Tendency  of  a  Bill  now  Pend- 
ing to  Degrade  Gram  mar  Schools,  Lond., 
1821,  8vo.  Works,  with  a  Biographical  Pref- 
ace, Lond.,  1824,  7  vols.  8vo. 

"  The  Reverend  Dr.  Knox,  Master  of  Tunbridge 
School,  appears  to  have  the  iniitari  uveo  of  John- 
son's style  perpetually  in  his  mind;  and  to  his 
assiduous,  though  not  servile,  study  of  it,  we  may 
partly  ascribe  the  extensive  popularity  of  his  writ- 
ings."— BOSWELL  :  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

SUNDAY  AMUSEMENTS. 

The  institution  of  a  day  devoted  to  rest 
and  reflection,  after  six  days  spent  in  labour 
and  dissipation,  is  not  only  wise  in  a  polit- 
ical and  religious  view,  but  highly  agreeable 
to  the  nature  of  man.  The  human  mind  is 
18 


so  constituted  by  nature  as  to  make  greater 
advances  by  short  flights,  frequently  re- 
peated, than  by  uninterrupted  progression. 
After  the  cessation  of  a  whole  day,  the  oper- 
ations of  the  week  are  begun  with  fresh 
ardour,  and  acquire  a  degree  of  novelty ;  a 
quality  which  possesses  a  most  powerful 
effect  in  stimulating  to  application.  In 
truth,  no  time  is  lost  to  the  public  by  the 
observation  of  a  Sabbath  ;  for  the  loss  of  a 
few  hours  is  amply  compensated  by  the  ad- 
ditional vigour  and  spirit  which  are  given  to 
human  activity  by  the  agreeable  vicissitude. 
A  thousand  reasons  might  be  assigned  for 
the  observation  of  it,  supposing  it  wanted 
any,  superadded  to  the  sanction  of  divine 
authority.  Among  others,  the  long  duration 
of  this  establishment  is,  in  my  opinion,  an 
argument  greatly  in  its  favour;  for  human 
affairs,  in  a  long  course  of  years,  settle,  for 
the  most  part,  like  water,  in  their  proper 
level  and  situation. 

It  may  then  be  numbered  among  the  fol- 
lies of  modern  innovators,  and  pretenders  to 
superior  enlargement  of  mind  and  freedom 
from  prejudice,  that  they  have  endeavoured 
to  destroy  the  sanctity  and,  in  course,  the 
essential  purposes  of  this  sacred  institution. 
They  have  laboured  to  render  it  a  day  of 
public  and  pleasurable  diversion  ;  and  if 
they  had  succeeded,  they  would  have  made 
Sunday  in  no  respect  different  from  the 
other  days  of  the  week ;  for  if  one  man  was 
allowed  to  pursue  pleasure  at  the  usual 
public  places,  another,  who  felt  the  influence 
of  avarice  more  than  of  the  love  of  pleasure, 
would  justly  have  claimed  a  right  to  pursue 
his  lucrative  labour.  And,  indeed,  it  must 
be  owned  that  there  would  be  far  less  harm 
in  prosecuting  the  designs  of  honest  in- 
dustry, than  in  relaxing  the  nerves  of  the 
mind  by  a  dissolute  pursuit  of  nominal  pleas- 
ures ;  of  such  pleasures  as  usually  terminate 
in  pain,  disease,  and  ruin.  The  national 
spirit  and  strength  must  be  impaired  by 
national  corruption.  Feebleness  of  mind  is 
the  unavoidable  effect  of  excessive  dissipa- 
tion :  but  how  shall  the  political  machine 
perform  its  movements  with  efficacy,  when 
the  minds  of  the  people,  the  springs  of  the 
whole,  have  lost  their  elasticity  ?  If  you 
were  to  prohibit  honest  labour,  and  allow 
public  pleasures,  Sunday  would  become  a 
day  of  uncontrolled  debauchery  and  drunk- 
enness. It  would  infallibly  sink  the  lower 
classes  to  that  degenerate  state  in  which 
they  appear  in  some  neighbouring  countries, 
and  would  consequently  facilitate  the  anni- 
hilation of  civil  liberty. 

The  decent  observation  of  Sunday  is  in- 
deed to  be  urged  by  arguments  of  a  nature 
greatly  superior  to  political  reasons:  but  a 
few  political  ones  are  here  offered  ;  because 


274 


YICESIMUS  KNOX. 


with  the  opposers  of  the  observation  of  the 
Sabbath,  political  arguments  are  more  likely 
to  have  weight  than  religious.  They  who 
hold  the  Bible  so  cheap  as  to  have  confuted, 
in  their  own  minds,  everything  it  contains, 
without  ever  having  looked  into  it,  are  often 
idolaters  of  Magna  Charta.  And  though  it 
might  be  in  vain  to  urge  that  Sunday  should 
be  decently  kept  for  the  sake  of  promoting 
the  interests  of  the  Gospel,  it  would  prob- 
ably be  an  inducement  to  pay  it  all  due  at- 
tention, if  we  could  convince  certain  per- 
sons that  a  decent  regard  to  it  promotes 
such  sentiments  and  principles  among  the 
people  as  have  a  tendency  to  support  the 
Bill  of  Rights,  and  secure  the  Protestant  suc- 
cession. Every  thing  which  promotes  virtue 
is  salutary  to  the  mind,  considered  only  as 
a  medicine  ;  as  a  brace,  if  I  may  so  say, 
or  a  combative  remedy.  Now  strength  and 
vigour  of  mind  are  absolutely  necessary,  if 
we  would  constantly  entertain  an  adequate 
idea  of  the  blessings  of  liberty,  and  take 
effectual  methods  to  defend  it  when  it  is 
infringed. 

But,  setting  aside  both  religious  and  polit- 
ical arguments,  or  allowing  them  all  their 
force,  still  it  will  be  urged  by  great  num- 
bers, and  those  too  in  the  higher  spheres  of 
life,  that  all  business  being  prohibited  on 
Sundays,  they  are  really  at  a  loss  to  spend 
their  time.  "  Let  us  then,"  say  they,  "  since 
we  are  forbidden  to  work,  let  us  play.  Let 
us  have  public  diversions.  There  can  be  no 
harm  in  a  polite  promenade.  Indeed."  they 
insist,  "  if  it  were  not  for  the  prejudices  of 
the  canaille,  it  would  be  right  to  permit 
more  places  of  public  diversion  on  Sundays 
than  on  other  days ;  obviously  because  we 
have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  attend  to 
them.  But  English  prejudices  are  too  deeply 
rooted  to  be  eradicated.  On  the  continent 
the  return  of  Sunday  is  delightful;  but  in 
our  gloomy  island  it  is  a  blank  in  existence, 
and  ought  to  be  blotted  out  of  the  calendar." 

The  arguments  indeed,  such  as  they  are, 
were  of  late  presented  in  the  best  form,  I 
presume,  which  they  will  admit,  by  one  of 
those  noble  senators  who  opposed  the  late 
laudable  act  for  the  suppression  of  some 
enormities  which  had  been  introduced  as 
the  pastime  of  the  Sabbath ;  and  whose 
speech  would  condemn  him  to  eternal  in- 
famy, if  its  extreme  insignificancy  did  not 
reverse  the  sentence,  and  insure  it  a  friendly 
and  speedy  oblivion. 

Such  arguments  are  indeed  attended  with 
their  own  refutation  ;  but  it  is  certainly 
true  that  some  orders  among  us  are  dis- 
tressed for  methods  of  employing  their  time 
on  a  Sunday.  I  will  therefore  beg  leave, 
from  motives  of  compassion,  to  suggest  some 
hints  which  may  contribute  to  relieve  them 


from  the  very  painful  situation  of  not  know- 
ing how  to  pass  away  the  Lagging  hours. 
Sunday  is  selected  by  them  for  travelling; 
and  the  highroads  on  a  Sunday  are  crowded 
with  coaches  adorned  with  coronets.  But 
to  Christians  there  are  other  employments 
peculiar  to  the  day,  which  will  leave  no 
part  of  it  disengaged.  If  they  are  not 
Christians,  their  contempt  of  the  Sabbath 
is  one  of  the  least  of  their  errors,  and  before 
it  can  be  removed,  a  belief  must  be  pro- 
duced: to  attempt  which  does  not  fall  within 
the  limits  or  design  of  this  paper. 

But  supposing  them  Christians,  let  us 
endeavour  to  provide  amusement  for  them 
during  the  twelve  hours  in  every  seven 
days  in  which  the  business  of  the  world  is 
precluded.  If  lords  and  dukes  would  con- 
descend to  go  to  their  parish  church,  they 
might  find  themselves  well  employed  from 
ten  o'clock  to  twelve.  To  the  prayers  they 
can  have  no  reasonable  objection ;  and  with 
respect  to  the  sermon,  though  its  diction  or 
its  sentiments  may  not  be  excellent,  yet  in 
the  present  times  the  want  of  merit  is  usually 
compensated  by  brevity.  And  the  great  man 
may  comfort  himself  during  its  continuance 
with  reflecting  that,  though  he  is  neither 
pleased  nor  instructed  by  it,  yet  he  himself 
is  preaching  in  effect  a  most  persuasive  ser- 
mon by  giving  his  attendance.  His  example 
will  attract  many  auditors,  and  bad  indeed 
must  be  the  discourse  from  which  the  vulgar 
hearer  cannot  derive  much  advantage.  If 
any  charitable  purpose  is  to  be  accomplished, 
— and  there  never  passes  a  Sunday  but  in 
the  metropolis  many  such  purposes  are  to  be 
accomplished, — the  bare  presence  of  a  man 
in  high  life  will  contribute  greatly  to  the 
pecuniary  collection.  And  if  a  peer  of  the 
realm  was  as  willing  to  give  his  presence  at 
a  charity  sermon  as  at  a  horse-race,  to  con- 
tribute to  the  support  of  orphans  and  widows 
as  to  keep  a  stud  and  a  pack  of  hounds,  per- 
haps he  would  find  himself  no  loser,  even  in 
the  grand  object  of  his  life,  the  enjoyment 
of  pleasure. 

The  interval  between  the  morning  and 
evening  service  may  surely  be  spent  in 
reading,  or  in  improving  conversation.  The 
rest  of  the  day  even  to  eight  o'clock,  may 
be  spent  in  the  metropolis  at  church  (if  any 
one  chooses  it),  for  evening  lectures  abound. 
And  though  there  is  no  obligation  to  attend 
at  more  than  the  established  times,  yet  no 
man  can  say  there  are  no  public  places  of 
resort,  when  he  can  scarcely  turn  a  corner 
without  seeing  a  church-door  open,  and  hear- 
ing a  bell  importunately  inviting  him  to 
enter. 

The  little  time  which  remains  after  the 
usual  religious  duties  of  the  day,  may  cer- 
tainly be  spent  in  such  a  manner  as  to 


DUGALD   STEWART. 


275 


cause  no  tedium,  even  though  Carlisle-house 
is  shut,  and  the  rigid  laws  forbid  us  to  enter 
Vauxliall,  Ranelagh,  and  the  theatres.  A 
cheerful  walk  amidst  rural  scenes  is  capa- 
ble of  affording,  in  fine  weather,  a  very 
sensible  pleasure.  In  all  seasons,  at  all 
hours,  and  in  all  weathers,  conversation  is 
capable  of  affording  an  exquisite  delight; 
and  books,  of  improving,  exalting,  refining, 
and  captivating  the  human  mind.  He  who 
calls  in  question  the  truth  of  this  must  allow 
his  hearers  to  call  in  question  his  claim  to 
rationality. 

The  subordinate  classes,  for  I  have  hitherto 
been  speaking  of  the  higher,  seldom  com- 
plain that  they  know  not  what  to  do  on  a 
Sunday.  To  them  it  is  a  joyful  festival. 
They,  for  the  most  part,  are  constant  atten- 
dants at  church;  and  the  decency  of  their 
habits  and  appearance,  the  cleanliness  which 
they  display,  the  opportunity  they  enjoy  of 
meeting  their  neighbours  in  the  same  regu- 
lar and  decent  situation  with  themselves, 
render  Sunday  highly  advantageous  to  them, 
exclusively  of  its  religious  advantages.  They 
usually  fill  up  the  intervals  of  divine  service 
with  a  rural  walk,  and  their  little  indul- 
gences at  the  tea-houses  are  highly  proper 
and  allowable.  They  are  confined  to  seden- 
tary and  laborious  work  during  the  week, 
and  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air  is  most  conducive 
to  their  health,  while  it  affords  them  a  very 
lively  pleasure,  such  a  pleasure  indeed  as 
•we  have  all  felt  in  Milton's  famous  descrip- 
tion of  it.  The  common  people  are  suffi- 
ciently delighted  with  such  enjoyments,  and 
would  really  be  displeased  with  those  public 
diversions  which  our  travelled  reformers 
have  desired  to  introduce. 

Neither  are  they  in  want  of  disputing 
societies  to  fill  up  their  time.  There  are 
parish-churches  in  abundance.  After  they 
have  attended  at  them  it  is  far  better  they 
should  walk  in  the  air,  than  be  pent  up  in 
a  close  room  and  putrefying  air,  where  their 
health  must  suffer  more  than  even  in  the 
exercise  of  their  handicraft  trade  or  voca- 
tion. But  that  indeed  is  one  of  the  least 
of  the  evils  which  they  must  endure  were 
they  allowed  to  attend  at  every  turbulent 
assembly  which  either  the  avaricious  or  the 
discontented  may  convene.  Weak  under- 
standings are  easily  led  astray  by  weak  argu- 
ments. Their  own  morals  and  happiness, 
and  the  welfare  of  the  church  and  state,  are 
greatly  interested  in  the  suppression  of 
those  houses  which  were  lately  opened 
under  the  arrogant  name  of  the  theological 
schools.  The  act  which  suppressed  them 
reflects  honour  on  the  British  senate.  Such 
acts  as  this  would  indeed  excite  the  zeal  of 
the  good  and  religious  on  the  side  of  the 
legislature,  and  would  rouse,  among  those 


whose  actions  must  carry  weight  writh  them 
because  their  characters  are  respected,  such 
a  spirit  and  unanimity  as  would  enable  the 
executive  part  of  government  to  support 
itself  with  honour  and  tranquillity  at  home, 
and  act  with  irresistible  vigour  abroad. 

Why  should  the  present  race,  whether 
high  or  low,  stand  more  in  need  of  public 
diversions  on  a  Sunday  than  our  forefathers 
in  the  last  and  in  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century  ?  No  good  reason  can  be 
given.  It  may  not  indeed  be  improbable 
that  the  true  origin  of  this  new-created 
want  is,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  present 
race,  from  the  defect  of  a  religious  education, 
or  from  subsequent  dissipation,  which  is 
found  to  obliterate  all  serious  ideas,  have  no 
relish  for  the  proper  and  natural  methods 
of  spending  our  time  on  a  Sunday,  the  per- 
formance of  religious  duties  and  the  exer- 
tions of  benevolence. 

Essays,  Moral  and  Literary  (in  British 
Essayist),  No.  20. 


DUGALD  STEWART, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1753,  was  Assistant  (to 
his  father)  Professor  of  Mathematics  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh,  1774-1785,  sole 
Professor  in  1785,  and  from  1785  to  1810 
(when  he  relinquished  the  active  duties  of 
the  professorship  to  Dr.  Thomas  Brown)  was 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  same 
university;  died  1828.  He  was  the  author 
of  Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human 
Mind,  Edin.  and  Lond.,  1792-1814-1827,  3 
vols.  4to ;  Outlines  of  Moral  Philosophy, 
Edin.,  1793,  8vo;  Doctor  Adam  Smith's 
Essays  on  Philosophical  Subjects,  with  an 
Account  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  the 
Author,  Lond.,  1795,  4to ;  Account  of  the 
Life  and  Writings  of  William  Robertson, 
Lond.,  1795,  4to;  Account  of  the  Life  and 
Writings  of  Thomas  Reid,  D.D.,  Edin.,  1803, 
8vo  ;  Philosophical  Essays,  Edin.,  1810.  4to  ; 
A  General  View  of  the  Progress  of  Meta- 
physical, Ethical,  and  Political  Philosophy 
since  the  Revival  of  Letters  in  Europe,  pre- 
fixed to  the  Suppfement  to  the  Fourth  and 
Fifth  Editions  of  the  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica,  Edin..  1816,  4to,  Boston,  Mass.,  1817, 
8vo,  Part  II..  prefixed  to  Supplement,  etc., 
vol.  v.,  Pt.  I.,  Edin.,  1821,  4to,  Boston, 
Mass,  1822,  8vo;  The  Philosophy  of  the 
Active  and  Moral  Powers  of  Man,  Edin., 
1828,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  minor  publications.  Com- 
plete Works  of  Dugald  Stewart,  Cambridge, 
Mass.,  1829  (again  1831),  7  vols.  8vo.  Com- 
plete Collected  Works,  Edited,  with  Addi- 
tions, by  Sir  William  Hamilton,  and  Me- 
moir of  Stewart  by  John  Veitch,  Edin., 
1854  (again  1877),  11  vols.  8vo. 


276 


DUGALD   STEWART. 


"All  the  years  I  remained  about  Edinburgh  I 
used  as  often  as  I  could  to  steal  into  Mr.  Stewart's 
class  to  hear  a  lecture,  which  was  always  a  high 
treat.  I  have  heard  Pitt  and  Fox  deliver  some 
of  their  most  admired  speeches,  but  I  never  heard 
anything  nearly  so  eloquent  as  some  of  the  lec- 
tures of  Professor  Stewart.  The  taste  for  the  stu- 
dies which  huve  formed  my  favourite  pursuits, 
and  which  will  be  so  to  the  end  of  my  lite,  I  owe 
to  him." — JOHN  MILL. 

"  Dugald  Stewart  has  carried  embellishment 
farther  into  the  region  of  metaphysics  than  any 
other  that  has  preceded  him;  and  his  embellish- 
ment is  invariably  consistent  with  perfect  sobriety 
of  taste." — ROBEHT  HALL. 


Ox  MEMORY. 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  of  all  our 
faculties  Memory  is  that  which  nature  has 
bestowed  in  the  most  unequal  degrees  on 
different  individuals;  and  it  is  far  from 
heing  impossible  that  this  opinion  may  he 
well  founded.  If,  however,  we  consider  that 
there  is  scarcely  any  man  who  has  not 
memory  sufficient  to  learn  the  use  of  lan- 
guage, and  to  learn  to  recognize,  at  the  first 
glance,  the  appearance  of  an  infinite  num- 
ber of  familiar  objects;  besides  acquiring 
such  an  acquaintance  with  the  laws  of  na- 
ture, and  the  ordinary  course  of  human  af- 
fairs, as  is  necessary  for  directing  his  con- 
duct in  life,  we  shall  be  satisfied  that  the 
original  disparities  among  men,  in  this  re- 
spect, are  by  no  means  so  immense  as  they 
seem  to  be  at  first  view  ;  and  that  much  is 
to  be  ascribed  to  different  halrfts  of  attention, 
and  to  a  difference  of  selection  among  the 
various  events  presented  to  their  curiosity. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  also,  that  those  in- 
dividuals who  possess  unusual  powers  of  mem- 
ory with  respect  to  any  one  class  of  objects, 
are  commonly  as  remarkably  deficient  in 
some  of  the  other  applications  of  that  faculty. 
I  knew  a  person  who,  though  comple-tely 
ignorant  of  Latin,  was  able  to  repeat  over 
thirty  or  forty  lines  of  Virgil,  after  having 
heard  them  onoo  read  to  him, — not  indeed 
with  perfect  exactness,  but  with  such  a  de- 
gree of  resemblance  as  (all  circumstances 
considered)  was  truly  astonishing:  yet  this 
person  (who  was  in  the  condition  of  a  ser- 
vant) was  singularly  deficient  in  memory  in 
all  cases  in  which  that  faculty  is  of  real 
practical  utility.  lie  was  noted  in  every 
family  in  which  he  had  been  employed  for 
habits  of  forgetful  ness,  and  could  scarcely 
deliver  an  ordinary  message  without  com- 
mitting some  blunder. 

A  similar  observation,  I  can  almost  ven- 
ture to  say,  will  be  found  to  apply  to  by  far 
the  greater  number  of  those  in  whom  this 
faculty  seems  to  exhibit  a  preternatural  or 
anomalous  degree  of  force.  The  varieties 
of  memory  are  indeed  wonderful,  but  they 


ought  not  to  be  confounded  with  inequali~ 
ties  of  memory.  One  man  is  distinguished 
by  a  power  of  recollecting  names,  and  dates, 
and  genealogies;  a  second,  by  the  multi- 
plicity of  speculations,  and  of  general  con- 
clusions treasured  up  in  his  intellect:  a 
third,  by  the  facility  with  which  words  and 
combinations  of  words  (the  ipissima  verba  of 
a  speaker  or  of  an  author)  seem  to  lay  hold 
of  his  mind  ;  a  fourth,  by  the  quickness 
with  which  he  seizes  and  appropriates  the 
sense  and  meaning  of  an  author,  while  the 
phraseology  and  style  seem  altogether  to 
escape  his  notice  ;  a  fifth,  by  his  memory  for 
poetry;  a  sixth,  by  his  memory  for  music; 
a  seventh,  by  his  memory  for  architecture, 
statuary,  and  painting,  and  all  the  other 
objects  of  taste  which  are  addressed  to  the 
eye.  All  these  different  powers  seein  mirac- 
ulous to  those  who  do  not  possess  them  ; 
and  as  they  are  apt  to  be  supposed  by  super- 
ficial observers  to  be  commonly  united  in  the 
same  individuals,  they  contribute  much  to 
encourage  those  exaggerated  estimates  con- 
cerning the  original  inequalities  among  men 
in  respect  to  this  faculty,  which  I  am  now 
endeavouring  to  reduce  to  their  first  standard. 

As  the  great  purpose  to  which  this  faculty 
is  subservient  is  to  enable  us  to  collect  and 
to  retain,  for  the  future  regulation  of  our 
conduct,  the  results  of  our  past  experience, 
it  is  evident  that  the  degree  of  perfection 
which  it  attains  in  the  case  of  different  per- 
sons must  vary — first,  with  the  facility  of 
making  the  original  acquisition  ;  secondly, 
with  the  permanence  of  the  acquisition  :  and, 
thirdly,  with  the  quickness  or  readiness  with 
which  the  individual  is  able,  on  particular 
occasions,  to  apply  it  to  use.  The  qualities, 
therefore,  of  a  good  memory  are,  in  the  first 
place,  to  be  susceptible;  secondly,  to  be  re- 
tentive: and,  thirdly,  to  be  ready. 

It  is  but  rarely  that  these  three  qualities 
are  united  in  the  same  person.  We  often, 
indeed,  meet  with  a  memory  which  is  at 
once  susceptible  and  ready  ;  but  I  doubt 
much  if  such  memories  be  commonly  very 
retentive:  for  the  same  set  of  habits  whicn 
are  favourable  to  the  two  first  qualities  are 
adverse  to  the  third. 

Those  individuals,  for  example,  who  with 
a  view  to  conversation,  make  a  constant 
business  of  informing  themselves  with  re- 
spect to  the  popular  topics,  or  of  turning 
over  the  ephemeral  publications  subservient 
to  the  amusement  or  to  the  politics  fo  the 
times,  are  naturally  led  to  cultivate  a  sus- 
ceptibility and  readiness  of  memory,  but  have 
no  inducement  to  aim  at  that  permanent  re- 
tention of  select  ideas  which  enables  the 
scientific  student  to  combine  the  most  re- 
mote materials,  and  to  concentrate  at  will, 
on  a  particular  object,  all  the  scattered 


WILLIAM  GODWIN. 


lights  of  his  experience,  and  of  his  reflec- 
tions. Such  men  (as  far  as  my  observation 
has  reached)  seldom  possess  a  familiar  or 
correct  acquaintance  oven  with  those  clas- 
sical remains  of  our  own  earlier  writers 
which  have  ceased  to  furnish  topics  of  dis- 
course to  the  circles  of  fashion.  A  stream 
of  novelties  is  perpetually  passing  through 
their  minds,  and  the  faint  impressions  which 
it  leaves  soon  vanish  to  make  way  for  others, 
— like  the  traces  which  the  ebbing  tide 
leaves  upon  the  sand.  Nor  is  this  all.  In 
proportion  as  the  associating  principles  which 
lay  the  foundation  of  susceptibility  and  readi- 
ness predominate  in  the  memory,  those 
which  form  the  basis  of  our  more  solid  and 
lasting  acquisitions  may  be  expected  to  be 
weakened,  as  a  natural  consequence  of  the 
general  laws  of  our  intellectual  frame. 
Elements  of  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human 
Mind,  Ch.  vi.  I  2. 


WILLIAM    GODWIN, 

born  1756,  after  officiating  as  a  Dissenting 
minister  1778  to  1782,  devoted  himself  to 
literary  pursuits  until  his  death,  in  1836. 
Among  his  publications  are  the  following: 
An  Enquiry  Concerning  Political  Justice, 
and  its  Influence  on  General  Virtue  and 
Happiness,  Lond.,  1793,  2  vols.  4to  ;  Things 
as  they  are,  or,  the  Adventures  of  Caleb 
Williams,  Lond.,  1794,  3  vols.  12mo;  The 
Enquirer,  Lond.,  1797,  8vo ;  Memoirs  of 
Mary  Wollstonecraft  Godwin,  Lond.,  1798, 
12mo ;  St.  Leon,  a  Tale  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century,  Lond.,  1799,  4  vols.  12mo;  An- 
tonio, or  The  Soldier's  Return,  a  Tragedy, 
Lond.,  1800,  8vo  ;  The  Life  of  Geoffrey 
Chaucer,  Esq.,  Lond.,  1803,  2  vols.  4to ; 
Fleetwood,  or,  The  New  Man  of  Feeling,  a 
Novel,  Lond.,  1805,  3  vols.  12mo;  Faulkner, 
a  Tragedy,  Lond.,  1808,  8vo:  An  Essay  on 
Sepulchres,  Lond.,  1809,  cr.  8vo;  The  Lives 
of  Edward  and  John  Phillips.  Nephews  and 
Pupils  of  John  Milton,  Lond.,  1815,  4to ; 
Mamie  vi  lie,  a  Tale  of  the  Seventeenth  Cen- 
tury, Edin.,  1817,  3  vols.  12mo:  Of  Popu- 
lation, Lond.,  1820,  8vo ;  History  of  the 
Commonwealth  of  England.  Lond.,  1824-28, 
4  vols.  8vo  ;  Clondesley,  a  Tale,  Lond.,  1830, 
8vo ;  Thoughts  on  Man,  his  Nature,  Pro- 
ductions, and  Discoveries,  Lond.,  1830,  8vo; 
Lives  of  the  Necromancers,  Lond.,  1834,  8vo. 

"As  a  novelist  Mr.  Godwin  is,  to  all  intents, 
original ;  he  has  taken  no  model,  but  has  been 
himself  a  model  to  the  million.  He  heads  that 
voluminous  class  of  writers  whose  chief,  nay,  whose 
only,  aim  is  to  excite  the  painful  sensibilities  by 
displaying,  in  a  rigid  depth  of  colouring,  the  dark- 
est and  the  blackest  passions  which  corrupt  man- 
kind."— Lond.  Gent.  May.,  June,  1836. 


REMORSE. 

"  Williams,"  said  he,  "  you  hare  con- 
quered !  I  see,  too  late,  the  greatness  and 
elevation  of  your  mind.  I  confess  that  it 
is  to  my  fault,  and  not  yours,  that  it  is  to 
the  excess  of  jealousy  that  was  ever  burning 
in  my  bosom,  that  I  owe  my  ruin.  I  could 
have  resisted  any  plan  of  malicious  accusa- 
tion you  might  have  brought  against  me. 
But  I  see  that  the  artless  and  manly  story 
you  have  told  has  carried  conviction  to  every 
hearer.  All  my  prospects  are  concluded. 
All  that  I  most  ardently  desire  is  forever 
frustrated.  I  have  spent  a  life  of  the  basest 
cruelty  to  cover  one  act  of  momentary  vice, 
and  to  protect  myself  against  the  prejudices 
of  my  species.  I  stand  now  completely  de- 
tected. My  name  will  be  consecrated  to 
infamy,  while  your  heroism,  your  patience, 
and  your  virtue,  will  be  forever  admired. 
You  have  inflicted  on  me  the  most  fatal 
of  all  mischiefs,  but  I  bless  the  hand  that 
wounds  me.  And  no\vr' — turning  to  the 
magistrate — "and  now,  do  with  me  as  you 
please.  I  am  prepared  to  suffer  all  the  ven- 
geance of  the  law.  You  cannot  inflict  on 
me  more  than  I  deserve.  You  cannot  hate 
me  more  than  I  hate  myself.  I  am  the  most 
execrable  of  all  villains.  I  have  for  many 
years  (I  know  not  how  long)  dragged  on  a 
miserable  existence  in  insupportable  pain. 
I  am  at  last,  in  recompense  of  all  my  labours 
and  my  crimes,  dismissed  from  it  with  the 
disappointment  of  my  only  remaining  hope, 
the  destruction  of  that  for  the  sake  of  which 
alone  I  consented  to  exist.  It  was  worthy 
of  such  a  life  that  it  should  continue  just 
long  enough  to  witness  this  final  overthrow. 
If,  however,  you  wish  to  punish  me,  you 
must  be  speedy  in  your  justice;  for  as  rep- 
utation was  the  blood  that  warmed  my  heart, 
so  I  feel  that  death  and  infamy  must  seize 
me  together !" 

I  record  the  praises  bestowed  on  me  by 
Falkland,  not  because  I  deserve  them,  but 
because  they  serve  to  aggravate  the  baseness 
of  my  cruelty.  He  survived  hut  three  days 
this  dreadful  scene*.  I  have  been  his  mur- 
derer. It  was  fit  that  he  should  praise  my 
patience,  who  has  fallen  a  victim,  life  and 
fame,  to  my  precipitation  !  It  would  have 
been  merciful,  in  comparison,  if  I  had 
planted  a  dagger  in  his  heart.  He  would 
have  thanked  me  for  my  kindness.  But, 
atrocious,  execrable  wretch  that  I  have 
been,  I  wantonly  inflicted  on  him  an  an- 
guish a  thousand  times  worse  than  death. 
Meanwhile  I  endure  the  penalty  of  my 
crime.  His  figure  is  ever  in  imagination 
before  me.  Waking  or  sleeping,  I  still  be- 
hold him.  He  seems  mildly  to  expostulate 
with  me  for  my  unfeeling  behaviour.  I  live 


278 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 


the  devoted  victim  of  conscious  reproach. 
Alas !  I  am  the  same  Caleb  Williams  that 
so  short  a  time  ago  boasted  that,  however 
great  were  the  calamities  I  endured,  I  was 
still  innocent. 

Such  has  been  the  result  of  a  project  I 
formed  for  delivering  myself  from  the  evils 
that  had  so  long  attended  me.  I  thought 
that  if  Falkland  were  dead,  I  should  return 
once  again  to  all  that  makes  life  worth  pos- 
sessing. I  thought  that  if  the  guilt  of  Falk- 
land were  established,  fortune  and  the  world 
would  smile  upon  my  efforts.  Both  these 
events  are  accomplished,  and  it  is  now  only 
that  I  am  truly  miserable. 

Why  should  my  reflections  perpetually 
centre  upon  myself? — self,  an  overweening 
regard  to  which  has  been  the  source  of  my 
errors  ?  Falkland,  I  will  think  only  of  thee, 
and  from  that  thought  will  draw  ever  fresh 
nourishment  for  my  sorrows.  One  generous, 
one  disinterested  tear  I  will  consecrate  to 
thy  ashes  !  A  nobler  spirit  lived  not  among 
the  sons  of  men.  Thy  intellectual  powers 
were  truly  sublime,  and  thy  bosom  burned 
with  a  god-like  ambition.  But  of  what  use 
are  talents  and  sentiments  in  the  corrupt 
wilderness  of  human  society  !  It  is  a  rank 
and  rotten  soil,  from  which  every  finer  spirit 
draws  poison  as  it  grows.  All  that  in  a 
happier  field  and  a  purer  air  would  expand 
into  virtue  and  germinate  into  usefulness, 
is  thus  converted  into  henbane  and  deadly 
nightshade. 

Falkland  !  thou  enteredst  upon  thy  career 
with  the  purest  and  most  laudable  inten- 
tions. But  thou  imbibedst  the  poison  of 
chivalry  with  thy  earliest  youth  ;  and  the 
base  and  low-minded  envy  that  met  thee  on 
thy  return  to  thy  native  seats,  operated  with 
this  poison  to  hurry  thee  into  madness. 
Soon,  too  soon,  by  this  fatal  coincidence, 
were  the  blooming  hopes  of  thy  youth 
blasted  forever !  From  that  moment  thou 
only  continuedst  to  live  to  the  phantom  of 
departed  honour.  From  that  moment  thy 
benevolence  was,  in  a  great  measure,  turned 
into  rankling  jealousy  and  inexorable  pre- 
caution. Year  after  year  didst  thou  spend 
in  this  miserable  project  of  imposture;  and 
only  at  last  continued.st  to  live  long  enough 
to  see,  by  my  misjudging  and  abhorred  in- 
tervention, thy  closing  hopes  disappointed, 
r.nd  thy  death  accompanied  with  the  foulest 
it  ;:•  grace ! 

Caleb  Williams. 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD, 

styled  by  Lord  Byron,  in  Childe  Harold. 
"  England's  wealthiest  son,"  and  the  builder 
of  a  palace  at  Ciutra,  Portugal,  and  of  Font- 


hill  Abbey,  the  latter  of  which  cost  him 
£273,01)0,  was  born  1760,  succeeded  at  ten 
years  of  age  to  a  fortune  of  £100,000  per 
annum,  and  died  in  1844.  He  was  the  author 
of  Biographical  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary 
Painters,  Lond.,  1780,  small  8vo  (anony- 
mous) ;  An  Arabian  Tale  [Vathek],  from  an 
Unpublished  MS.,  with  ftotes  Critical  and 
Explanatory  [by  Mr.  Henley],  Lond.,  1786, 
small  8vo,  the  original  in  French,  Lausanne, 
1787,  new  edition,  1815,  8vo,  some  large 
paper;  in  English,  1809,  also  1815,  8vo,  and 
1832,  8vo ;  Italy,  with  Sketches  of  Spain, 
and  Portugal,  in  a  Series  of  Letters  written 
during  a  Residence  in  those  Countries, 
Lond.,  1834,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  Recollections  of  an 
Excursion  to  the  Monasteries  of  Alcobaca  and 
Batalha  [in  June,  1794],  Lond.,  1835,  8vo. 

Vathek  displays  the  hand  of  a  master 
(which  is  apparent  in  all  his  works) : 

"For  correctness  of  costume,  beauty  of  descrip- 
tion, and  power  of  imagination,  this  most  Eastern 
and  sublime  tale  [Vathek]  surpasses  all  European 
imitations;  and  bears  such  marks  of  originality 
that  those  who  have  visited  the  East  will  have 
some  difficulty  in  believing  it  to  be  more  than  a 
translation.  .  .  .  As  an  Eastern  tale  even  Rasselas 
must  bow  before  it :  his  Happy  Valley  will  not 
bear  comparison  with  the  Hall  of  Eblis." — LORD 
BYRON. 

THE  CALIPH  VATHEK  AND  HIS  PALACES. 

Vathek,  ninth  caliph  of  the  race  of  the 
Abassides,  was  the  son  of  Motassem.  and 
the  grandson  of  Haroun  al  Raschid.  From 
an  early  accession  to  the  throne,  and  the 
talents  he  possessed  to  adorn  it,  his  subjects 
were  induced  to  expect  that  his  reign  would 
be  long  and  happy.  His  figure  was  pleasing 
and  majestic ;  but  when  he  was  angry  one 
of  his  eyes  became  so  terrible  that  no  person 
could  bear  to  behold  it ;  and  the  wretch 
upon  whom  it  was  fixed  instantly  fell  back- 
ward, and  sometimes  expired.  For  fear, 
however,  of  depopulating  his  dominions, 
and  making  his  palace  desolate,  he  rarely 
gave  way  to  his  anger. 

Being  much  addicted  to  women,  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  table,  he  sought  by  his  affa- 
bility to  procure  agreeable  companions  ;  and 
he  succeeded  the  better  as  his  generosity 
was  unbounded  and  his  indulgences  unre- 
strained :  for  he  did  not  think,  with  the 
caliph  Omar  Ben  Abdalaziz.  that  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  make  a  hell  of  this  world  to  enjoy 
Paradise  in  the  next. 

He  surpassed  in  magnificence  all  his  pre- 
decessors. The  palace  of  Alkeremi,  which 
his  father,  Motassem,  had  erected  on  the  hill 
of  Pied  Horses,  and  which  commanded  the 
whole  city  of  Samarah,  was  in  his  idea  far 
too  scanty :  he  added,  therefore,  five  wings, 
or  rather  other  palaces,  which  he  destined 


WILLIAM  BECKFORD. 


279 


for  the  particular  gratification  of  each  of  the 
senses.  In  the  first  of  these  were  tallies 
continually  covered  with  the  most  exquisite 
dainties,  which  were  supplied  both  by  night 
and  by  day,  according  to  their  constant  con- 
sumption ;  whilst  the  most  delicious  wines, 
and  the  choicest  cordials,  flowed  forth  from 
a  hundred  fountains  that  were  never  ex- 
hausted. This  palace  was  called  The  Eter- 
nal, or  Unsatiating  Banquet.  The  second 
was  styled  The  Temple  of  Melody,  or  The 
Nectar  of  the  Soul.  It  was  inhabited  by  the 
most  skilful  musicians  and  admired  poets 
of  the  time,  who  not  only  displayed  their 
talents  within,  but,  dispersing  in  bands  with- 
out, caused  every  surrounding  scene  to  re- 
verberate their  songs,  which  were  continually 
varied  in  the  most  delightful  succession. 

The  palace  named  The  Delight  of  the 
Eyes,  or  The  Support  of  Memory,  was  one 
entire  enchantment.  Rarities,  collected  from 
every  corner  of  the  earth,  were  there  found 
in  such  profusion  as  to  dazzle  and  confound, 
but  for  the  order  in  which  they  were  ar- 
ranged. One  gallery  exhibited  the  pictures 
of  the  celebrated  Haiti,  and  statues  that 
seemed  to  be  alive.  Here  a  well-managed 
perspective  attracted  the  sight ;  there  the 
magic  of  optics  agreeably  deceived  it ;  whilst 
the  naturalist,  on  his  part,  exhibited  in  their 
several  classes  the  various  gifts  that  Heaven 
had  bestowed  on  our  globe.  In  a  word, 
Vathek  omitted  nothing  in  his  palace  that 
might  gratify  the  curiosity  of  those  who  re- 
sorted tu  it,  although  he  was  not  able  to 
satisfy  his  own,  for  of  all  men  he  was  the 
most  curious. 

The  Palace  of  Perfumes,  which  was  termed 
likewise  The  Incentive  to  Pleasure,  consisted 
of  various  halls,  where  the  different  perfumes 
which  the  earth  produces  were  kept  perpet- 
ually burning  in  censers  of  gold.  Flam- 
beaux and  aromatic  lamps  were  lighted  in 
open  day.  But  the  too  powerful  effects  of 
this  agreeable  delirium  might  be  alleviated 
by  descending  into  an  immense  garden, 
where  an  assemblage  of  every  fragrant 
flower  diffused  through  the  air  the  purest 
odours. 

The  fifth  palace,  denominated  The  Retreat 
of  Mirth,  or  The  Dangerous,  was  frequented 
by  troops  of  young  females,  beautiful  as  the 
Houris,  and  not  less  seductive,  who  never 
failed  to  receive  with  caresses  all  whom  the 
caliph  allowed  to  approach  them,  and  enjoy 
a  few  hours  of  their  company. 

Notwithstanding  the  sensuality  in  which 
Vathek  indulged,  he  experienced  no  abate- 
ment in  the  love  of  his  people,  who  thought 
that  a  sovereign  giving  himself  up  to  pleas- 
ure was  as  able  to  govern  as  one  who  de- 
clared himself  an  enemy  to  it.  But  the  un- 
quiet and  impetuous  disposition  of  the  caliph 


would  not  allow  him  to  rest  there.  lie  had 
studied  so  much  for  his  amusement  in  the 
lifetime  of  his  father  as  to  acquire  a  great 
deal  of  knowledge,  though  not  a  sufficiency 
to  satisfy  himself;  for  he  wished  to  know 
every  thing,  even  sciences  that  did  not  exist. 
lie  was  fond  of  engaging  in  disputes  with 
the  learned,  but  did  not  allow  them  to  push 
their  opposition  with  warmth.  He  stopped 
with  presents  the  mouths  of  those  whose 
mouths  could  be  stopped ;  whilst  others, 
whom  his  liberality  was  unable  to  subdue, 
he  sent  to  prison  to  co:>l  their  blood, — a 
remedy  that  often  succeeded. 

Vathek  discovered  also  a  predilection  for 
theological  controversy ;  but  it  was  not  with 
the  orthodox  that  he  usually  held.  By  this 
means  he  induced  the  zealots  to  oppose  him, 
and  then  persecuted  them  in  return  ;  for  he 
resolved,  at  any  rate,  to  have  reason  on  hia 
side. 

The  great  prophet,  Mahomet,  whose  vicars 
the  caliphs  are,  beheld  with  indignation 
from  his  abode  in  the  seventh  heaven  the 
irreligious  conduct  of  such  a  vicegerent. 
"Let  us  leave  him  to  himself,"  said  he  to 
the  genii,  who  are  always  ready  to  receive 
his  commands;  "  let  us  see  to  what  lengths 
his  folly  and  impiety  will  carry  him :  if  he 
run  into  excess,  we  shall  know  how  to  chas- 
tise him.  Assist  him,  therefore,  to  complete 
the  tower,  which,  in  imitation  of  Nimrod, 
he  hath  begun  ;  not,  like  that  great  warrior, 
to  escape  being  drowned,  but  from  the  inso- 
lent curiosity  of  penetrating  the  secrets  of 
Heaven :  he  will  not  divine  the  fate  that 
awaits  him." 

The  genii  obeyed ;  and  when  the  work- 
men had  raised  their  structure  a  cubit  in  the 
day  time,  two  cubits  more  were  added  in  the 
night.  The  expedition  with  which  the  fabric 
arose  was  not  a  little  flattering  to  the  vanity 
of  Vathek :  he  fancied  that  even  insensible 
matter  showed  a  forwardness  to  subserve  hia 
designs,  not  considering  that  the  successes  of 
the  foolish  and  wicked  form  the  first  rod  of 
their  chastisement. 

His  pride  arrived  at  its  height  when,  hav- 
ing ascended  for  the  first  time  the  fifteen 
hundred  stairs  of.  his  tower,  he  cast  his  eyea 
below,  and  beheld  men  not  larger  than  pis- 
mires, mountains  than  shells,  and  cities  than 
bee-hives.  The  idea  which  such  an  elevation 
inspii-ed  of  his  own  grandeur  completely  be- 
wildered him  :  he  was  almost  ready  to  adore 
himself,  till,  lifting  his  eyes  upwards,  he  saw 
the  stars  as  high  above  him  as  they  appeared 
when  he  stood  on  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
He  consoled  himself,  however,  for  this  in- 
truding and  unwelcome  perception  of  his 
littleness  with  the  thought  of  being  great  in 
the  eyes  of  others;  and  flattered  himself 
that  the  light  of  his  mind  would  extend  be- 


280 


ROBERT  HALL. 


yond  the  reach  of  his  sight,  and  extort  from 
the  stars  the  decrees  of  his  destiny. 
Vathek. 


ROBERT    HALL, 

the  most  eminent  of  Baptist  divines,  horn 
17G4,  commenced  preaching  1780,  was  min- 
ister at  Broadmead,  Cambridge,  Leicester, 
and  again,  1825-1831,  at  Broadmead  (Bris- 
tol), and  died  1831.  In  November,  1804, 
and  again  about  a  twelvemonth  later  in  con- 
sequence of  intense  mental  application,  he 
suffered  from  mental  derangement.  His  best- 
known  publications  are  Christianity  Consist- 
ent with  a  Love  of  Freedom,  Lond.,  1791, 
Apology  for  the  Freedom  of  the  Press,  1793, 
Modern  Infidelity  Considered,  180D,  Reflec- 
tions on  War,  1802,  The  Sentiments  Proper 
to  the  Present  Crisis,  1803,  The  Discourage- 
ments and  Supports  of  the  Christian  Minis- 
try, On  Terms  of  Communion,  1815  (against 
Kinghorn,  who  advocated  "close  commun- 
ion''), A  Sermon  occasioned  by  the  Death 
of  Her  late  Royal  Highness  the  Princess 
Charlotte  of  Wales.  1817,  6th  edit.,  1818. 
Works,  with  Memoir  by  Dr.  0.  Gregory  and 
Observations  by  John  Foster.  Lond.,  1831- 
33,  0  vols.  8vo,  llth  edit.,  1853,  6  vols.  8vo. 

"In  his  higher  flights,  what  he  said  of  Burke 
might,  with  the  slightest  deduction,  be  applied  to 
himself,  that  his  imperial  fancy  hiid  all  nature 
uncler  tribute,  and  collected  riches  from  every 
scene  of  the  creation  and  every  walk  of  art;  and 
at  the  same  time,  that  could  he  affirmed  of  Mr. 
Hall  which  could  not  bo  affirmed  of  Mr.  Burke. — 
that  he  never  fatigued  and  oppressed  by  gaudy 
and  superfluous  imagery.  .  .  .  Ills  inexhaustible 
variety  augmented  the  general  effect.  The  same 
images,  the  same  illustrations,  scarcely  ever  re- 
curred."  DR.  Ol.l.NTHIlS  (JllKGORY. 

'•'  Whoever  wishes  to  see  the  English  language 
in  its  perfection  must  read  the  writings  of  that 
great  divine,  Robert  Hall.  He  combines  the  beau- 
ties of  Johnson,  Addison,  and  Burke,  without  their 
imperfections." — DUGALD  STEWART. 

THE  HORRORS  OF  WAR. 

Though  the  whole  race  of  man  is  doomed 
to  dissolution,  and  we  are  all  hastening  to 
our  long  homo,  yet  at  each  successive 
moment,  life  and  death  seem  to  divide  be- 
tween them  the  dominion  of  mankind,  and 
life  to  have  the  larger  share.  It  is  otherwise 
in  war:  death  reigns  there  without  a  rival, 
and  without  control.  War  is  the  work,  the 
element,  or  rather  the  sport  and  triumph,  of 
death,  who  glories,  not  only  in  the  extent 
of  his  conquest,  but  in  the  richness  of  his 
spoil.  In  the  other  methods  of  attack,  in 
the  other  forms  which  death  assumes,  the 
feeble  and  the  aged,  who  at  the  best  can  live 
but  a  short  time,  are  usually  the  victims; 
here  it  is  the  vigorous  and  the  strong.  It  is 


remarked  by  an  ancient  historian  [Herodo- 
tus] that,  in  peace  children  bury  their  pa- 
rents, in  war  parents  bury  their  children  : 
nor  is  the  difference  small.  Children  lament 
their  parents,  sincerely  indeed,  but  with  that 
moderate  and  tranquil  sorrow  which  it  is 
natural  for  those  to  feel  who  are  conscious 
of  retaining  many  tender  ties,  many  ani- 
mating prospects.  Parents  mourn  for  their 
children  with  the  bitterness  of  despair:  the 
aged  parent,  the  widowed  mother,  loses, 
when  she  is  deprived  of  her  children,  every- 
thing but  the  capacity  of  suffering;  her  heart, 
withered  and  desolate,  admits  no  other  object, 
cherishes  no  other  hope.  It  is  Rachel  weep- 
in(j  for  her  children  and  refusing  to  be  com- 
forted, because  they  are  not. 

But  to  confine  our  attention  to  the  number 
of  the  slain  would  give  us  a  very  inadequate 
idea  of  the  ravages  of  the  sword.  The  lot 
of  those  who  perish  instantaneously  may  be 
considered,  apart  from  religious  prospects,  as 
comparatively  happy,  since  they  are  exempt 
from  those  lingering  diseases  and  slow  tor- 
tures to  which  others  are  liable.  We  cannot 
see  an  individual  expire,  though  a  stranger  or 
an  enemy,  without  being  sensibly  moved,  and 
prompted  by  compassion  to  lend  him  every 
assistance  in  our  power.  Every  trace  of  re- 
sentment vanishes  in  a  moment:  every  o*ther 
emotion  gives  way  to  pity  and  terror.  In 
these  last  extremities  we  remember  nothing 
but  the  respect  and  tenderness  due  to  our 
common  nature.  What  a  scene  then  must 
a  field  of  battle  present,  where  thousands 
are  left  without  assistance  and  without  pity, 
with  their  wounds  exposed  to  the  piercing 
air,  while  the  blood,  freezing  as  it  flows, 
binds  them  to  the  earth,  amid  the  trampling 
of  horses  and  the  insults  of  an  enraged  foe! 
If  they  are  spared  by  the  humanity  of  the 
enemy  and  carried  from  the  field,  it  is  but  a 
prolongation  of  torment.  Conveyed  in  un- 
easy vehicles,  often  to  a  remote  distance, 
through  roads  almost  impassable,  they  are 
lodged  in  ill-prepared  receptacles  for  the 
wounded  and  the  sick,  where  the  variety 
of  distress  baffles  all  the  efforts  of  humanity 
and  skill,  and  renders  it  impossible  to  give 
to  each  the  attention  he  demands.  Far  from 
their  native  home,  no  tender  assiduities  of 
friendship,  no  well-known  voice,  no  wife,  or 
mother,  or  sister  is  near  to  soothe  their  sor- 
rows, relieve  their  thirst,  or  close  their  eyes 
in  death.  Unhappy  man  !  and  must  you  be 
swept  into  the  grave  unnoticed  and  unnum- 
bered, and  no  friendly  tear  be  shed  for  your 
sufferings  or  mingled  with  your  dust ! 

We  must  remember,  however,  that  as  a 
very  small  proportion  of  a  military  life  is 
spent  in  actual  combat,  so  it  is  a  very  small 
part  of  its  miseries  which  must  be  ascribed 
to  this  source.  More  are  consumed  by  the 


ROBERT  HALL. 


281 


rust  of  inactivity  than  by  the  edge  of  the 
sword:  confined  to  a  scanty  or  unwholesome 
diet,  exposed  in  sickly  climates,  harassed 
with  tiresome  inarches  and  perpetual  alarms, 
their  life  is  a  continual  scene  of  hardships 
and  dangers.  They  grow  familiar  with 
hunger,  cold,  and  watchfulness.  Crowded 
into  hospitals  and  prisons,  contagion  spreads 
among  their  ranks,  till  the  ravages  of  dis- 
ease exceed  those  of  the  enemy. 

We  have  hitherto  only  adverted  to  the 
sufferings  of  those  who  are  engaged  in  the 
profession  of  arms,  without  taking  into  our 
account  the  situation  of  the  countries  which 
are  the  scene  of  hostilities.  How  dreadful 
to  hold  everything  a.t  the  mercy  of  an  enemy, 
and  to  receive  life  itself  as  a  boon  dependent 
on  the  sword-  How  boundless  the  fears 
which  such  a  situation  must  inspire,  where 
the  issues  of  life  and  death  are  determined 
by  no  known  laws,  principles,  or  customs, 
and  no  conjecture  can  be  formed  of  our  des- 
tiny, except  as  far  as  it  is  dimly  deciphered 
in  characters  of  blood,  in  the  dictates  of  re- 
venge, and  in  the  caprices  of  power.  Con- 
ceive but  a  moment  the  consternation  which 
the  approach  of  an  invading  army  would 
impress  on  the  peaceful  villages  in  this 
neighbourhood.  When  you  have  placed 
yourselves  for  an  instant  in  that  situation, 
you  will  learn  to  sympathize  with  those  un- 
happy countries  which  have  sustained  the 
ravages  of  arms.  But  how  is  it  possible  to 
give  you  an  idea  of  these  horrors  ?  Here 
you  behold  rich  harvests,  the  bounty  of 
heaven  and  the  reward  of  industry,  con- 
sumed in  a  moment  or  trampled  under  foot, 
while  famine  and  pestilence  follow  the  steps 
of  desolation.  There  the  cottages  given  up 
to  the  flames,  mothers  expiring  through  fear, 
not  for  themselves  but  their  infants;  the 
inhabitants  flying  with  their  helpless  babes 
in  all  directions,  miserable  fugitives  on  their 
native  soil !  In  another  part  you  witness 
opulent  cities  token  by  storm  ;  the  streets, 
where  no  sounds  were  heard  but  those  of 
peaceful  industry,  filled  on  a  sudden  with 
slaughter  and  blood,  resounding  with  the 
cries  of  the  pursuing  and  the  pursued;  the 
palaces  of  nobles  demolished,  the  houses  of 
the  rich  pillaged,  the  chastity  of  virgins  and 
of  matrons  violated,  and  every  age,  sex,  and 
rank  mingled  in  promiscuous  massacre  and 
ruin. 

Reflections  on  War:  a  Sermon,  June  1, 1802. 

TIME  AND  ETERNITY. 

The  impotence  of  the  world  never  appears 
more  conspicuous  than  when  it  has  exhausted 
its  powers  in  the  gratification  of  its  votaries 
by  placing  them  in  a  situation  which  leaves 
them  nothing  further  to  hope.  It  frustrates 


the  sanguine  expectations  of  its  admirers  as 
much  by  what  it  bestows  as  by  what  it  with- 
holds, and  reserves  its  severest  disappoint- 
ment for  the  season  of  possession.  The  agi- 
tation, the  uncertainty,  the  varied  emotions 
of  hope  and  fear  which  accompany  the  pur- 
suit of  worldly  objects,  create  a  powerful 
interest,  and  maintain  a  brisk  and  whole- 
some circulation  ;  but  when  the  pursuit  is 
over,  unless  some  other  is  substituted  in  its 
place,  satiety  succeeds  to  enjoyment,  and 
pleasures  cease  to  please.  Tired  of  tread- 
ing the  same  circle,  of  beholding  the  same 
spectacles,  of  frequenting  the  same  amuse- 
ments, and  repeating  the  same  follies,  with 
nothing  to  awaken  sensibility,  or  to  stimu- 
late to  action,  the  minion  of  fortune  is  ex- 
posed to  an  insuperable  languor;  he  sinks 
under  an  insupportable  weight  of  ease,  and 
falls  a  victim  to  incurable  dejection  and  de- 
spondency. Keligion,  by  presenting  objects 
ever  interesting  and  ever  new,  by  bestowing 
much,  by  promising  more,  and  dilating  the 
heart  with  the  expectation  of  a  certain  in- 
definite good,  clearly  ascertained  though  in- 
distinctly seen,  the  pledge  and  earnest  of 
which  is  far  more  delightful  than  all  that 
irreligious  men  possess,  is  the  only  effectual 
antidote  to  this  evil.  He  that  drinketh  oftliis 
water  shall  never  thirst.  The  vanity  which 
adheres  to  the  world  in  every  form,  when  its 
pleasures  and  occupations  are  regarded  as 
ultimate  objects,  is  at  once  corrected  when 
they  are  viewed  in  connexion  with  a  bound- 
less futurity ;  and  whatever  may  be  their 
intrinsic  value,  they  rise  into  dignity  and 
importance  when  considered  as  the  seed  of 
a  future  harvest,  as  the  path  which,  however 
obscure,  leads  to  honour  and  immortality,  as 
the  province  of  labour  allotted  us.  in  order 
to  work  out  our  salvation  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. Nothing  is  little  which  is  related  to 
such  a  system  ;  nothing  vain  or  frivolous 
which  has  the  remotest  influence  on  such 
prospects.  Considered  as  a  state  of  proba- 
tion, our  present  condition  loses  all  its  in- 
herent meanness ;  it  derives  a  moral  gran- 
deur even  from  the  shortness  of  its  duration, 
when  viewed  as  a  contest  for  an  immortal 
crown,  in  which  thfe  candidates  are  exhibited 
on  a  theatre,  a  spectacle  to  beings  of  the 
highest  order,  who,  conscious  of  the  tremen- 
dous importance  of  the  issue,  of  the  magni- 
tude of  the  interest  at  stake,  survey  the  com- 
batants from  on  high  with  benevolent  and 
trembling  solicitude. 

Finally,  we  are  made  for  the  enjoyment 
of  eternal  blessedness  ;  it  is  our  high  calling 
and  destination  ;  and  not  to  pursue  it  with 
diligence  is  to  be  guilty  of  the  blackest  in- 
gratitude to  the  Author  of  our  being,  as 
well  as  the  greatest  cruelty  to  ourselves. 
To  fail  of  such  an  object,  to  defeat  the  end 


282 


ROBERT  HALL. 


of  our  existence,  and  in  consequence  of  neg- 
lecting the  great  salvation,  to  sink  at  last 
under  the  frown  of  the  Almighty,  is  a  calam- 
ity which  words  were  not  invented  to  ex- 
press, nor  finite  minds  formed  to  grasp. 
Eternity,  it  is  surely  not  necessary  to  re- 
mind you,  invests  every  state,  whether  of 
bliss  or  of  suffering,  with  a  mysterious  and 
awful  importance,  entirely  its  own,  and  is 
the  only  property  in  the  creation  which 
gives  that  weight  and  moment  to  whatever 
it  attaches,  compared  to  which  all  sublunary 
joys  and  sorrows,  all  interests  which  know 
a  period,  fade  into  the  most  contemptible 
insignificance.  In  appreciating  every  other 
object  it  is  easy  to  exceed  the  proper  esti- 
mate ;  and  even  of  the  distressing  event 
which  has  so  recently  occurred,  the  feeling 
•which  many  of  us  possess  is  probably  ade- 
quate to  the  occasion. 

The  nation  has  certainly  not  been  wanting 
in  the  proper  expression  of  its  poignant  re- 
gret at  the  sudden  removal  of  this  most 
lamented  princess,  nor  of  their  sympathy 
with  the  royal  family,  deprived  by  this  visi- 
tation of  its  brightest  ornament.  Sorrow  is 
painted  in  every  countenance.  The  pursuits 
of  business  and  of  pleasure  have  been  sus- 
pended, and  the  kingdom  is  covered  with 
the  signals  of  distress.  But  what,  my  breth- 
ren, if  it  be  lawful  to  indulge  such  a  thought, 
what  would  be  the  funeral  obsequies  of  a 
lost  soul?  Where  shall  we  find  the  tears  fit 
to  be  wept  at  such  a  spectacle?  or,  could  we 
realize  the  calamity  in  all  its  extent,  what 
tokens  of  commiseration  and  concern  would 
be  deemed  equal  to  the  occasion  ?  Would 
it  suffice  for  the  sun  to  veil  his  light  and 
the  moon  her  brightness  ;  to  cover  the  ocean 
with  mourning  and  the  heavens  with  sack- 
cloth ?  or,  were  the  whole  fabric  of  nature 
to  become  animated  and  vocal,  would  it  be 
possible  for  her  to  utter  a  groan  too  deep, 
or  a  cry  too  piercing,  to  express  the  magni- 
tude and  extent  of  such  a  catastrophe? 

Sermon  Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Her  late 
Jtoi/al  Highness  The  Princess  Charlotte  of 
Wales,  Nov.  6,  1817. 

THE  VALUE  OF  CONTROVERSY". 

However  some  may  affect  to  dislike  con- 
troversy, it  can  never  be  of  ultimate  disad- 
vantage to  the  interests  of  truth  or  the  happi- 
ness of  mankind.  Where  it  is  indulged  in  its 
full  extent,  a  multitude  of  ridiculous  opin- 
ions will  no  doubt  be  obtruded  upon  the 
public;  but  any  ill  influence  they  may  pro- 
duce cannot  continue  long,  as  they  are  sure 
to  be  opposed  with  at  least  equal  ability  and 
that  superior  advantage  which  is  ever  at- 
tendant on  truth.  The  colours  with  which 
wit  or  eloquence  may  have  adorned  a  false 


system  will  gradually  die  away,  sophistry 
be  detected,  and  everything  estimated  at 
length  according  to  its  true  value.  Publi- 
cations, besides,  like  everything  that  is  hu- 
man, are  of  a  mixed  nature,  where  truth  is 
often  blended  with  falsehood,  and  important 
hints  suggested  in  the  midst  of  much  im- 
pertinent or  pernicious  matter ;  nor  is  there 
any  way  of  separating  the  precious  from  the 
vile  but  by  tolerating  the  whole.  Where  the 
right  of  unlimited  inquiry  is  exerted,  the 
human  faculties  will  be  upon  the  advance  ; 
where  it  is  relinquished,  they  will  be  of  a 
necessity  at  a  stand,  and  will  probably  de- 
cline. 

If  we  have  recourse  to  experience,  that 
kind  of  enlarged  experience  in  particular 
which  history  furnishes,  we  shall  not  be 
apt  to  entertain  any  violent  alarm  at  the 
greatest  liberty  of  discussion  :  we  shall  there 
see  that  to  this  we  are  indebted  for  those 
improvements  in  arts  and  sciences  which 
have  meliorated  in  so  great  a  degree  the 
condition  of  mankind.  The  middle  ages, 
as  they  are  called,  the  darkest  period  of 
which  we  have  any  particular  accounts,  were 
remarkable  for  two  things, — the  extreme 
ignorance  that  prevailed,  and  an  excessive 
veneration  for  received  opinions:  circum- 
stances which  having  been  always  united, 
operate  on  each  other,  it  is  plain,  as  cause 
and  effect.  The  whole  compass  of  science 
was  in  those  times  subject  to  restraint; 
every  new  opinion  was  looked  upon  as  dan- 
gerous. To  affirm  the  globe  we  inhabit  to 
be  round  was  deemed  heresy,  and  for  assert- 
ing its  motion  the  immortal  Galileo  was 
confined  in  the  prisons  of  the  Inquisition. 
Yet  it  is  remarkable,  so  little  are  the  human 
faculties  fitted  for  restraint,  that  its  utmost 
rigour  was  never  able  to  effect  a  thorough 
unanimity,  or  to  preclude  the  most  alarm- 
ing discussions  and  controversies.  For  no 
sooner  was  one  point  settled  than  another 
was  started  ;  and  as  the  articles  on  which 
men  professed  to  differ  were  always  ex- 
tremely few  and  subtle,  they  came  the  more 
easily  into  contact,  and  their  animosities 
were  the  more  violent  and  concentrated. 
The  shape  of  the  tonsure,  or  manner  in 
which  a  monk  should  shave  his  head,  would 
then  throw  a  whole  kingdom  into  convul- 
sions. In  proportion  as  the  world  has  be- 
come more  enlightened  this  unnatural  policy 
of  restraint  has  retired,  the  sciences  it  has 
entirely  abandoned,  and  has  taken  its  last 
stand  on  religion  and  politics.  The  first  of 
these  was  long  considered  of  a  nature  so 
peculiarly  sacred,  that  every  attempt  to  alter 
it,  or  to  impair  the  reverence  for  its  received 
institutions  was  regarded,  under  the  name 
of  heresy,  as  a  crime  of  the  first  magnitude. 
Yet  dangerous  as  free  inquiry  may  have 


ANNE  RADCLIFFE. 


283 


been  looked  upon  when  extended  to  the 
principles  of  religion,  there  is  no  depart- 
ment where  it  was  more  necessary,  or  its 
interference  more  decidedly  beneficial.  By 
nobly  daring  to  exert  it  when  all  the  pow- 
ers on  earth  were  combined  in  its  suppres- 
sion, did  Luther  accomplish  that  reformation 
which  drew  forth  primitive  Christianity,  long 
hidden  and  concealed  under  a  load  of  abuses, 
to  the  view  of  an  awakened  and  astonished 
world.  So  great  is  the  force  of  truth  when 
it  has  once  gained  the  attention,  that  all  the 
arts  and  policy  of  the  court  of  Ilome,  aided 
throughout  every  part  of  Europe  by  a  ven- 
eration for  antiquity,  the  prejudices  of  the 
vulgar,  and  the  cruelty  of  despots,  were 
fairly  baffled  and  confounded  by  the  opposi- 
tion of  a  solitary  monk.  And  had  this 
principle  of  free  inquiry  been  permitted  in 
succeeding  times  to  have  full  scope,  Chris- 
tianity would  at  this  period  have  been  much 
better  understood,  and  the  animosity  of  sects 
considerably  abated.  Religious  toleration 
has  never  been  complete  even  in  England  ; 
but  having  prevailed  more  here  than  per- 
haps in  any  other  country,  there  is  no  place 
where  the  doctrines  of  religion  have  been  set 
in  so  clear  a  light  or  its  truth  so  ably  de- 
fended. The  writings  of  Deists  have  con- 
tributed much  to  this  end.  Whoever  will 
compare  the  late  defences  of  Christianity  by 
Locke,  Butler,  or  Clarke,  with  those  of  the 
ancient  apologists,  will  discern  in  the  former 
far  more  precision  and  an  abler  method  of 
reasoning  than  in  the  latter ;  which  must  be 
attributed  chiefly  to  the  superior  spirit  of 
inquiry  by  which  modern  times  are  distin- 
guished. Whatever  alarm  there  may  have 
been  taken  at  the  liberty  of  discussion, 
religion  it  is  plain  hath  been  a  gainer  by 
it ;  its  abuses  corrected,  and  its  divine  au- 
thority settled  on  a  firmer  basis  than  ever. 
An  Apology  :  On  the  Right  of  Public  Dis- 
cussion, Lect.  i. 


ANNE  RADCLIFFE, 

horn  1764,  died  1823,  was  the  author  of  the 
following  works,  of  which  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  (an  excellent  novel,  displaying  great 
powers  of  description)  is  the  best  known: 
The  Castles  of  Athlin  and  Dumbayne,  a 
Highland  Story,  Lond.,  1789,  12mo;  A  Sicil- 
ian Romance,  Lond.,  1790,  12mo;  The  Ro- 
mance  of  the  Forest,  interspersed  with  some 
Pieces  of  Poetry,  Lond.,  1791,  12mo  ;  The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  interspersed  with  some 
Pieces  of  Poetry,  Lond.,  1794,  4  vols.  12mo  ; 
A  Journey  made  in  the  Summer  of  1794, 
through  Holland,  etc.,  Lond.,  1794,  4to :  The 
Italian,  or,  The  Confessional  of  the  Black 


Penitent,  a  Romance,  Lond.,  1797,  3  vols. 
12mo  ;  Gaston  de  Blondeville,  or,  The  Court 
of  Henry  III.  resting  in  Ardennes,  a  Ro- 
mance; St.  Alban's  Abbey,  a  Metrical  Tale, 
with  some  Poetical  Pieces,  to  which  is  pre- 
fixed a  Memoir  of  the  Author  [by  Sir 
T.  N.  Talfourd],  with  Extracts  from  her 
Journals,  Lond.,  1826,  4  vols.  post  8vo : 
reissued  in  1833,  with  the  title  Posthumous 
Works,  etc.:  subsequently  divided:  Gaston 
de  Blondeville.  2  vols.  8vo,  Poetical  Works, 
1834,  2  vols.  '8vo ;  St.  Alban's  Abbey,  a 
Metrical  Tale,  was  published  separately, 
Phila.,  1826,  12mo. 

"  We  would  not  pass  over  without  a  tribute  of 
gratitude  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  wild  and  wondrous  tales. 
When  we  read  them,  the  world  seeins  shut  out, 
and  we  breathe  only  an  enchanted  region,  where 
lovers'  lutes  tremble  over  placid  waters,  moulder- 
ing castles  rise  conscious  of  deeds  of  blood,  and 
the  sad  voices  of  the  past  echo  through  deep  vaults 
and  lonely  galleries.  ...  Of  all  romance-writers 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  is  the  most  romantic." — SIR  T. 
NOON  TALFOURD:  Miscell.  Writings. 

"  The  Shakspeare  of  Romance-writers,  who  to 
the  wild  landscape  of  Salvator  Rosa  has  added 
the  solter  graces  of  a  Claude." — DR.  DRAKE. 

THE  CASTLE  OF  UDOLPHO. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day  the  road 
wound  into  a  deep  valley.  Mountains,  whose 
shaggy  sides  appeared  to  be  inaccessible, 
almost  surrounded  it.  To  the  east  a  vista 
opened,  and  exhibited  the  Apennines  in 
their  darkest  horrors ;  and  the  long  per- 
spective of  retiring  summits,  rising  over 
each  other,  their  ridges  clothed  with  pines, 
exhibited  a  stronger  image  of  grandeur  than 
any  that  Emily  had  yet  seen.  The  sun  had 
just  sunk  below  the  top  of  the  mountains 
she  was  descending,  whose  long  shadow 
stretched  athwart  the  valley,  but  his  slop- 
ing rays,  shooting  through  an  opening  of 
the  cliffs,  touched  with  a  yellow  gleam  the 
summits  of  the  forest  that  hung  upon  the 
opposite  steeps,  and  streamed  in  full  splen- 
dour upon  the  towers  and  battlements  of  a 
castle  that  spread  its  extensive  ramparts 
along  the  brow  of  a  precipice  above.  The 
splendour  of  these  illumined  objects  was 
heightened  by  the  contrasted  shade  which 
involved  the  valley  below. 

"  There,"  said  Montoni,  speaking  for  the 
first  time  in  several  hours,  "  is  Udolpho." 

Emily  gazed  with  melancholy  awe  upon 
the  castle,  which  she  understood  to  be  Mon- 
toni's ;  for,  though  it  was  now  lighted  up 
by  the  setting  sun,  the  Gothic  greatness  of 
its  features,  and  its  mouldering  walls  of 
dark  gray  stone,  rendered  it  a  gloomy  and 
sublime  object.  As  she  gazed  the  light  died 
away  on  its  walls,  leaving  a  melancholy 
purple  tint,  which  spread  deeper  and  deeper 
as  the  thin  vapour  crept  up  the  mountain, 


284 


ANNE  RADCLIFFE. 


while  the  battlements  above  were  still  tipped 
with  splendour.  From  these,  too,  the  rays 
soon  faded,  and  the  whole  edifice  was  in- 
vested with  the  solemn  darkness  of  evening. 
Silent,  lonely,  and  sublime,  it  seemed  to 
stand  the  sovereign  of  the  scene,  and  to 
frown  defiance  on  all  who  dared  to  invade 
its  solitary  reign.  As  the  twilight  deepened, 
its  features  became  more  awful  in  obscurity, 
and  Emily  continued  to  gaze  till  its  cluster- 
ing towers  were  alone  seen  rising  over  the 
tops  of  the  woods,  beneath  whose  thick  shade 
the  carriage  soon  after  began  to  ascend. 

The  extent  and  darkness  of  these  tall 
woods  awakened  terrific  images  in  her  mind, 
and  she  almost  expected  to  see  banditti  start 
up  from  under  the  trees.  At  length  the  car- 
riages emerged  upon  a  heathy  rock,  and  soon 
after  reached  the  castle  gates,  where  the  deep 
tone  of  the  portal  bell,  which  was  struck 
upon  to  give  notice  of  their  arrival,  in- 
creased the  fearful  emotions  that  had  as- 
sailed Emily.  While  they  waited  till  the 
servant  within  should  come  to  open  the 
gates,  she  anxiously  surveyed  the  edifice; 
but  the  gloom  that  overspread  it  allowed 
her  to  distinguish  little  more  than  a  part 
of  its  outline,  with  the  massy  walls  of  the 
ramparts,  and  to  know  that  it  was  vast, 
ancient,  and  dreary.  From  the  parts  she 
saw,  she  judged  of  the  heavy  strength  and 
extent  of  the  whole.  The  gateway  before 
her,  leading  into  the  courts,  was  of  gigantic 
size,  and  was  defended  by  two  round  towers, 
crowned  by  overhanging  turrets,  embattled, 
where  instead  of  banners,  now  waved  long 
grass  and  wild  plants  that  had  taken  root 
among  the  mouldering  stones,  and  which 
seemed  to  sigh,  as  the  breeze  rolled  past, 
over  the  desolation  around  them.  The 
towers  were  united  by  a  curtain,  pierced 
and  embattled  also,  below  which  appeared 
the  pointed  arch  of  a  huge  portcullis  sur- 
mounting the  gates;  from  these  the  walls 
of  the  ramparts  extended  to  other  towers, 
overlooking  the  precipice,  whose  shattered 
outline,  appearing  on  a  gleam  that  lingered 
in  the  west,  told  of  the  ravage  of  war.  Be- 
yond these  all  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  of 
evening. 

A  NEAPOLITAN  CHURCH. 

"Within  the  shade  of  the  portico,  a  person 
with  folded  arms,  and  eyes  directed  towards 
the  ground,  was  pacing  behind  the  pillars 
the  whole  extent  of  the  pavement,  and  was 
apparently  so  engaged  in  his  own  thoughts 
as  not  to  observe  that  strangers  were  ap- 
proaching. He  turned,  nowever,  suddenly, 
as  if  startled  by  the  sound  of  steps,  and  then, 
without  farther  pausing,  glided  to  a  door 
that  opened  into  the  church,  and  disap- 
peared. 


There  was  something  too  extraordinary 
in  the  figure  of  this  man,  and  too  singular 
in  his  conduct,  to  pass  unnoticed  by  the 
visitors.  He  was  of  a  tall  thin  figure,  bend- 
ing forward  from  the  shoulders  ;  of  n  sallow 
complexion  and  harsh  features,  and  had  an 
eye  which,  as  it  looked  up  from  the  cloak 
that  muffled  the  lower  part  of  his  counte- 
nance, was  expressive  of  uncommon  ferocity. 

The  travellers,  on  entering  the  church, 
looked  round  for  the  stranger  who  had 
passed  thither  before  them,  but  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen  ;  and  through  all  the 
shade  of  the  long  aisles  only  one  other  per- 
son appeared.  This  was  a  friar  of  the  ad- 
joining convent,  who  sometimes  pointed  out 
to  strangers  the  objects  in  the  church  which 
were  most  worthy  of  attention,  and  who 
now,  with  this  design,  approached  the  party 
that  had  just  entered. 

When  the  party  had  viewed  the  different 
shrines,  and  whatever  had  been  judged 
worthy  of  observation,  and  were  returning 
through  an  obscure  aisle  towards  the  por- 
tico, they  perceived  the  person  who  had  ap- 
peared upon  the  steps  passing  towards  a 
confessional  on  the  left,  and  as  he  entered  it, 
one  of  the  party  pointed  him  out  to  the  friar, 
and  inquired  who  he  was.  The  friar,  turn- 
ing to  look  after  him,  did  not  immediately 
reply  ;  but  on  the  question  being  repeated, 
he  inclined  his  head  as  in  a  kind  of  obei- 
sance, and  calmly  replied,  "  He  is  an  as- 
sassin." 

"  An  assassin !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  Eng- 
lishmen ;  "  an  assassin,  and  at  liberty  !" 

An  Italian  gentleman  who  was  of  the 
party  smiled  at  the  astonishment  of  his 
friend. 

"  He  has  sought  sanctuary  here."  replied 
the  friar  :  "within  these  walls  he  may  not 
be  hurt." 

"Do  your  altars,  then,  protect  a  mur- 
derer?" said  the  Englishman. 

"  He  could  find  shelter  nowhere  else," 
answered  the  friar  meekly.  .  .  . 

"But  observe  another  confessional," 
added  the  Italian  :  "that  beyond  the  pillars 
on  the  left  of  the  aisle,  below  a  painted 
window.  Have  you  discovered  it?  The  col- 
ours of  the  glass  throw,  instead  of  a  light, 
a  shade  over  that  part  of  the  church,  which 

ferhaps  prevents  your  distinguishing  what 
mean." 

The  Englishman  looked  whither  his  friend 
pointed,  and  observed  a  confessional  of  oak, 
or  some  very  dark  wood,  adjoining  the  wall, 
and  remarked  also  that  it  was  the  same 
which  the  assassin  had  just  entered.  It 
consisted  of  three  compartments,  covered 
with  a  black  canopy.  In  the  central  division 
was  the  chair  of  the  confessor,  elevated  by 
several  steps  above  the  pavement  of  the 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


285 


church;  and  on  either  hand  was  a  small 
closet  or  box,  with  steps  leading  up  to  a 
grated  partition,  at  which  the  penitent 
might  kneel,  and,  concealed  from  observa- 
tion, pour  into  the  ear  of  the  confessor  the 
consciousness  of  crimes  that  lay  heavy  at  his 
heart. 

'•  You  observe  it?''  said  the  Italian. 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  Englishman  :  "  it  is  the 
same  which  the  assassin  had  passed  into,  and 
I  think  it  one  of  the  most  gloomy  spots  lever 
beheld :  the  view  of  it  is  enough  to  strike  a 
criminal  with  despair." 

'•  We  in  Italy  are  not  so  apt  to  despair," 
replied  the  Italian  smilingly. 

'•Well,  but  what  of  this  confessional?" 
inquired  the  Englishman.  "  The  assassin 
entered  it." 

"  He  has  no  relation  with  what  I  am  about 
to  mention,"  said  the  Italian:  "but  I  wish 
you  to  mark  the  place,  because  some  very 
extraordinary  circumstances  belong  to  it." 

"  What  are  they?"   said  the  Englishman. 

"  It  is  now  several  years  since  the  confes- 
sion which  is  connected  with  them  was  made 
at  that  very  confessional,"  added  the  Italian  : 
"  the  view  of  it,  and  the  sight  of  the  assassin, 
with  your  surprise  at  the  liberty  which  is 
allowed  him.  led  me  to  a  recollection  of  the 
story.  When  you  return  to  the  hotel  I  will 
communicate  it  to  you,  if  you  have  no  pleas- 
anter  mode  of  engaging  your  time." 

''After  I  have  taken  another  view  of  this 
solemn  edifice,"  replied  the  Englishman, 
''and  particularly  of  the  confessional  you 
have  pointed  to  my  notice." 

While  the  Englishman  glanced  his  eye 
over  the  high  roofs  and  along  the  solemn 
perspectives  of  the  Santa  del  Pianto,  he  per- 
ceived the  figure  of  the  assassin  stealing 
from  the  confessional  across  the  choir,  and, 
shocked  on  again  beholding  him,  he  turned 
his  eyes  and  hastily  quitted  the  church. 

The  friends  then  separated,  and  the  Eng- 
lishman soon  after  returning  to  his  hotel, 
received  the  volume.  He  read  as  follows. 

The  Italian. 


SIR    JAMES    MACKINTOSH, 
M.D.,  LL.D., 

born  near  Inverness,  1705,  and  educated  at 
King's  College,  Aberdeen,  was  recorder  of 
Bombay,  1804-1811,  was  M.P.  for  Nairn, 
1813,  and  for  Knaresborough,  Yorkshire. 
1818,  '20,  '26,  '30,  '31  ;  Lord-Rector  of  the 
University  of  Glasgow,  1822,  '23,  Professor 
of  Law  and  General  Politics  in  the  East  In- 
dian College  of  Ilaileybury,  1818-1824,  Com- 
missioner for  Indian  Affairs,  1830,  died  1832. 
lie  was  the  author  of  Vindiciae  Gallicae: 
Defence  of  the  French  Revolution,  etc.,  Lond., 
1791,  4to;  A  Discourse  on  the  Study  of  the 


Law  of  Nature  and  Nations,  etc.,  Lond., 
1799,  8vo ;  The  Trial  of  Jean  Peltier,  for 
a  Libel  against  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  etc., 
Lond.,  1803,  8vo;  Dissertation  on  Ethical 
Philosophy,  chiefly  during  the  XVIIth  and 
XVIIIth  Centuries,  Edin.,  1830,  4to  (from 
Encyc.  Brit.)  ;  History  of  England,  B.C. 
55  to  A.D.  1572,  Lond.,  1830-32,  3  vols. 
12mo  (Lardner's  Cab.  Cyc.) ;  History  of  the 
Revolution  in  England  in  1688,  etc.,  Lond., 

1834,  4to ;  Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  Lond., 
1844,  fp.  8vo  (from  Lives  of  British  States- 
men in  Lardner's  Cab.  Cyc.).    See  his  Tracts 
and  Speeches,   1787-1831,  Lond.,   1840,  8vo 
(25  copies  privately  printed),  and  his  Mis- 
cellaneous Works,  Lond.,  1846,  3  vols.  8vo, 
and  1854,  3  vols.  fp.  8vo,  also  in  1  vol.  8vo, 
1850  and  1851.    See  also  Memoirs  of  his  Life, 
Edited  by  his  Son.  11.  J.  Mackintosh,  Lond., 

1835,  2  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1836,  2  vols.  8vo./ 
"  His  range  of  study  and  speculation  was  nearly 

as  large  ns  that  of  Bacon ;  and  there  were,  in  faelj 
but  few  branches  of  learning  with  which  he  wa 
not  familiar.  But  in  any  attempt  at  delineating 
his  intellectual  character,  it  is  necessary  to  bear  it 
mind  that  his  mastery  was  in  mental  philosophy, 
not  merely  in  its  metaphysical  departments,  but 
in  its  still  more  important  application  to  conduct 
and  affairs,  and  in  their  higher  branches  of  poli- 
tics and  legislation,  which  derive  their  proofs 
and  principles  from  history,  and  give  authority  to 
its  lessons  in  return.  Upon  all  these  subjects  he 
was  probably  the  most  learned  man  of  his  age." 
— LOUD  JEFFREY:  Maekintoik's  Life,  vol.  ii.  chap, 
viii. 

"  Till  subdued  by  age  and  illness,  his  conversa- 
tion was  more  brilliant  and  instructive  than  that 
of  any  human  being  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune 
to  be  acquainted.  His  memory  (vast  and  pro- 
digious as  it  was)  he  so  managed  as  to  make  it  a 
source  of  pleasure  and  instruction,  rather  than 
that  dreadful  engine  of  colloquial  oppression  into 
which  it  is  sometimes  erected." — REV.  SYDNEY 
SMITH:  Mnckininnh'n  Life,  vol.  ii.  chap,  viii.,  and 
Smith's  Works,  iii.  434. 

"  Whatever  was  valuable  in  the  compositions  of 
Sir  James  Mackintosh  was  the  ripe  fruit  of  study 
and  of  meditation.  It  was  the  same  with  his  con- 
versation. .  .  .  You  never  saw  his  opinions  in  the 
making, — still  rude,  still  inconsistent,  and  requir- 
ing to  be  fashioned  by  thought  and  discussion. 
They  came  forth  like  the  pillars  of  that  temple  in 
•  which  no  sound  of  axes  or  hammers  was  heard,  fin- 
ished, rounded,  and  exactly  suited  to  their  places." 
—  LORD  MACAULA.Y  :  Edin.  Rev.,  Ixi.  269,  and  his 
Exaay*. 

THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTIOV. 
Gentlemen,  the  French  Revolution — I 
must  pause  after  I  have  uttered  words 
which  present  such  an  overwhelming  idea. 
But  I  have  not  now  to  engage  in  an  en- 
terprise so  far  beyond  my  force  as  that  of 
examining  and  judging  that  tremendous 
revolution.  I  have  only  to  consider  the 
character  of  the  factions  which  it  must 
have  left  behind  it.  The  French  Revolu- 
tion began  with  great  and  fatal  errors. 


286 


SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH. 


These  errors  produced  atrocious  crimes.  A 
mild  and  feeble  monarchy  was  succeeded 
by  bloody  anarchy,  which  very  shortly  gave 
birth  to  military  despotism.  France,  i»  a 
few  years,  described  the  whole  circle  of  hu- 
man society.  All  this  was  in  the  order  of 
nature.  When  every  principle  of  authority 
and  civil  discipline, — when  every  principle 
which  enables  some  men  to  command  and 
disposes  others  to  obey,  was  extirpated  from 
the  mind  by  atrocious  theories  and  still  more 
atrocious  examples, — when  every  old  institu- 
tion was  trampled  down  with  contumely, 
and  every  new  institution  covered  in  its 
cradle  with  blood, — when  the  principle  of 
property  itself,  the  sheet-anchor  of  society, 
was  annihilated, — when  in  the  persons  of  the 
new  possessors,  whom  the  poverty  of  lan- 
guage obliges  us  to  call  proprietors,  it  was 
contaminated  in  its  source  by  robbery  and 
murder,  and  became  separated  from  the  edu- 
cation and  the  manners,  from  the  general 
presumption  of  superior  knowledge  and 
more  scrupulous  probity  which  form  its 
only  liberal  titles  to  respect, — when  the 
people  were  taught  to  despise  every  thing 
old,  and  compelled  to  detest  every  thing  new, 
there  remained  only  one  principle  strong 
enough  to  hold  society  together, — a  prin- 
ciple utterly  incompatible,  indeed,  with  lib- 
erty, and  unfriendly  to  civilization  itself, — a 
tyrannical  and  barbarous  principle,  but,  in 
that  miserable  condition  of  human  affairs,  a 
refuge  from  still  more  intolerable  evils : — I 
mean  the  principle  of  military  power,  which 
gains  strength  from  that  confusion  and 
bloodshed  in  which  all  the  other  elements 
of  society  are  dissolved,  and  which,  in  these 
terrible  extremities,  is  the  cement  that  pre- 
serves it  from  total  destruction.  Under  such 
circumstances  Buonaparte  usurped  the  su- 
preme power  in  France  : — I  say  usurped,  be- 
cause an  illegal  assumption  of  power  is  an 
usurpation.  But  usurpation,  in  its  strongest 
moral  sense,  is  scarcely  applicable  to  a  period 
of  lawless  and  savage  anarchy.  The  guilt 
of  military  usurpation,  in  truth,  belongs  to 
the  authors  of  those  confusions  which  sooner 
or  later  give  birth  to  such  an  usurpation. 
Thus,  to  use  the  words  of  the  historian,  "  by 
recent  as  well  as  all  ancient  example,  it  be- 
came evident  that  illegal  violence,  with 
whatever  pretences  it  may  be  covered,  and 
whatever  object  it  may  pursue,  must  inev- 
itably end  at  last  in  the  arbitrary  and  des- 
potic government  of  a  single  person." 
[Hume:  Hist,  of  England,  vol.  vii.  p.  220.] 
But  though  the  government  of  Buonaparte 
has  silenced  the  Revolutionary  factions,  it 
has  not  and  it  cannot  have  extinguished 
them.  No  human  power  could  re-impress 
upon  the  minds  of  men  all  those  sentiments 
and  opinions  which  the  sophistry  and  an- 


archy of  fourteen  years  had  obliterated.     A 
faction  must  exist,  which  breathes  the  spirit 
of  the  Ode  now  before  you. 
Defence  of  Jean  Peltier. 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE. 

The  letters  and  narratives  of  Erasmus  dif- 
fused the  story  of  his  friend's  fate  [executed 
by  Henry  VIII.]  throughout  Europe.  Cardi- 
nal Pole  bewailed  it  with  elegance  and  feel- 
ing. It  filled  Italy,  then  the  most  cultivated 
portion  of  Europe,  with  horror.  Paulo  Jovio 
called  Henry  "a  Phalaris,"  though  we  shall 
in  vain  look  in  the  story  of  Phalaris,  or  of  any 
other  real  or  legendary  tyrant,  for  a  victim 
worthy  of  being  compared  to  More.  The 
English  ministers  throughout  Europe  were 
regarded  with  averted  eyes  as  the  agents  of 
a  monster.  At  Venice,  Henry,  after  this 
deed,  was  deemed  capable  of  any  crimes  : 
he  was  believed  there  to  have  murdered 
Catherine,  and  to  be  about  to  murder  his 
daughter  Mary.  The  Catholic  zeal  of  Spain, 
and  the  resentment  of  the  Spanish  people 
against  the  oppression  of  Catherine,  quick- 
ened their  sympathy  with  More,  and  aggrav- 
ated their  detestation  of  Henry.  Mason, 
the  envoy  at  Valladolid,  thought  every  pure 
Latin  phrase  too  weak  for  More,  and  de- 
scribes him  by  one  [Ter  maximus  ille  Morns] 
as  contrary  to  the  rules  of  that  language  as 
"  thrice  greatest"  would  be  to  those  of  ours. 
When  intelligence  of  his  death  was  brought 
to  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  he  sent  for  Sir  T. 
Elliot,  the  English  ambassador,  and  said  to 
him,  "  My  lord  ambassador,  we  understand 
that  the  king  your  master  has  put  his  wise 
counsellor,  Sir  Thomas  More,  to  death." 
Elliot,  abashed,  made  answer  that  he  under- 
stood nothing  thereof.  "  Well,"  said  the 
Emperor,  "  it  is  too  true  ;  and  this  we  will 
say,  that  if  we  had  been  master  of  such  a 
servant,  we  should  rather  have  lost  the  best 
city  in  our  dominions  than  have  lost  such 
a  worthy  counsellor;" — "which  matter," 
says  Roper,  in  the  concluding  words  of  his 
beautiful  narrative,  "was  by  Sir  T.  Elliot 
told  to  myself,  my  wife,  to  Mr.  Clement  and 
his  wife,  and  to  Mr.  Heywood  [Heron?]  and 
his  wife." 

Of  all  men  nearly  perfect,  Sir  Thomas  More 
had,  perhaps,  the  clearest  marks  of  individual 
character.  His  peculiarities,  though  distin- 
guishing from  all  others,  were  yet  withheld 
from  growing  into  moral  faults.  It  is  not 
enough  to  say  of  him  that  he  was  unaffected, 
that  he  was  natural,  that  he  was  simple  :  so 
the  larger  part  of  truly  great  men  have  been. 
But  there  is  something  homespun  in  More 
which  is  common  to  him  with  scarcely  any 
other,  and  which  gives  to  all  his  faculties  and 
qualities  the  appearance  of  being  the  native 
growth  of  the  soil.  The  homeliness  of  his 


ISAAC  DISRAELI. 


287 


pleasantry  purifies  it  from  show.  He  walks 
on  the  scaffold  clad  only  in  his  household 
goodness.  The  unrefined  benignity  with 
which  he  ruled  his  patriarchal  dwelling  at 
Chelsea  enabled  him  to  look  on  the  axe 
without  being  disturbed  by  feeling  hatred 
for  the  tyrant.  This  quality  bound  together 
his  genius  and  learning,  his  eloquence  and 
fame,  with  his  homely  and  daily  duties, — 
bestowing  a  genuineness  on  all  his  good 
qualities,  a  dignity  on  the  most  ordinary 
offices  of  life,  and  an  accessible  familiarity 
on  the  virtues  of  a  hero  and  a  martyr,  which 
silences  every  suspicion  that  his  excellences 
were  magnified,  lie  thus  simply  performed 
great  acts,  and  uttered  great  thoughts,  be- 
cause they  were  familiar  to  his  great  soul. 
The  charm  of  this  inborn  and  homebred 
character  seems  as  if  it  would  have  been 
taken  off  by  polish.  It  is  this  household 
character  which  relieves  our  notion  of  him 
from  vagueness,  and  divests  perfection  of 
that  generality  and  coldness  to  which  the 
attempt  to  paint  a  perfect  man  is  so  liable. 

It  will  naturally,  and  very  strongly,  excite 
the  regret  of  the  good  in  every  age.  that  the 
life  of  this  best  of  men  should  have  been  in 
the  power  of  one  who  has  been  rarely  sur- 
passed in  wickedness.  But  the  execrable 
Henry  was  the  means  of  drawing  forth  the 
magnanimity,  the  fortitude,  and  the  meek- 
ness of  More.  Had  Henry  been  a  just  and 
merciful  monarch,  we  should  not  have  known 
the  degree  of  excellence  to  which  human 
nature  is  capable  of  ascending.  Catholics 
ought  to  see  in  More  that  mildness  and 
candour  are  the  true  ornaments  of  all  modes 
of  faith.  Protestants  ought  to  be  taught 
humility  and  charity  from  this  instance  of 
the  wisest  and  best  of  men  falling  into,  what 
they  deem,  the  most  fatal  errors. 

All  men,  in  the  fierce  contests  of  contend- 
ing factions,  should,  from  such  an  example, 
learn  the  wisdom  to  fear  lest  in  their  most 
hated  antagonist  they  may  strike  down  a 
Sir  Thomas  More :  for  assuredly  virtue  is 
not  so  narrow  as  to  be  confined  to  any 
party  ;  and  we  have  in  the  case  of  More  a 
signal  example  that  the  nearest  approach  to 
perfect  excellence  does  not  exempt  men  from 
mistakes  which  we  may  justly  deem  mis- 
chievous. It  is  a  pregnant  proof  that  we 
should  beware  of  hating  men  for  their  opin- 
ions, or  of  adopting  their  doctrines  because 
we  love  and  venerate  their  virtues. 

•Life  of  Sir  Thomas  More. 


ISAAC  DISRAELI, 

the  son  of  a  Venetian  merchant  of  Jewish 
extraction,  and  the  father  of  the  Rt.  Hon.  Ben- 
jamin Disraeli,  raised  to  the  peerage  as  Earl 


of  Beaconsfield,  1876,  was  born  at  Enfield, 
near  London,  1766,  and  died  1348.  Works: 
Poetical  Epistle  on  the  Abuse  of  Satire, 
Lond.,  1789 ;  A  Defence  tff  Poetry,  with  a 
Specimen  of  a  New  Version  of  Telemachus, 
1790,  4to;  Curiosities  of  Literature,  First 
Series,  vol.  i.,  1791,  8vo,  ii.,  1793.  8vo,  iii., 
1817,  8vo;  Second  Series,  1823,  3  vols.  8vo ; 
First  and  Second  Series,  1839.  r.  8vo,  1^45, 
6  vols.  12mo,  1851,  r.  8vo,  1854,  r.  8vo;  14th 
edit.,  with  a  View  of  his  Character  and 
Writings  by  his  Son  (the  Earl  of  Beacons- 
field),  1849,  3  vols.  8vo,  1870,  3  vols.  p.  8vo  : 
A  Dissertation  on  Anecdote,  1793,  8vo ; 
Essay  on  the  Manners  and  Genius  of  the 
Literary  Character,  1795,  8vo ;  Miscellanies, 
or  Literary  Recreations,  1796,  8vo  :  Vaurien, 
or  Sketches  of  the  Times,  a  Philosophical 
Novel,  1797,  2  vols.  p.  8vo ;  Romances,  con- 
sisting of  a  Persian,  a  Roman,  and  an  Ar- 
cadian Romance.  1799,  8vo,  1807,  8vo; 
Literary  Miscellanies,  including  a  Disserta- 
tion on  Anecdotes,  1801,  12mo;  Narrative 
Poems,  1803,  4to ;  Flim  Flams,  or,  The  Life 
and  Errors  of  my  Uncle,  and  the  Amours 
of  my  Aunt,  1805,  3  vols.  12mo,  2d  edit., 
1806  ;  Despotism,  or,  The  Fall  of  the  Jesuits, 
a  Novel,  1811,  2  vols.  sm.  8vo;  Calamities 
of  Authors,  1812,  2  vols.  p.  8vo ;  with  Quar- 
rels of  Authors,  Edited  by  his  Son,  1870,  p. 
8vo ;  Quarrels  of  Authors,  1814,  3  vols.  p. 
Svo,  with  Calamities  of  Authors,  Edited  by 
his  Son,  1870,  p.  Svo  ;  Inquiry  into  the  Liter- 
ary and  Political  Character  of  King  James  I., 
1816,  p.  Svo;  Illustrations  of  the  Literary 
Character,  1816.  Svo,  2d  edit.,  1818,  Svo,  3d 
edit.,  1822,  2  vols.  p.  Svo,  5th  edit.,  1839, 
sm.  Svo,  Edited  by  his  Son,  1870,  p.  Svo; 
The  History  of  Psyche  (1823),  4to;  Com- 
mentaries on  the  Life  and  Reign  of  King 
Charles  I.,  1828-31,  5  vols.  Svo,  2d  edit,, 
Edited  by  his  Son,  1850,  2  vols.  Svo;  Eliot, 
Hampden,  and  Pym,  1832,  Svo;  Genius  of 
Judaism,  1833,  p.  Svo  ;  The  Illustrator  Illus- 
trated, 1838,  Svo  (an  answer  to  Bolton  Cor- 
ney's  New  Curiosities  of  Literature,  or 
D'lsraeli  Illustrated,  1838,  p.  Svo.  2d  edit., 
1839)  ;  Amenities  of  Literature,  1841,  3  vols. 
Svo,  2d  edit.,  1842,  3  vols.  Svo,  Edited  by  his 
Son,  1870,  p.  Svo. 

See  also  Miscellanies  of  Literature:  con- 
taining Literary  Miscellanies,  Quarrels  of 
Authors,  Calamities  of  Authors,  Character 
of  James  the  First,  and  The  Literary  Char- 
acter, 1840,  r.  Svo. 

"He  is  one  of  the  most  learned,  intelligent, 
lively,  and  agreeable  authors  of  our  era ;  he  has 
composed  a  series  of  works,  which  while  they  shej 
abundance  of  light  on  the  character  and  condition 
of  literary  men,  and  show  us  the  state  of  genius 
in  this  land,  have  all  the  attractions  for  general 
readers  of  the  best  romances.*' — ALLAN  CUNNING- 
HAM :  7/1017.  """'  Orit.  Hint,  of  the  Lit.  of  the  Last 
Fifty  Years,  1853. 


288 


ISAAC  DISRAELI 


"That  most  entertaining  and  searching  writer, 
D'lsraeli,  whose  works  in  general  I  have  read 
oftener  than  perhaps  those  of  any  other  English 
author  whatever." — LORD  BYRON. 

THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  PROVERBS. 

In  antique  furniture  we  sometimes  dis- 
cover a  convenience  which  long  disuse  had 
made  us  unacquainted  with,  and  are  surprised 
by  the  aptness  which  we  did  not  suspect  was 
concealed  in  its  solid  forms.  We  have  found 
the  labour  of  the  workman  to  have  been  as 
admirable  as  the  material  itself,  which  is 
sstill  resisting  the  mouldering  touch  of  time 
among  those  modern  inventions,  elegant  and 
unsubstantial,  which,  often  put  together  with 
unseasoned  wood,  are  apt  to  warp  and  fly 
into  pieces  when  brought  into  use.  We 
have  found  how  strength  consists  in  the 
selection  of  materials,  and  that,  whenever 
the  substitute  is  not  better  than  the  original, 
we  are  losing  something  in  that  test  of  ex- 
perience which  all  things  derive  from  dura- 
tion. 

Be  this  as  it  may.  I  shall  not  unreason- 
ably await  for  the  artists  of  our  novelties  to 
retrogade  into  massive  greatness,  although 
I  cannot  avoid  reminding  them  how  often 
they  revive  the  forgotten  things  of  past 
times.  It  is  well  known  that  many  of  our 
novelties  were  in  use  by  our  ancestors.  In 
the  history  of  the  human  mind  there  is,  in- 
deed, a  sort  of  antique  furniture  which  I 
collect,  not  merely  for  their  antiquity,  but 
for  the  sound  condition  in  which  I  still  find 
them,  and  the  compactness  which  they  still 
show.  Centuries  have  not  worm-eaten  their 
solidity!  and  the  utility  and  dolightfulness 
which  they  still  afford  make  them  look  as 
fresh  and  as  ingenious  as  any  of  our  patent 
inventions. 

By  the  title  of  the  present  article  the 
reader  has  anticipated  the  nature  of  the  old 
furniture  to  which  I  allude.  I  propose  to 
give  what,  in  the  style  of  our  times,  may  be 
called  The  Philosophy  of  Proverbs, — a  topic 
which  seems  virgin.  The  art  of  reading 
proverbs  has  not,  indeed,  always  been  ac- 
quired eVen  by  some  of  their  admirers  ;  but 
my  observations,  like  their  subjects,  must 
be  versatile  and  unconnected;  and  I  must 
bespeak  indulgence  for  an  attempt  to  illus- 
trate a  very  curious  branch  of  literature, 
rather  not  understood  than  quite  forgotten. 

Proverbs  have  long  been  in  disuse.  "A 
man  of  fashion,"  observes  Lord  Chesterfield, 
'•  never  has  recourse  to  proverbs  and  vulgar 
aphorisms  ;"  and,  since  the  time  his  lordship 
so  solemnly  interdicted  their  use,  they  ap- 
pear to  have  withered  away  under  the  ban 
of  his  anathemas.  His  lordship  was  little 
conversant  with  the  history  of  proverbs,  and 
would  unquestionably  have  smiled  on  those 


"  men  of  fashion"  of  another  stamp,  who,  in 
the  days  of  Elizabeth,  James,  and  Charles, 
were  great  collectors  of  them  ;  would  appeal 
to  them  in  their  conversations,  and  enforce 
them  in  their  learned  or  their  statesman-like 
correspondence.  Few,  perhaps,  even  now, 
suspect  that  these  neglected  fragments  of 
wisdom,  which  exist  among  all  nations,  still 
offer  many  interesting  objects  for  the  studies 
of  the  philosopher  and  the  historian;  and 
for  men  of  the  world  still  open  an  extensive 
school  of  human  life  and  manners. 

The  home-spun  adages,  and  the  rusty 
"  sayed-saws,"  which  remain  in  the  mouths 
of  the  people,  are  adapted  to  their  capacities 
and  their  humours.  Easily  remembered, 
and  readily  applied,  these  are  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  vulgar,  and  often  more  sound 
than  that  of  their  masters.  Who  ever  would 
learn  what  the  people  think,  and  how  they 
feel,  must  not  reject  even  these  as  insignifi- 
cant. The  proverbs  of  the  street  and  of  the 
market,  true  to  nature,  and  lasting  only  be- 
cause they  are  true,  are  records  that  the 
populace  at  Athens  and  at  Rome  were  the 
same  people  as  at  Paris  and  at  London,  and 
as  they  had  before  been  in  the  city  of  Jeru- 
salem. 

Proverbs  existed  before  books.  The  Span- 
iards date  the  origin  of  their  refranes  gue  dicen 
las  viejas  tras  elfuego,  "  sayings  of  old  wives 
by  their  firesides,"  before  the  existence  of 
any  writings  in  their  language,  from  the 
circumstance  that  these  are  in  the  old 
romance  or  rudest  vulgar  idiom.  The  most 
ancient  poem  in  the  Edda,  "  the  sublime 
speech  of  Odin,"  abounds  with  ancient  prov- 
erbs, strikingly  descriptive  of  the  ancient 
Scandinavians.  Undoubtedly  proverbs  in 
the  earliest  ages  long  served  as  the  unwrit- 
ten language  of  morality,  and  even  of  the 
earliest  arts  ;  like  the  oral  traditions  of  the 
Jews,  they  floated  down  from  age  to  age  on 
the  lips  of  successive  generations.  The 
name  of  the  first  sage  who  sanctioned  the 
saying  would  in  time  be  forgotten,  while 
the  opinion,  the  metaphor,  or  the  expres- 
sion, remained,  consecrated  into  a  proverb. 
Such  was  the  origin  of  those  memorable 
sentences  by  which  men  learnt  to  think 
and  to  speak  appositely  :  they  were  precepts 
which  no  man  could  contradict,  at  a  time 
when  authority  was  valued  more  than  opin- 
ion, and  experience  preferred  to  novelty. 
The  proverbs  of  a  father  became  the  inheri- 
tance of  a  son  ;  the  mistress  of  a  family  per- 
petuated hers  through  her  household;  the 
workman  condensed  some  traditional  secret 
of  his  craft  into  a  proverbial  expression. 
When  countries  are  not  yet  populous,  and 
property  has  not  yet  produced  great  in- 
equalities in  its  ranks,  every  day  will  show 
them  how  *'  the  drunkard  and  the  glutton 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS. 


289 


come  to  poverty,  and  drowsiness  clothes  a 
man  with  rags."  At  such  a  period  he  who 
gave  counsel  gave  wealth.  .  .  . 

Some  difficulty  has  occurred  in  the  defini- 
tion. Proverbs  must  he  distinguished  from 
proverbial  phrases,  and  from  sententious 
maxims ;  but  as  proverbs  have  many  faces, 
from  their  miscellaneous  nature,  the  class 
itself  scarcely  admits  of  any  definition. 
When  Johnson  defined  a  proverb  to  be  "  a 
short  sentence  frequently  repeated  by  the 
people,"  this  definition  would  not  include 
the  most  curious  ones,  which  have  not 
always  circulated  among  the  populace,  nor 
even  belong  to  them  ;  nor  does  it  designate 
the  vital  qualities  of  a  proverb.  The  pithy 
quaintness  of  Old  Howell  has  admirably 
described  the  ingredients  of  an  exquisite 
proverb  to  be  sense,  shortness,  and  salt.  A 
proverb  is  distinguished  from  a  maxim  or 
an  apophthegm  by  that  brevity  which  con- 
denses a  thought  or  a  metaphor,  where  one 
thing  is  said  and  another  is  to  be  applied. 
This  often  produces  wit,  and  that  quick  pun- 
gency which  excites  surprise,  but  strikes 
with  conviction;  this  gives  it  an  epigram- 
matic turn.  George  Herbert  entitled  the 
small  collection  which  he  formed  ''Jacula 
Prudentiuin,"  Darts  or  Javelins:  something 
hurled  and  striking  deeply  :  a  characteristic 
of  a  proverb  which  possibly  Herbert  may 
have  borrowed  from  a  remarkable  passage 
in  Plato's  dialogue  of  "  Protagoras,  or  the 
Sophists." 

Proverbs  have  ceased  to  be  studied  or  em- 
ployed in  conversation  since  the  time  we 
have  derived  our  knowledge  from  books  ; 
but  in  a  philosophical  age  they  appear  to 
offer  infinite  subjects  for  speculative  curios- 
ity. Originating  in  various  eras,  these  me- 
morials of  manners,  of  events,  and  of  modes 
of  thinking,  for  historic(al  as  well  as  for  moral 
purposes,  still  retain  a  strong  hold  on  our 
attention.  The  collected  knowledge  of  suc- 
cessive ages,  and  of  different  people,  must 
always  enter  into  some  part  of  our  own. 
Truth  and  nature  can  never  be  obsolete. 

Proverbs  embrace  the  wide  sphere  of 
human  existence,  they  take  all  the  colours 
of  life,  they  are  often  exquisite  strokes  of 
genius,  they  delight  by  their  airy  sarcasm 
or  their  caustic  satire,  the  luxuriance  of 
their  humour,  and  the  tenderness  of  their 
sentiment.  They  give  a  deep  insight  into 
domestic  life,  and  open  for  us  the  heart  of 
man,  in  all  the  various  states  which  he  may 
occupy, — a  frequent  review  of  proverbs 
should  enter  into  our  readings;  and  al- 
though they  are  no  longer  the  ornaments  of 
conversation,  they  have  not  ceased  to  be  the 
treasuries  of  thought. 

Cariosities   of  Literature,   vol.    Hi. :    The 
Philosophy  of  Proverbs. 
19 


JOHN    QUINCY   ADAMS, 

sixth  President  of  the  United  States,  1825- 
18:29,  born  at  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  1767. 
died  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  1848,  occupied 
many  important  public  posts,  for  accounts 
of  which  we  refer  to  the  work  from  which 
the  extract  following  is  taken, — Memoir  of 
the  Life  of  John  Quincy  Adams,  by  Josiali 
Quincy,  LL.D.,  Boston,  1858,  8vo. 

WOMEN  IN  POLITICS. 

One  of  the  topics  agitated  during  this 
debate  [June  16  to  July  7,  1838]  arose 
upon  a  speech  of  Mr.  Howard,  of  Maryland. 
Among  the  petitions  against  the  annexation 
of  Texas  were  many  signed  by  women.  On 
these  Mr.  Howard  said,  he  always  felt  a 
regret  when  petitions  thus  signed  were  pre- 
sented to  the  house,  relating  to  political 
subjects.  He  thought  these  females  could 
have  a  sufficient  field  for  the  exercise  of 
their  influence  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duties  to  their  fathers,  their  husbands,  or 
their  children, -cheering  the  domestic  circle, 
and  shedding  over  it  the  mild  radiance  of 
the  social  virtues,  instead  of  rushing  into 
the  fierce  struggles  of  political  life.  He 
considered  it  discreditable,  not  only  to  their 
political  section  of  country,  but  also  to  the 
national  character. 

Mr.  Adams  immediately  entered  into  a 
long  and  animated  defence  of  the  right  of 
petition  by  women  ;  in  the  course  of  which 
he  asked  "  whether  women,  by  petitioning 
this  house  in  favor  of  suffering  and  distress, 
perform  an  office  'discreditable'  to  them- 
selves, to  the  section  of  the  country  where 
they  reside,  and  to  this  nation.  The  gen- 
tleman says  that  women  have  no  right  to 
petition  Congress  on  political  subjects.  Why? 
Sir,  what  does  the  gentleman  understand  by 
'political  subjects?'  Every  thing  in  which 
the  house  has  an  agency, — every  thing  which 
relates  to  peace  and  relates  to  war,  or  to 
any  other  of  the  great  interests  of  society. 
Are  women  to  have  no  opinions  or  actions 
on  subjects  relating  to  the  general  welfare? 
Where  did  the  gentleman  get  this  principle? 
Did  he  find  it  in  sacred  history, — in  the  lan- 
guage of  Miriam  the  prophetess,  in  one  of 
the  noblest  and  most  sublime  songs  of  tri- 
umph that  ever  met  the  human  eye  or  ear? 
Did  the  gentleman  never  hear  of  Deborah, 
to  whom  the  children  of  Israel  came  up  for 
judgment?  Has  he  forgotten  the  deed  of 
Joel,  who  slew  the  dreaded  enemy  of  her 
country?  Has  he  forgotten  Esther,  who,  by 
HER  PETITION,  saved  her  people  and  her 
country?  Sir,  I  might  go  through  the 
whole  of  the  sacred  history  of  the  Jews  to 
the  advent  of  our  Saviour,  and  find  innu- 
merable examples  of  women,  who  not  only 


290 


NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


took  an  active  part  in  the  politics  of  their 
times,  but  who  are  held  up  with  honour  to 
posterity  for  doing  so.  Our  Saviour  him- 
self, while  on  earth,  performed  that  most 
stupendous  miracle,  the  raising  of  Lazarus 
from  the  dead,  at  the  petition  of  a  woman! 
To  go  from  sacred  history  to  profane,  does 
the  gentleman  there  find  it  'discreditable' 
for  women  to  take  any  interest  or  any  part 
in  political  affairs?  In  the  history  of  Greece, 
let  him  read  and  examine  the  character  of 
Aspasia,  in  a  country  in  which  the  character 
and  conduct  of  women  were  more  restricted 
than  in  any  modern  nation,  save  among 
the  Turks.  Has  he  forgotten  that  Spartan 
mother,  \vlio  said  to  her  son,  when  going  out 
to  battle,  '  My  son,  come  back  to  me  with  thy 
shield,  or  upon  thy  shield?'  Does  he  not 
remember  Claelia  and  her  hundred  compan- 
ions, who  swam  across  the  river,  under  a 
shower  of  darts,  escaping  from  Porsenna? 
Has  he  forgotten  Cornelia,  the  mother  of 
the  Gracchi,  who  declared  that  her  children 
were  her  jewels?  And  why?  Because  they 
were  the  champions  of  freedom.  Does  he 
not  remember  Portia,  the  wife  of  Brutus 
and  daughter  of  Cato,  and  in  what  terms 
she  is  represented  in  the  history  of  Rome? 
Has  he  not  read  of  Arria,  who,  under  im- 
perial despotism,  when  her  husband  was 
condemned  to  die  by  a  tyrant,  plunged  the 
sword  into  her  own  bosom,  and  handing  it 
to  her  husband,  said,  '  Take  it,  Paetus,  it 
does  not  hurt,'  and  expired? 

"  To  come  to  a  later  period, — what  says 
the  history  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  ancestors? 
To  say  nothing  of  Boadicea,  the  British 
heroine  in  the  time  of  the  Caesars,  what 
name  is  more  illustrious  than  that  of  Eliza- 
beth? Or,  if  he  will  go  to  the  Continent, 
will  he  not  find  the  names  of  Maria  Theresa 
of  Hungary,  the  two  Catherines  of  Russia, 
and  of  Isabella  of  Castile,  the  patroness  of 
Columbus,  the  discoverer  in  substance  of 
this  hemisphere,  for  without  her  aid  that 
discovery  would  not  have  been  made?  Did 
she  bring  discredit  on  her  sex  by  mingling 
in  politics?  To  come  nearer  home, — what 
were  the  women  of  the  United  States  in  the 
struggle  of  the  Revolution  ?  Or  what  would 
the  men  have  been  but  for  the  influence  of 
the  women  of  that  day  ?  Were  they  devoted 
exclusively  to  the  duties  and  enjoyments  of 
the  fireside?  Take,  for  example,  the  ladies 
of  Philadelphia." 

Mr.  Adams  here  read  a  long  extract  from 
Judge  Johnson's  Life  of  General  Greene, 
relating  that  during  the  Revolutionary  War 
a  call  came  from  General  Washington  stat- 
ing that  the  troops  were  destitute  of  shirts, 
and  of  many  indispensable  articles  of  cloth- 
ing. "  And  from  whence,"  writes  Judge 
Johnson,  "  did  relief  arrive,  at  last  ?  From 


the  heart  where  patriotism  erects  her  fa- 
vourite shrine,  and  from  the  hand  which  is 
seldom  withdrawn  when  the  soldier  solicits. 
The  ladies  of  Philadelphia  immortalized 
themselves  by  commencing  the  generous 
work,  and  it  was  a  work  too  grateful  to  the 
American  fair  not  to  be  followed  up  with 
zeal  and  alacrity." 

Mr.  Adams  then  read  a  long  quotation 
from  Dr.  Ramsay's  History  of  South  Caro- 
lina, "which  speaks,"  said  he,  "trumpct- 
tongued,  of  the  daring  and  intrepid  spirit 
of  patriotism  burning  in  the  bosoms  of  the 
ladies  of  that  State."  After  reading  an  ex- 
tract from  this  History,  Mr.  Adams  thus 
comments  upon  it :  "  '  Politics,'  sir  I  '  rush- 
ing into  the  vortex  of  politics  !' — glorying  in 
being  called  rebel  ladies  ;  refusing  to  attend 
balls  and  entertainments,  but  crowding  to 
the  prison-ships  !  Mark  this,  and  remember 
it  was  done  with  no  small  danger  to  their 
own  persons,  and  to  the  safety  of  their  fami- 
lies. But  it  manifested  the  spirit  by  which 
they  were  animated  ;  and,  sir,  is  that  spirit 
to  be  charged  here,  in  this  hall  where  we 
are  sitting,  as  being  '  discreditable'  to  our 
country's  name?  Shall  it  be  said  that  such 
conduct  was  a  national  reproach,  because  it 
was  the  conduct  of  women  who  left  '  their 
domestic  concerns,  and  rushed  into  the  vor- 
tex of  politics  !'  Sir,  these  women  did  more  ; 
they  petitioned, — yes,  they  petitioned, — and 
that  in  a  matter  of  politics.  It  was  for  the 
life  of  Hayne." 


NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE, 

born  at  Ajaccio,  Corsica,  August  15,  1769, 
Commander-in-Chief  of  the  French  Army  in 
Italy,  1796,  First  Consul  of  France,  1799, 
Emperor  of  the  French.  1804,  defeated  at 
the  Battle  of  Waterloo,  June  18,  1815,  pris- 
oner at  St.  Helena.  October  15,  1815,  until 
his  death,  May  5,  1821. 

NAPOLEON'S  ARGUMENT  FOR  THE  DIVINITY 
OF  CHRIST,  AND  THE  SCRIPTURES,  IN  A 
CONVERSATION  WITH  GENERAL  BERTRAND, 
AT  ST.  HELENA. 

True,  Christ  offers  to  our  faith  a  series  of 
mysteries.  He  commands  us  authoritatively 
to  believe,  and  gives  no  other  reason  than 
his  awful  word  I  am  God.  True,  this  is  an 
article  of  mere  faith,  and  upon  it  depend  all 
the  other  articles  of  the  Christian  system; 
but  the  doctrine  of  the  divinity  of  Christ 
once  admitted,  Christianity  appears  with  the 
precision  and  clearness  of  algebra;  it  has 
the  connectedness  and  unity  of  a  science. 
This  doctrine  resting  upon  the  Bible,  best 


NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


291 


explains  the  traditions  prevalent  in  the 
world.  It  throws  light  upon  them ;  and 
all  the  other  doctrines  of  Christianity  are 
strictly  connected  with  it,  as  links  of  the 
same  chain.  The  nature  of  Christ's  exist- 
ence is  mysterious,  I  admit ;  but  this  mys- 
tery meets  the  wants  of  man  :  reject  it,  and 
the  world  is  an  inexplicable  riddle, — believe 
it,  and  the  history  of  our  race  is  satisfac- 
torily explained. 

Christianity  has  one  advantage  over  all 
systems  of  philosophy  and  all  religions: 
Christians  do  not  delude  themselves  in  re- 
gard to  the  nature  of  things.  You  can- 
not reproach  them  with  the  subtleties  and 
artifices  of  those  idealists  who  think  to 
solve  profound  theological  problems  by  their 
empty  dissertations.  Fools  !  their  efforts  are 
those  of  the  infant  who  tries  to  touch  the 
sky  with  his  hand,  or  cries  to  have  the  moon 
for  his  plaything.  Christianity  says  simply. 
"No  man  hath  seen  God  but  God.  God  re- 
veals what  he  is :  his  revelation  is  a  mys- 
tery which  neither  imagination  nor  reason 
can  conceive.  But  when  God  speaks,  man 
must  believe."  This  is  sound  common  sense. 

The  Gospel  possesses  a  secret  virtue  of 
indescribable  efficacy,  a  warmth  which  in- 
fluences the  understanding  and  softens  the 
heart;  in  meditating  upon  it,  you  feel  as 
you  do  in  contemplating  the  heavens.  The 
Gospel  is  more  than  a  book ;  it  is  a  living 
thing,  active,  powerful,  overcoming  every 
obstacle  in  its  way.  See  upon  this  table 
this  book  of  books, — and  here  the  emperor 
touched  it  reverently, — I  never  cease  reading 
it,  and  always  with  new  delight. 

Christ  never  hesitates,  never  varies  in  his 
instructions,  and  the  least  of  his  assertions 
is  stamped  with  a  simplicity  and  a  depth 
which  captivate  the  ignorant  and  the  learned, 
if  they  give  it  their  attention. 

Nowhere  is  to  be  found  such  a  series  of 
beautiful  thoughts,  fine  moral  maxims,  fol- 
lowing one  another  like  rairks  of  a  celestial 
army,  and  producing  in  the  soul  the  same 
emotion  as  is  felt  in  contemplating  the  in- 
finite extent  of  the  resplendent  heavens  on  a 
fine  summer  night. 

Not  only  is  our  mind  absorbed  ;  it  is  con- 
trolled, and  the  soul  can  never  go  astray 
with  this  book  for  its  guide.  Once  master 
of  our  mind,  the  Gospel  is  a  faithful  friend. 
God  himself  is  our  Friend,  our  Father,  and 
truly  our  God.  A  mother  has  not  greater 
care  for  the  infant  on  her  breast.  The  soul, 
captivated  by  the  beauty  of  the  Gospel,  is 
no  longer  its  own.  God  occupies  it  alto- 
gether ;  he  directs  its  thoughts  and  all  its 
faculties  :  it  is  his. 

What  a  proof  it  is  of  the  divinity  of  Christ, 
that  with  so  absolute  an  empire,  his  single 
aim  is  the  spiritual  melioration  of  individ- 


uals, their  purity  of  conscience,  their  union 
to  the  truth,  their  holiness  of  soul. 

My  last  argument  is.  There  is  not  a  God 
in  heaven,  if  a  mere  man  was  able  to  con- 
ceive and  execute  successfully  the  gigantic 
design  of  making  himself  the  object  of  su- 
preme worship,  by  usurping  the  name  of 
God.  Jesus  alone  dared  to  do  this :  he 
alone  said  clearly  and  unfalteringly  of  him- 
self, /  am  God;  which  is  quite  different 
from  saying,  Iain  a  god,  or  ihere  are  gods. 
History  mentions  no  other  individual  who 
has  appropriated  to  himself  the  title  of  God 
in  the  absolute  sense.  Heathen  mythology 
nowhere  pretends  that  Jupiter  and  the  other 
gods  themselves  assumed  divinity.  It  would 
have  been  on  their  part  the  height  of  pride 
and  absurdity.  They  were  deified  by  their 
posterity,  the  heirs  of  the  first  despots.  As 
all  men  are  of  one  race,  Alexander  could 
call  himself  the  son  of  Jupiter;  but  Greece 
laughed  at  the  silly  assumption  ;  and  in 
making  gods  of  their  emperors,  the  Romans 
were  not  serious.  Mahomet  and  Confucius 
merely  gave  out  that  they  were  agents  of 
the  Deity.  Numa's  goddess  Egeria  was  only 
the  personification  of  his  reflections  in  the 
solitude  of  the  woods.  The  B  rah  mas  of 
India  are  only  deifications  of  mental  attri- 
butes. 

How  then  should  a  Jew,  the  particulars 
of  whose  history  are  better  attested  than 
that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries, — how 
should  he  alone,  the  son  of  a  carpenter, 
give  out  all  at  once  that  he  was  God,  the 
Creator  of  all  things?  He  arrogates  to  him- 
self the  highest  adoration.  He  constructs 
his  worship  with  his  own  hands,  not  with 
stones  but  with  men.  You  are  amazed  at 
the  conquests  of  Alexander.  But  here  is 
a  conqueror  who  appropriates  to  his  own 
advantage,  who  incorporates  with  himself, 
not  a  nation,  but  the  human  race.  Wonder- 
ful !  the  human  soul  with  all  its  faculties  be- 
comes blended  with  the  existence  of  Christ. 
And  how?  by  a  prodigy  surpassing  all  other 
prodigies  he  seeks  the  love  of  men,  the  most 
difficult  thing  in  the  world  to  obtain  :  he 
seeks  what  a  wise  man  would  fain  have 
from  a  few  friends,  a  father  from  his  chil- 
dren, a  wife  from  her  husband,  a  brother 
from  a  brother, — in  a  word,  the  heart:  this 
he  seeks,  this  he  absolutely  requires,  and  he 
gains  his  object.  Hence  I  infer  his  divinity. 
Alexander,  Caesar,  Hannibal,  Louis  XIV., 
with  all  their  genius,  failed  here.  They 
conquered  the  world  and  had  not  a  friend.  I 
am  perhaps  the  only  person  of  my  day  who 
loves  Hannibal,  Caesar,  Alexander.  Louis 
XIV.,  who  shed  so  much  lustre  upon  France 
and  the  world,  had  not  a  friend  in  all  his 
kingdom,  not  even  in  his  own  family.  True, 
we  love  our  children,  but  it  is  from  instinct, 


292 


NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE. 


from  a  necessity  which  the  beasts  them- 
selves obey:  and  how  many  children  mani- 
fest no  proper  sense  of  our  kindness  and  the 
cares  we  bestow  on  them, — how  many  un- 
grateful children  !  Do  your  children,  Gen- 
eral Bertrand,  love  you  ?  You  love  them, 
but  you  are  not  sure  of  being  requited. 
Neither  natural  affection  nor  your  kindness 
will  ever  inspire  in  them  such  love  as  Chris- 
tians have  lor  God.  When  you  die  your 
children  will  remember  you,  —  doubtless 
while  spending  your  money  ;  but  your  grand- 
children will  hardly  know  that  you  ever 
existed.  And  yet  you  are  General  Bertrand! 
And  we  are  here  upon  an  island,  where  all 
your  cares  and  all  your  enjoyments  are 
centred  in  your  family. 

Christ  speaks,  and  at  once  generations 
become  his  by  stricter,  closer  ties  than  those 
of  blood  ;  by  the  most  sacred,  most  indis- 
soluble of  all  unions.  He  lights  up  the 
flame  of  a  love  which  consumes  self-love, 
which  prevails  over  every  other  love. 

In  this  wonderful  power  of  his  will  we 
recognize  the  Word  that  created  the  world. 

The  founders  of  other  religions  never  con- 
ceived of  this  mystical  love,  which  is  the 
essence  of  Christianity,  and  is  beautifully 
called  charity. 

Hence  it  is  that  they  have  struck  upon  a 
rock.  In  every  attempt  to  effect  this  thing, 
namely,  to  make  himself  beloved,  man  deeply 
feels  his  own  impotence. 

So  that  Christ's  greatest  miracle  undoubt- 
edly is  the  reign  of  charity. 

He  alone  succeeded  in  lifting  the  heart 
of  man  to  things  invisible,  and  in  inducing 
him  to  sacrifice  temporal  things  :  he  alone, 
by  influencing  him  to  this  sacrifice,  has 
formed  a  bond  of  union  between  heaven 
and  earth.  All  who  sincerely  believe  in 
him  taste  this  wonderful,  supernatural  ex- 
alted love,  which  is  beyond  the  power  of 
reason,  above  the  ability  of  man  :  a  sacred 
fire  brought  down  to  earth  by  this  new 
Prometheus,  and  of  which  Time,  the  great 
destroyer,  can  neither  exhaust  the  force  nor 
limit  the  duration.  The  more  I,  Napoleon, 
think  of  this,  I  admire  it  the  more.  And  it 
convinces  me  absolutely  of  the  divinity  of 
Christ. 

I  have  inspired  multitudes  with  such  af- 
fection for  me  that  they  would  die  for  me. 
God  forbid  that  I  should  compare  the  sol- 
dier's enthusiasm  with  Christian  charity, 
which  are  as  unlike  as  their  cause. 

But  after  all,  my  presence  was  necessary, 
the  lightning  of  my  eye,  my  voice,  a  word 
from  me:  then  the  sacred  fire  was  kindled 
in  their  hearts.  I  do  indeed  possess  the 
secret  of  this  magical  power  which  lifts  the 
eoul,  but  I  could  never  impart  it  to  any  one: 
none  of  my  generals  ever  learnt  it  from  me; 


nor  have  I  the  secret-  of  perpetuating  my 
name  and  love  for  me  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  to  effect  these  things  without  physical 
means. 

Now  that  I  am  at  St.  Helena. — now  that  I 
am  alone  chained  to  this  rock, — who  fights 
and  wins  empires  for  me?  Where  are  any 
to  share  my  misfortunes,— any  to  think  of 
me?  Who  bestirs  himself  for  me  in  Europe? 
Who  remains  faithful  to  me :  where  are  my 
friends?  Yes,  two  or  three  of  you,  who  are 
immortalized  by  this  fidelity,  ye  share,  ye 
alleviate  my  exile. 

Here  the  emperor's  voice  choked  with  grief. 

Yes,  my  life  once  shone  with  all  the  bril- 
liance of  the  diadem  and  the  throne,  and 
yours,  Bertrand,  reflected  that  brilliance,  as 
the  dome  of  the  "  Invalides,"  gilt  by  me,  re- 
flects the  rays  of  the  sun.  But  disasters 
came,  the  gold  gradually  became  dim,  and 
now  all  the  brightness  is  effaced  by  the  rain 
of  misfortune  and  outrage  with  which  I  am 
continually  pelted.  We  are  mere  lead  now, 
General  Bertrand,  and  soon  I  shall  be  in 
my  grave. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  great  men.  So  it  was 
with  Csesar,  and  Alexander,  and  I  too  am 
forgotten ;  and  the  name  of  a  conqueror 
and  an  emperor  is  a  college  theme !  our  ex- 
ploits are  tasks  given  to  pupils  by  their 
tutor,  who  sits  in  judgment  upon  us,  award- 
ing us  censure  or  praise. 

How  different  the  opinions  formed  of  the 
great  Louis  XIV. !  Scarcely  dead,  the  great 
king  was  left  alone  in  his  solitary  chamber 
at  Versailles, — neglected  by  his  courtiers, 
and  perhaps  the  object  of  their  ridicule. 
He  was  no  more  their  master.  lie  was  a 
dead  body,  in  his  coffin,  the  prey  of  a  loath- 
some putrefaction. 

And  mark  what  is  soon  to  become  of  me, — 
assassinated  by  the  English  oligarchy,  I  die 
before  my  time,  and  my  dead  body  too  must 
return  to  the  earth  to  become  food  for  worms. 

Such  is  soon  to  be  the  fate  of  the  Great 
Napoleon  !  What  a  wide  abyss  between  my 
deep  misery  and  the  eternal  kingdom  of 
Christ,  which  is  proclaimed,  loved,  adored, 
and  which  is  extending  over  all  the  earth ! 
Is  this  death?  Is  it  not  life  rather?  The 
death  of  Christ  is  the  death  of  a  God. 

The  emperor  paused,  and  as  General  Ber- 
trand did  not  answer,  the  emperor  resumed  : 

You  do  not  perceive  that  Jesus  Christ  is 
God  ?  then  I  did  wrong  to  appoint  you  general  I 

The  above  is  translated  from  a  French 
tract,  printed  in  Paris,  with  the  title  "  Na- 
poleon." The  narrative  is  confirmed  by  a 
letter  from  the  Rev.  Dr.  G.  De  Felice,  Pro- 
fessor in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Mon- 
tauban,  France,  in  a  communication  inserted 
in  the  New  York  Observer  of  April  16,  1842. 


JUNIUS. 


293 


Professor  De  Felice  states  that  the  Ilev. 
Dr.  Bogue  sent  Napoleon  at  St.  Helena  a 
copy  of  liis  "Essay  on  the  Divine  Authority 
of  the  New  Testament,"  which  eye-witnesses 
attest  that  he  read  with  interest  and  satis- 
faction. He  also  states  that  similar  wit- 
nesses attest  that  he  read  much  in  the  Bible, 
and  spoke  of  it  with  profound  respect ;  and 
further,  that  there  was  a  religious  revival 
among  the  inhabitants  of  St.  Helena,  which 
extended  to  the  soldiers,  who  prayed  much 
for  the  conversion  and  salvation  of  the  noble 
prisoner.  Professor  De  Felice  closes  his 
communication  by  translating  from  a  recent 
French  journal  the  following  conversation 
related  by  Count  de  Montholon,  the  faithful 
friend  of  the  emperor: 

I  know  men,  said  Napoleon,  and  I  tell 
you  that  Jesus  is  not  a  man  : 

The  religion  of  Christ  is  a  mystery  which 
subsists  by  its  own  force,  and  proceeds  from 
a  mind  which  is  not  a  human  mind.  We 
find  in  it  a  marked  individuality,  which 
originated  a  train  of  words  and  maxims  un- 
known before.  Jesus  borrowed  nothing  from 
our  knowledge.  He  exhibited  in  himself  the 
perfect  example  of  his  precepts.  Jesus  is  not 
a  philosopher;  for  his  proofs  are  miracles,  and 
from  the  first  his  disciples  adored  him.  In 
fact,  learning  and  philosophy  are  of  no  use 
in  salvation ;  and  Jesus  came  into  the  world 
to  reveal  the  mysteries  of  heaven  and  the 
laws  of  the  Spirit. 

Alexander,  Caesar,  Charlemagne,  and  my- 
self founded  empires :  but  upon  what  did  we 
rest  the  creations  of  our  genius?  Upon  force. 
Jesus  Christ  alone  founded  his  empire  upon 
love;  and  at  this  hour  millions  of  men  would 
die  for  him. 

It  was  not  a  day  or  a  battle  which  achieved 
the  triumph  of  the  Christian  religion  in  the 
world.  No  :  it  was  a  long  war,  a  contest  for 
three  centuries,  begun  by  the  apostles,  then 
continued  by  the  flood  of  Christian  genera- 
tions. In  this  war  all  the  kings  and  poten- 
tates of  earth  were  on  one  side :  on  the 
other  I  see  no  army,  but  a  mysterious  force, 
some  men  scattered  here  and  there  in  all 
parts  of  the  world,  and  who  have  no  other 
rallying  point  than  a  common  faith  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  cross. 

1  die  before  my  time,  and  my  body  will 
be  given  back  to  the  earth  to  become  food 
for  worms.  Such  is  the  fate  which  so  soon 
awaits  him  who  has  been  called  The  Great 
Napoleon.  AVhat  an  abyss  between  my 
deep  misery  and  the  eternal  kingdom  of 
Christ,  which  is  proclaimed,  loved,  and 
adored,  and  which  is  extending  over  the 
whole  earth ! 

Call  you  this  dying?  Is  it  not  living 
rather?  The  death  of  Christ  is  the  death 
of  a  God! 


JUNIUS. 

The  Letters  of  Junius  were  originally 
published  in  The  Public  Advertiser  of  Lon- 
don, by  Henry  Sampson  Woodfall,  the  first 
letter  bearing  date  January  21,  1769,  and 
the  last  January  21,  1772.  They  are  ad- 
dressed to  the  Printer  of  The  Public  Ad- 
vertiser, Sir  William  Draper,  the  Duke  of 
Grafton,  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  Lord  North, 
Lord  Mansfield,  the  King  of  England,  Rev. 
Mr.  Home,  and  others.  Who  Junius  was  is 
as  yet  (July  8,  1878)  unknown  :  we  have  re- 
viewed the  controversy  at  length  in  another 
place  (Allibone's  Critical  Dictionary,  vol.  i. 
pp.  1001-1005),  to  which  we  refer  the  in- 
quirer, adding  to  our  authorities  Notes  and 
Queries  and  (London)  Athenaeum,  1849,  et 
seq.,  Indexes.  Is  it  not  possible  that  Sir 
Philip  Francis  was  the  amanuensis,  or  one 
of  the  amanuenses,  of  Junius, — probably  in 
ignorance  himself  of  the  author? 

"  The  classic  purity  of  their  language,  the  ex- 
quisite force  and  perspicuity  of  their  argument, 
the  keen  severity  of  their  reproach,  the  extensive 
information  they  evince,  their  fearless  and  decisive 
tone,  and,  above  all,  their  stern  and  steady  attach- 
ment to  the  purest  principles  of  the  Constitution, 
acquired  for  them,  with  an  almost  electric  speed, 
a  popularity  which  no  series  of  letters  have  since 
possessed,  nor,  perhaps,  ever  will;  and,  what  is 
of  far  greater  consequence,  diffused  among  the 
body  a  clearer  knowledge  of  their  constitutional 
rights  than  they  had  ever  before  attained,  and 
animated  them  with  a  more  determined  spirit  to 
maintain  them  inviolate." — JOHN  MASON  GOOD, 
M.D.  :  Essay  on  Juniim  and  his  Writing*. 

See  the  Letters  of  Junius,  third  edition,  by 
John  Wade,  Lond.,  1850.  2  vols.  post  8vo 
(Bonn's  Stand.  Lib.).  In  his  Supplementary 
Essay  Mr.  Wade  espouses  the  claims  of  Sir 
Philip  Francis;  Lords  Macaulay,  Brougham, 
and  Campbell,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  and 
many  others  were  of  the  same  opinion. 

FROM  JUNIUS'S  LETTER  TO  THE  KING. 

When  the  complaints  of  a  brave  and  power- 
ful people  are  observed  to  increase  in  propor- 
tion to  the  wrongs  they  have  suffered  ;  when, 
instead  of  sinking  into  submission,  they  are 
roused  to  resistance,  the  time  will  soon  arrive 
at  which  every  inferior  consideration  must 
yield  to  the  security  of  the  sovereign,  and 
to  the  general  safety  of  the  state.  There  is 
a  moment  of  difficulty  and  danger  at  which 
flattery  can  no  longer  deceive,  and  simplicity 
itself  can  no  longer  be  misled.  Let  us  sup- 
pose it  arrived.  Let  us  suppose  a  gracious, 
well-intentioned  prince  made  sensible  at  List 
of  the  great  duty  he  owes  to  his  people  and 
of  his  own  disgraceful  situation  ;  that  he 
looks  round  him  for  assistance,  and  asks  for 
no  advice,  but  how  to  gratify  the  wishes, 
and  secure  the  happiness  of  his  subjects. 
In  these  circumstances,  it  may  be  matter  of 


294 


JUNIUS. 


curious  speculation  to  consider,  if  an  honest 
man  were  permitted  to  approach  a  king,  in 
what  terms  he  would  address  himself  to  his 
sovereign.  Let  it  bo  imagined,  no  matter 
how  improbable,  that  the  first  prejudice 
against  his  character  is  removed ;  that  the 
ceremonious  difficulties  of  an  audience  are 
surmounted  ;  that  he  feels  himself  animated 
by  the  purest  and  most  honourable  affections 
to  his  king  and  country  ;  and  that  the  great 
person  whom  he  addresses  has  spirit  enough 
to  bid  him  speak  freely  and  understanding 
enough  to  listen  to  him  with  attention.  Un- 
acquainted with  the  vain  impertinence  of 
forms,  he  would  deliver  his  sentiments  with 
dignity  and  firmness,  but  not  without  respect: 

SIR  : — It  is  the  misfortune  of  your  life, 
and  originally  the  cause  of  every  reproach 
and  distress  which  has  attended  your  gov- 
ernment, that  you  should  never  have  been 
acquainted  with  the  language  of  truth  until 
you  heard  it  in  the  complaints  of  your  people. 
It  is  not,  however,  too  late  to  correct  the 
error  of  your  education.  We  are  still  in- 
clined to  make  an  indulgent  allowance  for 
the  pernicious  lessons  you  received  in  your 
youth,  and  to  form  the  most  sanguine  hopes 
from  the  natural  benevolence  of  your  dis- 
position. We  are  far  from  thinking  you 
capable  of  a  direct,  deliberate  purpose  to 
invade  those  original  rights  of  your  subjects 
on  which  all  their  civil  and  political  liber- 
ties depend.  Had  it  been  possible  for  us 
to  entertain  a  suspicion  so  dishonourable  to 
your  character,  we  should  long  since  have 
adopted  a  style  of  remonstrance  very  distant 
from  the  humility  of  complaint.  The  doc- 
trine inculcated  by  our  laws,  "  that  the  king 
can  do  no  wrong,''  is  admitted  without  re- 
luctance. We  separate  the  amiable,  good- 
natured  prince  from  the  folly  and  treachery 
of  his  servants,  and  the  private  virtues  of 
the  man  from  the  vices  of  the  government. 
Were  it  not  for  this  just  distinction,  I  know 
not  whether  your  majesty's  condition,  or 
that  of  the  English  nation,  would  deserve 
most  to  be  lamented.  I  would  prepare  your 
mind  for  a  favourable  reception  of  a  truth, 
by  removing  every  painful  offensive  idea  of 
personal  reproach.  Your  subjects,  sir,  wish 
for  nothing,  but  that,  as  they  are  reasonable 
and  affectionate  enough  to  separate  your  per- 
son from  your  government,  so  you,  in  your 
turn,  should  distinguish  between  the  conduct 
which  becomes  the  permanent  dignity  of  a 
king  and  that  which  serves  only  to  promote 
the  temporary  interest  and  miserable  ambi- 
tion of  a  minister. 

You  ascended  the  throne  with  a  declared 
(and,  I  doubt  not,  a  sincere)  resolution  of 
giving  universal  satisfaction  to  your  sub- 
jects. You  found  them  pleased  with  the 
novelty  of  a  young  prince,  whose  counte- 


nance promised  even  more  than  his  words, 
and  loyal  to  you,  not  only  from  principle, 
but  passion.  It  was  not  a  cold  profession 
of  allegiance  to  the  first  magistrate,  but  a 
partial,  animated  attachment  to  a  favourite 
prince,  the  native  of  their  country.  They 
did  not  wait  to  examine  your  conduct,  nor 
to  be  determined  by  experience,  but  gave  you 
a  generous  credit  for  the  future  blessings 
of  your  reign,  and  paid  you  in  advance  the 
dearest  tribute  of  their  affections.  Such, 
sir,  was  once  the  disposition  of  a  people  who 
now  surround  your  throne  with  reproaches 
and  complaints.  Do  justice  to  yourself. 
Banish  from  your  mind  those  unworthy 
opinions  with  which  some  interested  persons 
have  laboured  to  possess  you.  Distrust  the 
men  who  tell  you  that  the  English  are 
naturally  light  and  inconstant;  that  they 
complain  without  a  cause.  Withdraw  your 
confidence  equally  from  all  parties ;  from 
ministers,  favourites,  and  relations;  and  let 
there  be  one  moment  in  your  life  when  you 
have  consulted  your  own  understanding.  .  .  . 

These  sentiments,  sir,  and  the  style  they 
are  conveyed  in,  may  be  offensive,  perhaps, 
because  they  are  new  to  you.  Accustomed 
to  the  language  of  courtiers,  you  measure 
their  affections  by  the  vehemence  of  their 
expressions  ;  and  when  they  only  praise  you 
indirectly,  you  admire  their  sincerity.  But 
this  is  not  a  time  to  trifle  with  your  fortune. 
They  deceive  you,  sir,  who  tell  you  that 
you  have  many  friends  whose  affections  are 
founded  upon  a  principle  of  personal  attach- 
ment. The  first  foundation  of  friendship  is 
not  the  power  of  conferring  benefits,  but  the 
equality  with  which  they  are  received,  and 
may  be  returned.  The  fortune  which  made 
you  a  king  forbade  you  to  have  a  friend :  it 
is  a  law  of  nature,  which  cannot  be  violated 
with  impunity.  The  mistaken  prince  who 
looks  for  friendship  will  find  a  favourite, 
and  in  that  favourite  the  ruin  of  his  affairs. 

The  people  of  England  are  loyal  to  the 
house  of  Hanover,  not  from  a  vain  prefer- 
ence of  one  family  to  another,  but  from  a 
conviction  that  the  establishment  of  that 
family  was  necessary  to  the  support  of  their 
civil  and  religious  liberties.  This,  sir.  is  a 
principle  of  allegiance  equally  solid  and  ra- 
tional ;  fit  for  Englishmen  to  adopt  and  well 
worthy  of  your  majesty's  encouragement. 
We  cannot  long  he  deluded  by  nominal  dis- 
tinctions. The  name  of  Stuart  of  itself  is 
only  contemptible :  armed  with  the  sovereign 
authority,  their  principles  are  formidable. 
The  prince  who  imitates  their  conduct  should 
be  warned  by  their  example;  and  while  he 
plumes  himself  upon  the  security  of  his  title 
to  the  crown,  should  remember  that  as  it 
was  acquired  by  one  revolution,  it  may  he 
lost  by  another. 


JOHN  FOSTER. 


295 


JOHN   FOSTER, 

born  1770,  in  1792  commenced  preaching, 
and  officiated  among  the  Baptists  at  New- 
castle-upon-Tyne,  Dublin,  Chichester,  Down- 
end,  near  Bristol,  and  Frome  in  Somerset- 
shire ;  afterwards  retired,  in  consequence  of 
ill  health,  to  Stapleton,  near  Bristol,  and 
died  in  1843.  He  was  for  thirteen  years  the 
chief  contributor  to  The  Eclectic  Review. 
See  his  Life  and  Correspondence  by  J.  E. 
llyland,  with  Notices  of  Mr.  Foster  as  a 
Preacher  and  Companion,  by  John  Shep- 
pard,  Lond.,  1846,  2  vols.  post  8vo,  2d  edit., 
1848,  2  vols.  8vo ;  again  (Bolm's  Stand.  Lib.), 
1852,  also  1855,  2  vols.  p.  8vo  ;  Boston,  1850, 
2  vols.  in  1,  12mo.  Foster's  Works  :  Essays 
in  a  Series  of  Letters  (On  Decision  of  Char- 
acter, On  a  Man's  Writing  a  Memoir  of 
Himself,  On  the  Epithet  Romantic,  On 
the  Aversion  of  Men  of  Taste  to  Evangel- 
ical Religion,  etc.),  Lond.,  1823,  8vo,  21st 
edit.,  1850,  p.  8vo,  new  edit,  1856,  fp.  8vo; 
Essay  on  the  Evils  of  Popular  Ignorance, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1834,  8vo,  new  edit.,  1856,  fp. 
8vo ;  Lectures  Delivered  in  Broadmead 
Chapel,  Bristol,  Lond.,  1844,  8vo,  Second 
Series,  1847,  8vo,  both,  1848,  2  vols.  12mo, 
and  in  Bohn's  Stand.  Lib.,  2  vols.  p.  8vo ; 
Contributions,  Biographical.  Literary,  and 
Philosophical,  to  the  Eclectic  Review,  Lond., 
1844,  2  vols.  8vo,  and  in  Bohn's  Stand.  Lib., 
as  Critical  Essays.  2  vols.  p.  8vo  ;  Fosteriana, 
Edited  by  II.  G.  Bohn,  Lond.,  1858,  p.  8vo. 

"I  have  read,  with  the  greatest  admiration,  the 
Essays  of  Mr.  Foster.  He  is  one  of  the  most  pro- 
found and  eloquent  writers  that  England  has  pro- 
duced."— SIR  J.  MACKINTOSH. 

ON  A  MAN'S  WRITING  A  MEMOIR  OF  HIM- 
SELF. 

Though  in  memoirs  intended  for  publica- 
tion a  large  share  of  incident  and  .action 
would  generally  be  necessary,  yet  there  are 
some  whose  mental  history  alone  might  be 
very  interesting  to  reflective  readers  ;  as,  for 
instance,  that  of  a  thinking  man  remarkable 
for  a  number  of  complete  changes  of  his  spec- 
ulative system.  From  observing  the  usual 
tenacity  of  views  once  deliberately  adopted 
in  mature  life,  we  regard  as  a  curious  phe- 
nomenon the  man  whose  mind  has  been 
a  kind  of  caravansera  of  opinions,  enter- 
tained a  while,  and  then  sent  on  pilgrim- 
age ;  a  man  who  has  admired  and  dismissed 
systems  with  the  same  facility  with  which 
John  Buncle  found,  adored,  married,  and 
interred  his  succession  of  wives,  each  one 
being,  for  the  time,  not  only  better  than  all 
that  went  before,  but  the  best  in  the  crea- 
tion. You  admire  the  versatile  aptitude  of 
a  mind  sliding  into  successive  forms  of  be- 
lief in  this  intellectual  metempsychosis,  by 


which  it  animates  so  many  new  bodies  of 
doctrines  in  their  turn.  And  as  none  of 
those  dying  pangs  which  hurt  you  in  a  tale 
of  India  attend  the  desertion  of  each  of  these 
speculative  forms  which  the  soul  has  a  while 
inhabited,  you  are  extremely  amused  by  the 
number  of  transitions,  and  eagerly  ask  what 
is  to  be  the  next,  for  you  never  deem  the 
present  state  of  such  a  man's  views  to  be 
for  permanence,  unless  perhaps  when  he  has 
terminated  his  course  of  believing  every  thing 
in  ultimately  believing  nothing.  Even  then, 
unless  he  is  very  old,  or  feels  more  pride  in 
being  a  sceptic,  the  conqueror  of  all  sys- 
tems, than  he  ever  felt  in  being  the  cham- 
pion of  one,  even  then  it  is  very  possible  he 
may  spring  up  again,  like  a  vapour  of  fire 
from  a  bog,  and  glimmer  through  new  mazes, 
or  retrace  his  course  through  half  of  those 
which  he  trod  before.  You  will  observe 
that  no  respect  attaches  to  this  Proteus  of 
opinions  after  his  changes  have  been  multi- 
plied, as  no  party  expect  him  to  remain  with 
them,  nor  deem  him  much  of  an  acquisition 
if  he  should.  One,  or  perhaps  two,  consid- 
erable changes  will  be  regarded  as  signs  of 
a  liberal  inquirer,  and  therefore  the  party  to 
which  his  first  or  his  second  intellectual  con- 
version may  assign  him  will  receive  him 
gladly.  But  he  will  be  deemed  to  have  ab- 
dicated the  dignity  of  reason  when  it  is 
found  that  he  can  adopt  no  principles  but 
to  betray  them  ;  and  it  will  be  perhaps 
justly  suspected  that  there  is  something 
extremely  infirm  in  the  structure  of  that 
mind,  whatever  vigour  may  mark  some  of 
its  operations,  to  which  a  series  of  very 
different,  and  sometimes  contrasted,  theo- 
ries can  appear  in  succession  demonstra- 
tively true,  and  which  imitates  sincerely 
the  perverseness  which  Pertruchio  only  af- 
fected, declaring  that  which  was  yesterday 
to  a  certainty  the  sun,  to  be  to-day  as  cer- 
tainly the  moon. 

It  would  be  curious  to  observe  in  a  man, 
who  should  make  such  an  exhibition  of  the 
course  of  his  mind,  the  sly-deceit  of  self- 
love.  While  he  despises  the  system  which 
he  has  rejected,  he  does  not  deem  it  to  imply 
so  great  a  want  of  sense  in  him  once  to  have 
embraced  it,  as  in  the  rest  who  wore  then  or 
are  now  its  disciples  and  advocates.  No  :  in 
him  it  was  no  debility  of  reason  ;  it  was  at 
the  utmost  but  a  merge  of  it;  and  probably 
he  is  prepared  to  explain  to  you  that  such 
peculiar  circumstances  as  might  warp  even 
a  very  strong  and  liberal  mind  attended  his 
consideration  of  the  subject,  and  misled  him 
to  admit  the  belief  of  what  others  prove 
themselves  fools  by  believing. 

Another  thing  apparent  in  a  record  of 
changed  opinions  would  be,  what  I  have 
noticed  before,  that  there  is  scarcely  any 


296 


JOHN  FOSTER. 


such  thing  in  the  world  as  simple  conviction. 
It  would  be  amusing  to  observe  how  reason 
had,  in  one  instance,  been  overruled  into 
acquiescence  by  the  admiration  of  a  cele- 
brated name,  or  another  into  opposition  by 
the  envy  of  it ;  how  most  opportunely  reason 
discovered  the  truth  just  at  the  time  that 
interest  could  be  essentially  served  by  avow- 
ing it;  how  easily  the  impartial  examiner 
could  be  induced  to  adopt  some  part  of  an- 
other man's  opinions,  after  that  other  had 
zealously  approved  some  favourite,  especially 
if  unpopular,  part  of  his,  as  the  Pharisees 
almost  became  partial  even  to  Christ  at  the 
moment  that  he  defended  one  of  their  doc- 
trines against  the  Sadducees.  It  would  be 
curious  to  see  how  a  professed  respect  for  a 
man's  character  and  talents,  and  concern  for 
his  interests,  might  be  changed,  in  conse- 
quence of  some  personal  inattention  experi- 
enced from  him,  into  illiberal  invective  against 
him  or  his  intellectual  performances,  and 
yet  the  railer,  though  actuated  solely  by 
petty  revenge,  account  himself  the  model  of 
equity  and  candour  all  the  while.  It  might 
lie  seen  how  the  patronage  of  power  could 
elevate  miserable  prejudices  into  revered 
wisdom,  while  poor  old  Experience  was 
mocked  with  thanks  for  her  instruction  ;  and 
how  the  vicinity  or  society  of  the  rich  and, 
as  they  are  termed,  great  could  perhaps  melt 
a  soul  that  seemed  to  be  of  the  stern  con- 
sistence of  early  Koine,  into  the  gentlest 
wax  on  which  Corruption  could  wish  to  im- 
print the  venerable  creed, — "  The  right  di- 
vine of  kings  to  govern  wrong,"  with  the 
pious  inference  that  justice  was  outraged 
when  virtuous  Tarquin  was  expelled. 

I  am  supposing  the  observer  to  perceive  all 
these  accommodating  dexterities  of  reason  ; 
for  it  were  probably  absurd  to  expect  that 
any  mind  should  itself  be  able  in  its  review 
to  detect  all  its  own  obliquities,  after  having 
been  so  long  beguiled,  like  the  mariners  in 
a  story  which  I  remember  to  have  read,  who 
followed  the  direction  of  their  compass,  in- 
fallibly right  as  they  thought,  till  they  ar- 
rived at  an  enemy's  port,  where  they  were 
seized  and  doomed  to  slavery.  It  happened 
that  the  wicked  captain,  in  order  to  betray 
the  ship,  had  concealed  a  large  loadstone  at 
a  little  distance  on  one  side  of  the  needle. 

On  the  notions  and  expectations  of  one 
stage  of  life  I  suppose  all  reflecting  men 
look  back  with  a  kind  of  contempt,  though 
it  may  be  often  witli  the  mingling  wish 
that  some  of  its  enthusiasm  of  feeling  could 
be  recovered, — I  mean  the  period  between 
proper  childhood  and  maturity.  They  will 
allow  that  their  reason  was  then  feeble,  and 
they  are  prompted  to  exclaim,  What  fools 
we  have  been, — while  they  recollect  how  sin- 
cerely they  entertained  and  advanced  the 


most  ridiculous  speculations  on  the  interests 
of  life  and  the  questions  of  truth  ;  how  regret- 
fully astonished  they  were  to  find  the  mature 
sense  of  some  of  those  around  them  so  com- 
pletely wrong ;  yet  in  other  instances,  what 
veneration  they  felt  for  authorities  for  which 
they  have  since  lost  all  their  respect;  what 
a  fantastic  importance  they  attached  to  some 
most  trivial  things;  what  complaints  against 
their  fate  were  uttered  on  account  of  disap- 
pointments which  they  have  since  recollected 
with  gaiety  or  self-congratulation ;  what 
happiness  of  Elysium  they  expected  from 
sources  which  would  soon  have  i'ailed  to  im- 
part even  common  satisfaction ;  and  how 
certain  they  were  that  the  feelings  and 
opinions  then  predominant  would  continue 
through  life. 

If  a  reflective  aged  man  were  to  find  at 
the  bottom  of  an  old  chest — where  it  had 
lain  forgotten  fifty  years — a  record  which 
he  had  written  of  himself  when  he  was 
young,  simply  and  vividly  describing  his 
whole  heart  and  pursuits,  and  reciting 
verbatim  many  passages  of  the  language 
which  he  sincerely  uttered,  would  he  not 
read  it  with  more  wonder  than  almost  every 
other  writing  could  at  his  age  inspire?  He 
would  half  lose  the  assurance  of  his  identity, 
under  the  impression  of  this  immense  dis- 
similarity. It  would  seem  as  if  it  must  be 
the  tale  of  the  juvenile  days  of  some  an- 
cestor, with  whom  he  had  no  connexion  but 
that  of  name.  He  would  feel  the  young  man 
thus  introduced  to  him  separated  by  so  wide 
a  distance  of  character  as  to  render  all  con- 
genial sociality  impossible.  At  every  sen- 
tence he  would  be  tempted  to  repeat, — Fool- 
ish youth,  I  have  no  sympathy  with  your 
feelings,  I  can  hold  no  converse  with  your 
understanding.  Thus,  you  see  that  in  the 
course  of  a  long  life  a  man  may  be  several 
moral  persons,  so  various  from  one  another, 
that  if  you  could  find  a  real  individual  that 
should  nearly  exemplify  the  character  in  one 
of  these  singes,  and  another  that  should  ex- 
emplify it  in  the  next,  and  so  on  to  the  last, 
and  then  bring  these  several  persons  to- 
gether into  one  society,  which  would  thus  be 
a  representation  of  the  successive  states  of 
one  man,  they  would  feel  themselves  a  most 
heterogeneous  party,  would  oppose  and  prob- 
ably despise  one  another,  and  soon  sifter 
separate,  not  caring  if  they  were  never  to 
meet  again.  If  the  dissimilarity  in  mind 
were  as  great  as  in  person,  there  would  in 
both  respects  be  a  most  striking  contrast  be- 
tween the  extremes  at  least,  between  the 
youth  of  seventeen  and  the  sage  of  seventy. 
The  one  of  these  contrasts  an  old  man  might 
contemplate  if  he  had  a  true  portrait  for 
which  he  sat  in  the  bloom  of  his  life,  and 
should  hold  it  beside  a  mirror  in  which  he 


JOHN  FOSTER. 


297 


looks  at  his  present  countenance;  and  the 
other  would  be  powerfully  felt  if  he  had  such 
a  genuine  and  detailed  memoir  as  I  have 
supposed.  Might  it  not  be  worth  while  for 
a  self-observant  person  in  early  life  to  pre- 
serve for  the  inspection  of  the  old  man,  if 
he  should  live  so  long,  such  a  mental  like- 
ness of  the  young  one?  If  it  be  not  drawn 
near  the  time,  it  can  never  be  drawn  with 
sufficient  accuracy. 

DECISIOX  OP  CHARACTER. 

I  have  frequently  remarked  to  you  in  con- 
versation the  effect  of  what  has  been  called 
a  ruling  passion.  When  its  object  is  noble, 
and  an  enlightened  understanding  directs  its 
movements,  it  appears  to  me  a  great  felicity  : 
but  whether  its  object  be  noble  or  not,  it  in- 
fallibly creates,  where  it  exists  in  great  force, 
that  active,  ardent  constancy,  which  I  de- 
scribe as  a  capital  feature  of  the  decisive 
character.  The  subject  of  such  a  command- 
ing passion  wonders,  if  indeed  he  were  at 
leisure  to  wonder,  at  the  persons  who  pretend 
to  attach  importance  to  an  object  which  they 
make  none  but  the  most  languid  efforts  to 
secure.  The  utmost  powers  of  the  man  are 
constrained  into  the  service  of  the  favourite 
cause  of  this  passion,  which  sweeps  away, 
as  it  advances,  all  the  trivial  objections  and 
little  opposing  motives,  and  seems  almost  to 
open  its  way  through  impossibilities.  This 
spirit  comes  on  him  in  the  morning  as  soon 
as  lie  recovers  his  consciousness,  and  com- 
mands and  impels  him  through  the  day  with 
a  jiower  from  which  he  could  not  emancipate 
himself  if  he  would.  When  the  force  of 
habit  is  added  the  determination  becomes 
invincible,  and  seems  to  assume  rank  with 
the  great  laws  of  nature,  making  it  nearly 
as  certain  that  such  a  man  will  persist  in 
his  course  as  that  in  the  morning  the  sun 
will  rise. 

A  persisting,  untamable  efficacy  of  soul 
gives  a  seductive  and  pernicious  dignity 
even  to  a  character  and  a  course  which  every 
moral  principle  forbids  us  to  approve.  Often 
in  the  narrations  of  history  and  fiction,  an 
agent  of  the  most  dreadful  designs  compels 
a  sentiment  of  deep  respect  for  the  uncon- 
querable mind  displayed  in  their  execution. 
While  we  shudder  at  his  activity,  we  say 
with  regret,  mingled  with  an  admiration 
which  borders  on  partiality,  AVhat  a  noble 
being  this  would  have  been  if  goodness  had 
been  his  destiny  !  The  partiality  is  evinced 
in  the  very  selection  of  terms,  by  which  we 
fchow  that  we  are  tempted  to  refer  his  atrocity 
rather  to  his  destiny  than  to  his  choice.  I 
wonder  whether  an  emotion  like  this  has 
not  been  experienced  by  each  reader  of 
"Paradise  Lost,"  relative  to  the  leader  of 


the  infernal  spirits:  a  proof,  if  such  were 
the  fact,  that  a  very  serious  error  has  been 
committed  by  the  greatest  poet.  In  some 
of  the  high  examples  of  ambition  we  almost 
revere  the  force  of  mind  which  impelled 
them  forward  through  the  longest  series  of 
action,  superior  to  doubt  or  fluctuation,  and 
disdainful  of  ease,  of  pleasures,  of  opposi- 
tion, and  of  hazard.  We  bow  to  the  ambi- 
tious spirit  which  reached  the  true  sublime, 
in  the  reply  of  Pompey  to  his  friends,  who 
dissuaded  him  from  venturing  on  a  tempest- 
uous sea,  in  order  to  be  at  Home  on  an  im- 
portant occasion  :  "  It  is  necessary  for  me 
to  go,  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  Jive." 

llevenge  has  produced  wonderful  examples 
of  this  unremitting  constancy  to  a  purpose. 
Zanga  is  a  well-supported  illustration.  And 
you  may  have  read  a  real  instance  of  a 
Spaniard,  who,  being  injured  by  another  in- 
habitant of  the  same  town,  resolved  to  de- 
stroy him :  the  other  was  apprised  of  this, 
and  removed  with  the  utmost  secrecy,  as  he 
thought,  to  another  town  to  a  considerable 
distance,  where,  however,  he  had  not  been 
more  than  a  day  or  two,  before  he  found 
that  his  enemy  was  arrived  there.  He  re- 
moved in  the  same  manner  to  several  parts 
of  the  kingdom,  remote  from  each  other; 
but  in  every  place  quickly  perceived  thak  his 
deadly  pursuer  was  near  him.  At  last  he 
went  to  South  America,  where  he  had  en- 
joyed his  security  but  a  very  short  time 
before  his  unrelenting  enemy  came  up  with 
him  and  effected  his  purpose. 

You  may  recollect  the  mention,  in  one  of 
our  conversations,  of  a  young  man  who 
wasted  in  two  or  three  years  a  large  patri- 
mony in  profligate  revels  with  a  number  of 
worthless  associates  who  called  themselves 
his  friends,  and  who,  when  his  last  means 
were  exhausted,  treated  him,  of  course,  with 
neglect  or  contempt.  Reduced  to  absolute 
want,  he  one  day  went  out  of  the  house 
with  an  intention  to  put  an  end  to  his  life ; 
but  wandering  a  while  unconsciously,  he 
came  to  the  brow  of  an  eminence  which 
overlooked  what  were  lately  his  estates. 
Here  he  sat  down  and  remained  fixed  in 
thought  a  number  of  hours,  at  the  end  of 
which  he  sprang  from  the  ground  with  a 
vehement,  exulting  emotion.  He  had  formed 
his  resolution,  which  was,  that  all  these 
estates  should  be  his  again  :  he  had  formed 
his  plan,  too,  which  he  instantly  began  to 
execute.  He  walked  hastily  forward,  de- 
termined to  seize  the  very  first  opportu- 
nity, of  however  humble  a  kind,  to  gain  any 
money,  though  it  were  ever  so  despicable  a 
trifle,  and  resolved  absolutely  not  to  spend, 
if  he  could  help  it.  a  farthing  of  whatever 
he  might  obtain.  The  first  thing  that  drew 
his  attention  was  a  heap  of  coals  shot  out  of 


298 


JOHN  FOSTER. 


carts  on  the  pavement  before  a  house.  He 
offered  himself  to  shovel  or  wheel  them  into 
the  place  where  they  were  to  be  laid,  and 
was  employed.  He  received  a  few  pence  for 
the  labour;  and  then,  in  pursuance  of  the 
saving  part  of  his  plan,  requested  some  small 
gratuity  of  meat  and  drink,  which  was  given 
him.  He  then  looked  out  for  the  next  thing 
that  might  chance  to  offer,  and  went,  with 
indefatigable  industry,  through  a  succession 
of  servile  employments,  in  different  places, 
of  longer  and  shorter  duration,  still  scrupu- 
lously avoiding,  as  far  as  possible,  the  ex- 
pense of  a  penny.  He  promptly  seized 
every  opportunity  which  could  advance  his 
design,  without  regarding  the  meanness  of 
occupation  or  appearance.  By  this  method 
he  had  gained,  after  a  considerable  time, 
money  enough  to  purchase,  in  order  to  sell 
again,  a  few  cattle,  of  which  he  had  taken 
pains  to  understand  the  value.  He  speedily 
but  cautiously  turned  his  first  gains  into 
second  advantages  ;  retained  without  a  single 
deviation  his  extreme  parsimony ;  and  thus 
advanced  by  degrees  into  larger  transactions 
and  incipient  wealth.  I  did  not  hear,  or 
have  forgotten,  the  continued  course  of  his 
life  ;  but  the  final  result  was,  that  he  more 
than  recovered  his  lost  possessions,  and  died 
an  inveterate  miser,  worth  £60,000.  I  have 
always  recollected  this  as  a  signal  instance, 
though  in  an  unfortunate  and  ignoble  direc- 
tion, of  decisive  character,  and  of  the  ex- 
traordinary effect  which,  according  to  general 
laws,  belongs  to  the  strongest  form  of  such  a 
character. 

But  not  less  decision  has  been  displayed 
by  men  of  virtue.  In  this  distinction  no 
man  ever  exceeded,  for  instance,  or  ever  will 
exceed,  the  late  illustrious  Howard. 

The  energy  of  his  determination  was  so 
great,  that  if,  instead  of  being  habitual,  it 
had  been  shown  only  for  a  short  time,  on 
particular  occasions,  it  would  have  appeared 
a  vehement  impetuosity ;  but  by  being  un- 
intermitted  it  had  an  equability  of  manner 
which  scarcely  appeared  to  exceed  the  tone 
of  a  calm  constancy,  it  was  so  totally  the 
reverse  of  anything  like  turbulence  or  agita- 
tion. It  was  the  calmness  of  an  intensity 
kept  uniform  by  the  nature  of  the  human 
mind  forbidding  it  to  be  more,  and  by  the 
character  of  the  individual  forbidding  it  to 
be  less.  The  habitual  passion  of  his  mind 
was  a  measure  of  feeling  almost  equal  to 
the  temporary  extremes  and  paroxysms  of 
common  minds :  as  a  great  river,  in  its 
customary  state,  is  equal  to  a  small  or 
moderate  one  when  swollen  to  a  torrent. 

The  moment  of  finishing  his  plans  in  de- 
liberation, and  commencing  them  in  action, 
was  the  same.  I  wonder  what  must  have 
been  the  amount  of  that  bribe  in  emolument 


or  pleasure  that  would  have  detained  him  a 
week  inactive  after  their  final  adjustment! 
The  law  which  carries  water  down  a  declivity 
was  not  more  unconquerable  and  invariable 
than  the  determination  of  his  feelings  towards 
the  main  object.  The  importance  of  this  ob- 
ject held  his  faculties  in  a  state  of  excitement 
which  was  too  rigid  to  be  affected  by  lighter 
interests,  and  on  which  therefore  the  beauties 
of  nature  and  of  art  had  no  power.  lie  had 
no  leisure  feeling  which  he  could  spare  to  be 
diverted  among  the  innumerable  varieties  of 
the  extensive  scenes  which  he  traversed  :  all 
his  subordinate  feelings  lost  their  separate 
existence  and  operation  by  falling  into  the 
grand  one.  There  have  not  been  wanting 
trivial  minds  to  mark  this  as  a  fault  in  his 
character.  But  the  mere  men  of  taste  ought 
to  be  silent  respecting  such  a  man  as  How- 
ard:  he  is  above  their  sphere  of  judgment. 
The  invisible  spirits  who  fulfil  their  com- 
mission of  philanthropy  among  mortals  do 
not  care  about  pictures,  statues,  and  sump- 
tuous buildings;  and  no  more  did  he,  when 
the  time  in  which  he  must  have  inspected 
and  admired  them  would  have  been  taken 
from  the  work  to  which  he  had  consecrated 
his  life.  The  curiosity  which  he  might  feel 
was  reduced  to  wait  till  the  hour  should 
arrive  when  its  gratification  should  be  pre- 
sented by  conscience,  which  kept  a  scrupu- 
lous charge  of  all  his  time,  as  the  most 
sacred  duty  of  that  hour.  If  he  was  at 
every  hour,  when  it  came,  fated  to  feel  the 
attractions  of  the  fine  arts  but  the  second 
claim,  they  might  be  sure  of  their  revenge ; 
for  no  other  man  will  ever  visit  Rome  under 
such  a  despotic  consciousness  of  duty  as  to 
refuse  himself  time  for  surveying  the  mag- 
nificence of  its  ruins.  Such  a  sin  against 
taste  is  very  far  beyond  the  reach  of  com- 
mon saintship  to  commit.  It  implied  an 
inconceivable  severity  of  conviction  that  he 
had  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  he  who  would 
do  some  great  thing  in  this  short  life  must 
apply  himself  to  the  work  with  such  a  con- 
centration of  his  forces,  as  to  idle  spectators, 
who  live  only  to  amuse  themselves,  looks 
like  insanity. 

His  attention  was  so  strongly  and  tena- 
ciously fixed  on  his  object  that,  even  nt 
the  greatest  distance,  as  the  Egyptian  pyra- 
mids to  travellers,  it  appeared  to  him  with 
a  luminous  distinctness  as  if  it  had  been 
nigh,  and  beguiled  the  toilsome  length  of 
labour  and  enterprise  by  which  he  was  to 
reach  it.  It  was  so  conspicuous  before  him, 
that  not  a  step  deviated  from  the  direction, 
and  every  movement  nnd  every  day  was  an 
approximation.  As  his  method  referred 
everything  he  did  and  thought  to  the  end, 
and  as  his  exertion  did  not  relax  for  a  mo- 
ment, he  made  the  trial,  so  seldom  made, 


SYDNEY  SMITH. 


299 


•what  is  the  utmost  effect  which  may  be 
granted  to  the  last  possible  efforts  of  a 
human  agent:  and  therefore  what  he  did 
not  accomplish,  he  might  conclude  to  be 
placed  beyond  the  sphere  of  mortal  activity, 
and  calmly  leave  to  the  immediate  disposal 
of  Omnipotence. 

Unless  the  eternal  happiness  of  mankind 
be  an  insignificant  concern,  and  the  passion 
to  promote  it  an  inglorious  distinction,  I 
may  cite  George  Whitefield  us  a  noble  in- 
stance of  this  attribute  of  tlie  decisive  char- 
acter, this  intense  necessity  of  action.  The 
great  cause  which  was  so  languid  a  thing 
in  the  hands  of  many  of  its  advocates,  as- 
sumed in  his  administrations  an  unmitigable 
urgency. 

Many  of  the  Christian  missionaries  among 
the  heathens,  such  as  Brainerd,  Elliot,  and 
Schwartz,  have  displayed  memorable  ex- 
amples of  this  dedication  of  their  whole 
being  to  their  office,  this  external  abjuration 
of  all  the  quiescent  feelings. 

This  would  be  the  proper  place  for  intro- 
ducing (if  I  did  not  hesitate  to  introduce 
in  any  connexion  with  merely  human  in- 
stances) the  example  of  Him  who  said,  "  1 
must  be  about  my  Father's  business."  "  My 
meat  and  drink  is  to  do  the  will  of  Him  that 
sent  me,  and  to  finish  His  work."  "  I  have 
a  baptism  to  be  baptized  with,  and  how  am 
I  straitened  till  it  be  accomplished." 


SYDNEY  SMITH, 

born  at  Woodford,  Essex,  1771,  Fellow  of 
New  College,  Oxford,  1790,  one  of  the 
founders  of  The  Edinburgh  Review,  1802, 
Hector  of  Foston-le-Clay,  Yorkshire,  1806. 
Prebendary  of  Bristol,  1828  ;  Rector  of 
Cornbe-Florey,  Somersetshire,  1829,  Canon 
Residentiary  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  1831, 
died  in  London,  1845. 

He  published  a  number  of  sermons,  po- 
litical pamphlets,  articles  in  The  Edinburgh 
Review,  and  Letters  on  the  Subject  of  the 
Catholics  to  my  Brother  Abraham,  who 
Lives  in  the  Country,  by  Peter  Plymley, 
1807,  et  seq.,  21st  edit.,  Lond..  1838,  p.  8vo, 
and  a  collective  edition  of  his  Works,  Lond., 
1839-40,  4  vols.  8vo:  reprinted  as  The  Li- 
brary Edition,  The  Traveller's  Edition.  The 
People's  Edition.  After  his  death  appeared  : 
Fragments  on  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
Lond.,  1845,  8vo  ;  Sermons  Preached  at  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral,  etc.,  Lond.,  1846,  8vo; 
Elementary  Sketches  of  Moral  Philosophy, 
etc.,  Edited  by  Lord  Jeffrey,  1849,  8vo;  pri- 
vately printed,  100 copies:  published.  Lond., 
1850,  fp.  8vo.  See  also  Wit  and  Wisdom 
of  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith,  etc..  with  a  Bio- 


graphical Memoir  and  Notes  by  Evert  A. 
Duyckinck,  New  York,  1856,  12mo;  new 
edit,  1865,  small  p.  8vo,  and  50  copies  large 
paper ;  also  A  Memoir  of  the  Rev.  Sydney 
Smith,  by  his  Daughter,  Lady  Holland,  etc., 
Edited  by  Mrs.  Austin,  Lond.,  1856,  2  vols. 
8vo. 

"  He  is  universally  admitted  to  have  been  a 
great  reasoner,  and  the  greatest  master  of  ridicule 
that  has  appeared  among  us  since  Swift." — LORD 
MACAULAY,  1847  :  Letter  to  Mrs.  Sydney  Smith,  in. 
Memoir  <if  Itev.  S.  Smith. 

"  Sydney  Smith  is,  in  his  way,  inimitable,  and 
as  a  conversational  wit  beats  all  the  men  I  have 
ever  met." — T.  MOORE  :  Memoirs,  etc.,  of  T.  Moora, 
vi.  315.  See,  also,  Index. 

Too  MUCH  LATIN  AND  GREEK. 

That  vast  advantages,  then,  may  be  de- 
rived from  classical  learning,  there  can  be 
no  doubt.  The  advantages  which  are  de- 
rived from  classical  learning  by  the  English 
manner  of  teaching  involve  another  and  a 
very  different  question  ;  and  we  will  ven- 
ture to  say,  that  there  never  was  a  more 
complete  instance  in  any  country  of  such 
extravagant  and  overacted  attachment  to 
any  branch  of  knowledge  as  that  which  ob- 
tains in  this  country  with  regard  to  classical 
knowledge.  A  young  gentleman  goes  to 
school  at  six  or  seven  years  old  ;  and  he  re- 
mains in  a  course  of  education  till  twenty- 
three  or  twenty-four  years  of  age.  In  all 
that  time  his  sole  and  exclusive  occupation 
is  learning  Latin  and  Greek  (unless  he  goes 
to  the  University  of  Cambridge ;  and  then 
classics  occupy  him  entirely  for  about  ten 
years :  and  divide  him  with  mathematics 
for  four  or  five  more :  foot-note) :  he  has 
scarcely  a  notion  that  there  is  any  other 
kind  of  excellence :  and  the  great  system 
of  facts  with  which  he  is  the  most  intimately 
acquainted  are  the  intrigues  of  the  heathen 
gods  :  with  whom  Pan  slept? — with  whom 
Jupiter? — whom  Apollo  ravished?  These 
facts  the  English  youth  get  by  heart  the 
moment  they  quit  the  nursery ;  and  are 
most  sedulously  and  industriously  instructed 
in  them  till  the  best  and  most  active  part 
of  life  is  passed  away.  Now,  this  long 
career  of  classical  learning,  we  may,  if  we 
please,  denominate  a  foundation  :  but  it  is 
a  foundation  so  far  above  ground,  that  there 
is  absolutely  no  room  to  put  anything  upon 
it.  If  you  occupy  a  man  with  one  thing 
till  he  is  twenty-four  years  of  age,  you  have 
exhausted  all  his  leisure  time:  he  is  called 
into  the  world  and  compelled  to  act;  or  is 
surrounded  with  pleasures  and  thinks  and 
reads  no  more.  If  you  have  neglected  to 
put  other  things  in  him,  they  will  never  get 
in  afterwards  ; — if  you  have  fed  him  only 


300 


SYDNEY  SMITH 


with  words,  he  will  remain  a  narrow  and 
limited  being  to  the  end  of  his  existence. 

The  bias  given  to  men's  minds  is  so  strong 
that  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  meet  with 
Englishmen  whom,  but  for  their  gray  hairs 
and  wrinkles,  we  might  easily  mistake  for 
school-boys.  Their  talk  is  of  Latin  verses  ; 
and  it  is  quite  clear,  if  men's  ages  are  to  be 
dated  from  the  state  of  their  mental  prog- 
ress, that  such  men  are  eighteen  years  of 
age,  and  not  a  day  older.  Their  minds 
have  been  so  completely  possessed  by  exag- 
gerated notions  of  classical  learning,  that 
they  have  not  been  able,  in  the  great  school 
of  the  world,  to  form  any  other  notion  of 
real  greatness.  Attend,  too,  to  the  public 
feelings, — look  to  all  the  terms  of  applause. 
A  learned  man  ! — a  scholar  ! — a  man  of 
erudition !  Upon  whom  are  these  epithets 
of  approbation  bestowed  ?  Are  they  given 
to  men  acquainted  with  the  science  of  gov- 
ernment? thoroughly  masters  of  the  geo- 
graphical and  commercial  relations  of  Eu- 
rope ?  to  men  who  know  the  properties  of 
bodies,  and  their  action  upon  each  other  ? 
No:  this  is  not  learning;  it  is  chemistry  or 
political  economy, — not  learning.  The  dis- 
tinguishing abstract  term,  the  epithet  of 
Scholar,  is  reserved  for  him  who  writes  on 
the^Eolic  reduplication,  and  is  familiar  with 
the  Sylburgian  method  of  arranging  defec- 
tives in  u  and  fit.  The  picture  which  a 
young  Englishman,  addicted  to  the  pursuit 
of  knowledge,  draws, — his  beau  ideal  of 
human  nature — his  top  and  consummation 
of  man's  powers,  is  a  knowledge  of  the 
Greek  language.  His  object  is  not  to 
reason,  to  imagine,  or  to  invent;  but  to 
conjugate,  decline,  and  derive.  The  situa- 
tions of  imaginary  glory  which  he  draws 
for  himself  are  the  detection  of  an  anapaest 
in  the  wrong  place,  or  the  restoration  of  a 
dative  case  which  Cranzius  had  passed  over, 
and  the  never-dying  Ernesti  failed  to  ob- 
serve. If  a  young  classic  of  this  kind  were 
to  meet  the  greatest  chemist,  or  the  greatest 
mechanician,  or  the  most  profound  political 
economist,  of  his  time,  in  company  with 
the  greatest  Greek  scholar,  would  the  slight- 
est comparison  between  them  ever  coine 
across  his  mindf — would  he  ever  dream 
that  such  men  as  Adam  Smith,  and  Lavoi- 
sier were  equal  in  dignity  of  understanding 
to,  or  of  the  same  utility  as,  Bontley  and 
Heyne  ?  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the 
feeling  excited  would  be  a  good  deal  like 
that  which  was  expressed  by  Dr.  George 
about  the  praises  of  the  great  King  of 
Prussia,  who  entertained  considerable  doubts 
whether  the  King,  with  all  his  victories, 
knew  how  to  conjugate  a  Greek  verb.in  fu. 

Edinburgh  Iteview,  Oct.  1809,  and  in  his 
Works. 


•FEMALE  EDUCATION. 

A  great  deal  has  been  said  of  the  origi- 
nal difference  of  capacity  between  men  and 
women  ;  as  if  women  were  more  quick, 
and  men  more  judicious. — as  if  women  were 
more  remarkable  for  delicacy  of  association, 
and  men  for  stronger  powers  of  attention. 
All  this,  we  confess,  appears  to  us  very 
fanciful.  That  there  is  a  difference  in  the 
understandings  of  the  men  and  the  women 
we  every  day  meet  with,  every  body,  we 
suppose,  must  perceive;  but  there  is  none 
surely  which  may  not  be  accounted  for  by 
the  difference  of  circumstances  in  which 
they  have  been  placed,  without  referring  to 
any  conjectural  difference  of  original  con- 
formation of  mind.  As  long  as  boys  and 
girls  run  about  in  the  dirt,  and  trundle 
hoops  together,  they  are  both  precisely  alike. 
If  you  catch  up  one-half  of  these  creatures, 
and  train  them  to  a  particular  set  of  actions 
and  opinions,  and  the  other  half  to  a  per- 
fectly opposite  set,  of  course  their  under- 
standings will  differ,  as  one  or  the  other  sort 
of  occupations  has  called  this  or  that  talent 
into  action.  There  is  surely  no  occasion  to 
go  into  any  deeper  or  more  abstruse  reason- 
ing in  order  to  explain  so  very  simple  a 
phenomenon.  Taking  it,  then,  for  granted 
that  nature  has  been  as  bountiful  of  under- 
standing to  one  PCX  as  the  other,  it  is  in- 
cumbent on  us  to  consider  what  are  the 
principal  objections  commonly  made  against 
the  communication  of  a  greater  share  of 
knoAvleclge  to  women  than  commonly  falls 
to  their  lot  at  present:  for  though  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  women  should  learn 
all  that  men  learn,  the  immense  disparity 
which  now  exists  between  their  knowledge 
we  should  hardly  think  could  admit  of  any 
rational  defence.  It  is  not  easy  to  imagine 
that  there  can  be  any  just  cause  why  a  woman 
of  forty  should  be  more  ignorant  than  a  boy 
of  twelve  years  of  age.  If  there  be  any 
good  at  all  in  female  ignorance,  this  (to  use 
a  very  colloquial  phrase)  is  surely  too  much 
of  a  good  thing. 

Something  in  this  question  must  depend, 
no  doubt,  upon  the  leisure  which  either  sex 
enjoys  for  the  cultivation  of  their  under- 
standings:— and  we  cannot  help  thinking 
that  women  have  fully  as  much,  if  not 
more,  idle  time  upon  their  hands  than  men. 
Women  are  excluded  from  all  the  serious 
business  of  the  world  ;  men  are  lawyers, 
physicians,  clergymen,  apothecaries,  and  jus- 
tices of  the  peace, — sources  of  exertion  which 
consume  a  great  deal  more  time  than  pro- 
ducing and  suckling  children  :  so  that  if 
the  thing  is  a  thing  that  ought  to  be  done, — 
if  the  attainments  of  literature  are  objects 
really  worthy  the  attention  of  females,  they 


SYDNEY  SMITH. 


301 


cannot  plead  the  want  of  leisure  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  indolence  and  neglect.  The  lawyer 
who  passes  his  clay  in  exasperating  the  bick- 
erings of  lloe  and  Doe  is  certainly  as  much 
engaged  as  his  lady,  who  has  the  whole  of 
the  morning  before  her  to  correct  the  chil- 
dren and  pay  the  bills.  The  apothecary, 
who  rushes  froin  an  act  of  phlebotomy  in 
the  western  parts  of  the  town  to  insinuate 
a  bolus  in  the  east,  is  surely  as  completely 
absorbed  as  that  fortunate  female  who  is 
darning  the  garment  or  preparing  the  repast 
of  her  /Esculapius  at  home  ;  and  in  every 
degree  and  situation  of  life,  it  seems  that 
men  must  necessarily  be  exposed  to  more 
serious  demands  upon  their  time  and  atten- 
tion than  can  possibly  be  the  case  with  re- 
spect to  the  other  sex.  We  are  speaking 
always  of  the  fair  demands  which  ought  to 
be  made  upon  the  time  and  attention  of 
women  ;  for,  as  the  matter  now  stands,  the 
time  of  women  is  considered  as  worth  no- 
thing at  all.  Daughters  are  kept  to  occupa- 
tions in  sewing,  patching,  mantua-making, 
and  mending,  by  which  it  is  impossible  they 
can  earn  ten  pence  a  day.  The  intellectual 
improvement  of  women  is  considered  to  be 
of  such  subordinate  importance  that  twenty 
pounds  paid  for  needle-work  would  give  to  a 
whole  family  leisure  to  acquire  a  fund  of 
real  knowledge.  They  are  kept  with  nimble 
fingers  and  vacant  understandings  till  the 
season  for  improvement  is  utterly  past  away, 
and  all  chance  of  forming  more  important 
habits  completely  lost.  We  do  not  therefore 
say  that  women  have  more  leisure  than 
men,  if  it  be  necessary  they  should  lead  the 
lives  of  artisans;  but  we  make  this  asser- 
tion only  upon  the  supposition  that  it  is 
of  some  importance  women  should  be  in- 
structed ;  and  that  many  ordinary  occupa- 
tions, for  which  a  little  money  will  find  a 
better  substitute,  should  be  sacrificed  to  this 
consideration.  .  .  . 

In  short,  and  to  recapitulate  the  main 
points  upon  which  we  have  insisted, — Why 
the  disproportion  in  knowledge  between  the 
two  sexes  should  be  so  great,  when  the  in- 
equality in  natural  talents  is  so  small ;  or 
why  the  understanding  of  women  should  be 
lavished  upon  trifle*,  when  nature  has  made 
it  capable  of  better  and  higher  things,  we  pro- 
fess ourselves  not  able  to  understand.  The 
affectation  charged  upon  female  knowledge 
is  best  cured  by  making  that  knowledge 
more  general :  and  the  economy  devolved 
upon  women  is  best  secured  by  the  ruin, 
disgrace,  and  inconvenience  which  proceeds 
from  neglecting  it.  For  the  care  of  children 
nature  has  made  a  direct  and  powerful  pro- 
vision ;  and  the  gentleness  and  elegance  of 
women  is  the  natural  consequence  of  that 
desire  to  please  which  is  productive  of  the 


greatest  part  of  civilization  and  refinement, 
and  which  rests  upon  a  foundation  too  deep 
to  be  shaken  by  any  such  modifications  in 
education  as  we  have  proposed.  If  you 
educate  women  to  attend  to  dignified  and 
important  subjects,  you  are  multiplying, 
beyond  measure,  the  chances  of  human  im- 
provement, by  preparing  and  medicating 
those  early  impressions  which  always  come 
from  the  mother;  and  which,  in  a  great  ma- 
jority of  instances,  are  quite  decisive  of 
character  and  genius.  Nor  is  it  only  in  the 
business  of  education  that  women  would  in- 
fluence the  destiny  of  men.  If  women  knew 
more,  men  must  learn  more, — for  ignorance 
would  then  be  shameful, — and  it  would  be- 
come the  fashion  to  be  instructed.  The  in- 
struction of  women  improves  the  stock  of 
national  talents,  and  employs  more  minds 
for  the  instruction  and  amusement  of  the 
world  ;  it  increases  the  pleasures  of  society, 
by  multiplying  the  topics  upon  which  the 
two  sexes  take  a  common  interest  ;  and 
makes  marriage  an  intercourse  of  under- 
standing as  well  as  of  affection,  by  giving 
dignity  and  importance  to  the  female  char- 
acter. The  education  of  women  favours 
public  morals;  it  provides  for  every  season 
of  life,  as  well  as  for  the  brightest  and  the 
best  ;  and  leaves  a  woman  when  she  is 
stricken  by  the  hand  of  time,  not  as  she  now 
is,  destitute  of  every  thing,  and  neglected  by 
all ;  but  with  the  full  power  and  the  splen- 
did attractions  of  knowledge, — diffusing  the 
elegant  pleasures  of  polite  literature,  and 
receiving  the  just  homage  of  learned  and 
accomplished  men. 

Edin.  Review,  1810,  and  in  his  Works. 

NOODLE'S  ORATION. 

What  would  our  ancestors  say  to  this, 
Sir?  How  does  this  measure  tally  with 
their  institutions?  How  does  it  agree  with 
their  experience?  Are  we  to  put  the  wis- 
dom of  yesterday  in  competition  with  the 
wisdom  of  centuries?  (Hear!  Hear!)  Is 
beardless  youth  to  show  no  respect  for  the 
docisions  of  mature  age?  (Loud  cries  of 
Hear!  Hear!)  If  this  measure  be  right, 
would  it  have  escaped  thfi  wisdom  of  those 
Saxon  progenitors  to  whom  we  are  indebted 
for  so  many  of  our  best  political  institutions? 
Would  the  Dane  have  passed  it  over?  Would 
the  Norman  have  rejected  it?  Would  such 
a  notable  discovery  have  been  reserved  for 
these  modern  and  degenerate  times  ?  Besides, 
Sir.  if  the  measure  itself  is  good,  I  ask  the 
honourable  gentleman  if  this  is  the  time  for 
carrying  it  into  execution, — whether,  in  fact, 
a  more  unfortunate  period  could  have  been 
selected  than  that  which  he  has  chosen? 
If  t'.iis  were  an  ordinary  measure,  I  should 


302 


REV.  THOMAS  DICK. 


not  oppose  it  with  so  much  vehemence ;  but, 
Sir,  it  calls  in  question  the  wisdom  of  an 
irrevocable  law, — of  a  law  passed  at  the  mem- 
orable period  of  the  Revolution.  What  right 
have  we,  Sir,  to  break  down  this  firm  column 
on  which  the  great  man  of  that  age  stamped 
a  character  of  eternity  ?  Are  not  all  author- 
ities against  this  measure, — Pitt,  Fox,  Cicero, 
and  the  A  ttorney  and  Solicitor-General  ?  The 
proposition  is  new,  Sir;  it  is  the  first  time  it 
was  ever  heard  in  this  House.  I  am  not  pre- 
pared, Sir, — this  House  is  not  prepared, — to 
receive  it.  The  measure  implies  a  distrust 
of  his  Majesty's  Government;  their  disap- 
proval is  sufficient  to  warrant  opposition. 
Precaution  only  is  requisite  where  danger 
is  apprehended.  Here  the  high  character 
of  the  individuals  in  question  is  a  sufficient 
guarantee  against  any  ground  of  alarm. 
Give  not,  then,  your  sanction  to  this  meas- 
ure ;  for,  whatever  be  its  character,  if  you 
do  give  your  sanction  to  it,  the  same  man 
by  whom  this  is  proposed,  will  propose  to 
you  others  to  which  it  will  be  impossible  to 
give  your  consent.  I  care  very  little,  Sir, 
for  the  ostensible  measure ;  but  what  is 
there  behind?  What  are  the  honourable 
gentleman's  future  schemes?  If  we  pass 
this  bill,  what  fresh  concessions  may  he  not 
require  ?  What  further  degradation  is  he 
planning  for  his  country?  Talk  of  evil 
and  inconvenience,  Sir !  look  to  other  coun- 
tries,— study  other  aggregations  and  socie- 
ties of  men,  and  then  see  whether  the  laws 
of  this  country  demand  a  remedy  or  deserve 
a  panegyric.  Was  the  honourable  gentle- 
man (let  me  ask  him)  always  of  this  way 
of  thinking?  Do  I  not  remember  when  he 
was  the  advocate  in  this  House  of  very  oppo- 
site opinions?  I  not  only  quarrel  with  his 
present  sentiments,  Sir,  but  I  declare  very 
frankly  I  do  not  like  the  party  with  which 
he  acts.  If  his  own  motives  were  as  pure 
as  possible,  they  cannot  but  suffer  contami- 
nation from  those  with  whom  he  is  politi- 
cally associated.  This  measure  may  be  a 
boon  to  the  Constitution,  but  I  will  accept 
no  favour  to  the  Constitution  from  such 
hands.  (Loud  cries  of  Hear!  Hear!)  I 
profess  myself,  Sir,  an  honest  and  upright 
member  of  the  British  Parliament,  and  I 
am  not  afraid  to  profess  myself  an  enemy 
to  all  change,  and  all  innovation.  I  am 
satisfied  writh  things  as  they  are :  and  it 
will  be  my  pride  and  pleasure  to  hand  down 
this  country  to  my  children  as  I  received  it 
from  those  who  preceded  me.  The  honour- 
able gentleman  pretends  to  justify  the  se- 
verity with  which  he  has  attacked  the  Noble 
Lord  who  presides  in  the  Court  of  Chancery. 
But  I  say  such  attacks  are  pregnant  with 
mischief  to  Government  itself.  Oppose 
Ministers,  you  oppose  Government;  dis- 


grace Ministers,  you  disgrace  Government; 
bring  Ministers  into  contempt,  you  bring 
Government  into  contempt ;  and  anarchy 
and  civil  war  are  the  consequences.  Be- 
sides, Sir,  the  measure  is  unnecessary.  No- 
body complains  of  disorder  in  that  shape  in 
which  it  is  the  aim  of  your  measure  to  pro- 
pose a  remedy  to  it.  The  business  is  one 
of  the  greatest  importance  ;  there  is  need 
of  the  greatest  caution  and  circumspection. 
Do  not  let  us  be  precipitate,  Sir  ;  it  is  im- 
possible to  foresee  all  consequences.  Every- 
thing should  be  gradual :  the  example  of  a 
neighbouring  nation  should  fill  us  with 
alarm !  The  honourable  gentleman  has 
taxed  me  with  illiberality,  Sir.  I  deny  the 
charge.  I  hate  innovation,  but  I  love  im- 
provement. I  am  an  enemy  to  the  corrup- 
tion of  Government,  but  I  defend  its  influ- 
ence. I  dread  reform,  but  I  dread  it  only 
when  it  is  intemperate.  I  consider  the  lib- 
erty of  the  press  as  the  great  Palladium  of 
the  Constitution ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  I 
hold  the  licentiousness  of  the  press  in  the 
greatest  abhorrence.  Nobody  is  more  con- 
scious than  I  am  of  the  splendid  abilities  of 
the  honourable  mover,  but  I  tell  him  at  once 
his  scheme  is  too  good  to  be  practicable.  It 
savours  of  Utopia.  It  looks  well  in  theory, 
but  it  won't  do  in  practice.  It  will  not  do, 
I  repeat,  Sir,  in  practice ;  and  so  the  advo- 
cates of  the  measure  will  find,  if,  unfor- 
tunately, it  should  find  its  way  through 
Parliament.  (Cheers.)  The  source  of  that 
corruption  to  which  the  honourable  member 
alludes  is  in  the  minds  of  the  people;  so 
rank  and  extensive  is  that  corruption,  that 
no  political  reform  can  have  any  effect  in 
removing  it.  Instead  of  reforming  others, — 
instead  of  reforming  the  State,  the  Consti- 
tution, and  every  thing  that  is  most  excel- 
lent, let  each  man  reform  himself!  let  him 
look  at  home  :  he  will  find  there  enough  to 
do,  without  looking  abroad,  and  aiming  at 
what  is  out  of  his  power.  (Loud  cheers.) 
And  now,  Sir,  as  it  is  frequently  the  custom 
in  this  House  to  end  with  a  quotation,  and 
as  the  gentleman  who  preceded  me  in  the 
debate  has  anticipated  me  in  my  favourite 
quotation  of  the  "  Strong  pull  and  the  long 
pull,"  I  shall  end  with  the  memorable  words 
of  the  assembled  barons, — Nolumus  leges 
Anglice  mutari." 

Bentham  on  Fallacies :  Edin.  Review,  vol. 
xlii.,  1825,  in  Smith's  Works. 


REV.  THOMAS   DICK,   LL.D., 

known  as  "  The  Christian  Philosopher," 
born  near  Dundee,  Scotland,  1774,  was  edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 


REV.   THOMAS  DICK. 


303 


subsequently  entered  the  ministry  of  the 
Secession  Church ;  died  1857.  Collective 
edition  of  his  Works,  Phila.,  1850,  10  vols. 
12mo  :  I.  Philosophy  of  a  Future  State  ; 
II.  Christian  Philosopher;  III.  Philosophy 
of  Religion  ;  IV.  Improvement  of  Society  ; 
V.  Moral  Improvement;  VI.  Essay  on  Cov- 
etousness ;  VII.  Celestial  Scenery  ;  VIII. 
Sidereal  Heavens ;  IX.  Practical  Astron- 
omer; X.  Solar  System.  Other  editions. 

Of  the  Philosophy  of  Religion  it  was  re- 
marked : 

"The  design  of  such  a  work  is  lofty  and  benig- 
nant, and  Dr.  Dick  has  brought  to  his  great  ar- 
gument a  vast  amount  of  illustration  and  proof, 
presented  in  a  style  condensed  and  perspicuous, 
and  imbued  with  the  feeling  appropriate  to  such  a 
theme.  We  commend  it  earnestly  to  the  general 
reader,  and  not  less  so  to  the  Christian  preacher. 
Such  modes  of  dealing  with  the  foundation  of 
tilings  need  to  be  more  common  in  our  pulpits." — 
lii-itiah  Quar,  Review. 

ON  THE  UNIVERSAL  BELIEF  WHICH  THE  DOC- 
TRINE OF  IMMORTALITV  HAS  OBTAINED  IN 
ALL  AGES. 

It  forms  a  presumptive  proof  of  the  im- 
mortality of  man,  that  this  doctrine  has  ob- 
tained universal  belief  among  all  nations, 
and  in  every  period  of  time. 

That  the  thinking  principle  in  man  is  of 
an  immortal  nature  was  believed  by  the  an- 
cient Egyptians,  the  Persians,  the  Phoeni- 
cians, the  Scythians,  the  Celts,  the  Druids, 
the  Assyrians, — by  the  wisest  and  most  cel- 
ebrated characters  among  the  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  by  almost  every  other  ancient 
nation  and  tribe  whose  records  have  reached 
our  times.  The  notions,  indeed,  which  many 
of  them  entertained  of  the  scenes  of  futurity 
were  very  obscure  arid  imperfect,  but  they 
all  embraced  the  idea  that  death  is  not  the 
destruction  of  the  rational  soul,  but  only  its 
introduction  to  a  new  and  unknown  state  of 
existence. 

The  ancient  Scythians  believed  that  death 
was  only  a  change  of  habitation;  and  the 
Magian  sect,  which  prevailed  in  Babylonia, 
Media.  Assyria,  and  Persia,  admitted  the  doc- 
trine of  eternal  rewards  and  punishments. 
The  doctrines  taught  by  the  second  Zo- 
roaster, who  lived  in  the  time  of  Darius, 
were,  ''  that  there  is  one  Supreme  Being, 
independent  and  self-existent  from  all  eter- 
nity :  that  under  him  there  are  two  angels, 
one  the  angel  of  light,  who  is  the  author  of 
all  good  :  and  the  other  the  angel  of  darkness, 
who  is  the  author  of  all  evil ;  that  they  are  in 
a  perpetual  struggle  with  each  other;  that 
where  the  angel  of  light  prevails,  there  good 
reigns  ;  and  that  where  the  angel  of  darkness 
prevails,  there  evil  takes  place;  that  this  strug- 
gle shall  continue  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  that 


then  there  shall  be  a  general  resurrection  and 
a  day  of  judgment,  wherein  all  shall  receive 
a  just  retribution  according  to  their  works. 
After  which  the  angel  of  darkness  and  his 
disciples  shall  go  into  a  world  of  their  own, 
where  they  shall  suffer  in  everlasting  dark- 
ness the  punishment  of  their  evil  deeds; 
and  the  angel  of  light  and  his  disciples  shall 
also  go  into  a  world  of  their  own,  where 
they  shall  receive,  in  everlasting  light,  the 
reward  due  to  their  good  deeds ;  that  after 
this  they  shall  remain  separate  for  ever,  and 
light  and  darkness  be  no  more  mixed  to 
all  eternity  (Rollin's  Ancient  History,  vol. 
2).:)  The  remains  of  this  sect,  which  are 
scattered  over  Persia  and  India,  still  hold 
the  same  doctrines,  without  any  variation, 
even  to  this  day. 

It  is  well  known  that  Plato,  Socrates,  and 
other  Greek  philosophers,  held  the  doctrine 
of  the  soul's  immortality.  In  his  admirable 
dialogue  entitled  "  The  Phaedon,"  Plato  rep- 
resents Socrates,  a  little  before  his  death,  en- 
compassed with  a  circle  of  philosophers,  and 
discoursing  with  them  on  the  arguments 
which  prove  the  eternal  destiny  of  man. 

"  When  the  dead,"  says  he,  "  are  arrived 
at  the  rendezvous  of  departed  souls,  whither 
their  angel  conducts  them,  they  are  all 
judged.  Those  who  have  passed  their  lives 
in  a  manner  neither  entirely  criminal,  nor 
absolutely  innocent,  are  sent  into  a  place 
where  they  suffer  pains  proportioned  to  their 
faults,  till,  being  purged  and  cleansed  of  their 
guilt,  .and  afterwards  restored  to  liberty,  they 
receive  the  reward  of  the  good  actions  they 
have  done  in  the  body.  Those  who  are 
judged  to  be  incurable,  on  account  of  the 
greatness  of  their  crimes,  the  fatal  Destiny 
that  passes  judgment  upon  them  hurls  them 
into  Tartarus,  from  which  they  never  depart. 
Those  who  are  found  guilty  of  crimes,  great 
indeed,  but  worthy  of  pardon,  who  have 
committed  violences,  in  the  transports  of 
rage,  against  their  father  or  mother,  or  have 
killed  some  one  in  a  like  emotion,  and  after- 
wards repented, — suffer  the  same  punish- 
ment with  the  last,  but  for  a  time  only,  till, 
by  prayers  and  supplications,  they  have  ob- 
tained pardon  from  those  they  have  injured. 
But  those  who  have  passed  through  life  with 
peculiar  sanctity  of  manners,  are  received 
on  high  into  a  pure  region,  where  they  live 
without  their  bodies  to  all  eternity,  in  a 
series  of  joys  and  delights  which  cannot  be 
described."  From  such  considerations  Soc- 
rates concludes,  "  If  the  soul  be  immortal, 
it  requires  to  be  cultivated  with  attention, 
not  only  for  what  we  call  the  time  of  life, 
but  for  that  which  is  to  follow:  I  mean 
eternity;  and  the  least  neglect  in  this  point 
may  be  attended  with  endless  consequences. 
If  death  were  the  final  dissolution  of  be- 


304 


REV.  THOMAS  DICK. 


ing,  the  wicked  would  be  great  gainers  by 
it,  by  being  delivered  at  once  from  their 
bodies,  their  souls,  and  their  vices :  but  as 
the  soul  is  immortal,  it  has  no  other  means 
of  being  freed  from  its  evils,  nor  any  safety 
for  it,  but  in  becoming  very  good  and  very 
wise:  for  it  carries  nothing  with  it  but  its 
good  or  bad  deeds,  its  virtues  and  vices, 
which  are  commonly  the  consequences  of 
the  education  it  has  received,  and  the  causes 
of  eternal  happiness  or  misery."  Having 
held  such  discourses  with  his  friends,  he 
kept  silent  for  some  time,  and  then  drank 
oft'  the  whole  of  the  poisonous  draught 
which  had  been  put  into  his  hand,  with 
amazing  tranquillity,  and  an  inexpressible 
serenity  of  aspect,  as  one  who  was  about  to 
exchange  a  short  and  wretched  life  for  a 
blessed  and  eternal  existence. 

The  descriptions  and  allusions  contained 
in  the  writings  of  the  ancient  poets  are  a 
convincing  proof  that  the  notion  of  the 
soul's  immortality  was  a  universal  opinion 
in  the  times  in  which  they  wrote,  and  among 
the  nations  to  whom  their  writings  were  ad- 
dressed. Homer's  account  of  the  descent 
of  Ulysses  into  hell,  and  his  description  of 
Minos  in  the  shades  below  distributing  jus- 
tice to  the  dead  assembled  in  troops  around 
his  tribunal,  and  pronouncing  irrevocable 
judgments,  which  decide  their  everlasting 
fate,  demonstrate  that  they  entertained  the 
belief  that  virtues  are  rewarded,  and  that 
crimes  are  punished,  in  another  state  of 
existence.  The  poems  of  Ovid  and  Virgil 
contain  a  variety  of  descriptions  in  which 
the  same  opinions  are  involved.  Their  no- 
tions of  future  punishment  are  set  forth  in 
the  descriptions  they  give  of  Ixion,  who  was 
fastened  to  a  wheel,  and  whirled  about  con- 
tinually with  a  swift  and  rapid  motion, — of 
Tantalus,  who,  for  the  loathsome  banquet 
he  made  for  the  gods,  was  set  in  water  up 
to  the  chin,  with  apples  hanging  to  his  very 
lips,  yet  had  no  power  either  to  stoop  to  the 
one  to  quench  his  raging  thirst,  or  to  reach 
to  the  other  to  satisfy  his  craving  appetite, — 
of  the  Fifty  Daughters  of  Danaits,  who,  for 
the  barbarous  massacre  of  their  husbands 
in  one  night,  were  condemned  in  hell  to  fill 
a  barrel  full  of  water,  which  ran  out  again  as 
fast  as  it  was  tilled, — of  Sisyphus,  Avho,  for 
his  robberies,  was  set  to  roll  a  great  stone 
up  a  steep  hill,  which,  when  it  was  just 
at  the  top,  suddenly  fell  down  again,  and 
so  renewed  his  labour, — and  of  Tityus,  who 
was  adjudged  to  have  a  vulture  to  feed  upon 
his  liver  and  entrails,  which  still  grew  and 
increased  as  they  were  devoured.  Their 
notions  of  future  happiness  are  embodied 
in  the  descriptions  they  have  given  of  the 
Hesperian  gardens,  and  the  Elysian  fields, 
where  the  souls  of  the  virtuous  rest  secure 


from  every  danger,  and  enjoy  perpetual  and 
uninterrupted  bliss. 

The  Philosophy  of  a  Future  State,  Part  i., 
Chap.  i. 

VENTRILOQUISM. 

Louis  Brahant,  a  dexterous  ventriloquist, 
valet-de-chambre  to  Francis  I.,  had  fallen 
desperately  in  love  with  a  young,  handsome, 
and  rich  heiress ;  but  was  rejected  by  the 
parents  as  an  unsuitable  match  for  their 
daughter,  on  account  of  the  lowness  of  his 
circumstances.  The  young  lady's  father  dy- 
ing, he  made  a  visit  to  the  widow,  who  was 
totally  ignorant  of  his  singular  talent.  Sud- 
denly, on  his  first  appearance,  in  open  day, 
in  her  own  house,  and  in  the  presence  of 
several  persons  who  were  with  her.  she 
heard  herself  accosted  in  a  voice  perfectly 
resembling  that  of  her  dead  husband,  and 
which  seemed  to  proceed  from  above,  ex- 
claiming, ''Give  my  daughter  in  marriage 
to  Louis  Brahant.  He  is  a  man  of  great 
fortune,  and  of  an  excellent  character.  I 
now  suffer  the  inexpressible  torments  of 
purgatory  for  having  refused  her  to  him. 
If  you  obey  this  admonition  I  shall  soon 
be  delivered  from  this  place  of  torment. 
You  will  at  the  same  time  provide  a  worthy 
husband  for  your  daughter,  and  procure 
everlasting  repose  to  the  soul  of  your  poor 
husband."  The  widow  could  not  for  a 
moment  resist  this  dreadful  summons,  which 
had  not  the  most  distant  appearance  of  pro- 
ceeding from  Louis  Brahant,  whose  counte- 
nance exhibited  no  visible  change,  and  whoso 
lips  were  close  and  motionless  during  the 
delivery  of  it.  Accordingly  she  consented 
immediately  to  receive  him  for  her  son-in- 
law.  Louis's  finances,  however,  were  in  a 
very  low  situation,  and  the  formalities  at- 
tending the  marriage-contract  rendered  it 
necessary  for  him  to  exhibit  some  show  of 
riches,  and  not  to  give  the  ghost  the  lie 
direct.  He  accordingly  went  to  work  on  a 
fresh  subject,  one  Cornu,  an  old  and  rich 
banker  at  Lyons,  who  had  accumulated  im- 
mense wealth  by  usury  and  extortion,  and 
was  known  to  be  haunted  by  remorse  of 
conscience  on  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  acquired  it.  Having  con- 
tracted an  intimate  acquaintiince  with  this 
man,  he  one  day,  while  they  were  sitting  to- 
gether in  the  usurer's  little  back  parlour, 
artfully  turned  the  conversation  on  religious 
subjects,  on  demons,  and  spectres,  the  p;iitis 
of  purgatory,  and  the  torments  of  hell.  Dur- 
ing an  interval  of  silence  between  them  a 
voice  was  heard,  which  to  the  astonished 
banker  seemed  to  be  that  of  his  deceased 
father,  complaining,  as  in  the  former  case, 
of  his  dreadful  situation  in  purgatory,  and 


FREDERICK   CARL    WILHELM   VON   SCHLEGEL. 


305 


calling  upon  him  to  deliver  him  instantly 
from  thence,  by  putting  into  the  hands  of 
Louis  B  rah  ant,  then  with  him,  a  large  sum 
for  the  redemption  of  Christians  then  in 
slavery  with  the  Turks;  threatening  him  at 
the  same  time  with  eternal  damnation  if  he 
did  not  take  this  method  to  expiate,  likewise, 
his  o\vn  sins.  Louis  Brahnnt,  of  course,  af- 
fected a  due  degree  of  astonishment  on  the 
occasion,  and  further  promoted  the  deception 
by  acknowledging  his  having  devoted  him- 
self to  the  prosecution  of  the  charitable  de- 
signs imputed  to  him  by  the  ghost.  An  old 
usurer  is  naturally  suspicious.  Accordingly, 
the  wary  banker  made  a  second  appointment 
with  the  ghost's  delegate  for  the  next  day, 
and  to  render  any  design  of  imposing  upon 
him  utterly  abortive,  took  him  into  the  open 
fields,  where  not  a  house,  or  a  tree,  or  even 
a  bush,  or  a  pit  were  in  sight,  capable  of 
screening  any  supposed  confederate.  This 
extraordinary  caution  excited  the  ventrilo- 
quist to  exert  all  the  powers  of  his  art. 
Wherever  the  banker  conducted  him,  at 
every  step  his  ears  were  saluted  on  all  sides 
with  the  complaints  and  groans,  not  only  of 
his  father,  but  of  all  his  deceased  relations, 
imploring  him  for  the  love  of  God,  and  in 
the  name  of  every  saint  in  the  calendar,  to 
have  mercy  on  his  own  soul  and  theirs,  by 
effectually  seconding  with  his  purse  the  in- 
tentions of  his  worthy  companion.  Cornu 
could  no  longer  resist  the  voice  of  Heaven, 
and  accordingly  carried  his  guest  home 
with  him,  and  paid  him  down  ten  thousand 
crowns  ;  with  which  the  honest  ventriloquist 
returned  to  Paris,  and  married  his  mistress. 
The  catastrophe  was  fatal.  The  secret  was 
afterwards  blown,  and  reached  the  usurer's 
cars,  who  was  so  much  affected  by  the  loss 
of  his  money  and  the  mortifying  railleries 
of  his  neighbours,  that  he  took  to  his  bed 
and  died. 

Another  trick  of  a  similar  kind  was  played 
off  about  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago  on  a 
whole  community  by  another  French  ven- 
triloquist. '•  M.  St.  Gill,  the  ventriloquist, 
and  his  intimate  friend,  returning  home 
from  a  place  whither  his  business  had  car- 
ried him,  sought  for  shelter  from  an  ap- 
proaching thunder-storm  in  a  neighbouring 
convent.  Finding  the  whole  community  in 
mourning,  he  inquired  the  cause,  and  was 
told  that  one  of  the  body  had  died  lately  who 
was  the  ornament  and  delight  of  the  whole 
society.  To  pass  away  the  time,  he  walked 
into  the  church,  attended  by  some  of  the 
religious,  who  showed  him  the  tomb  of  their 
deceased  brother,  and  spoke  feelingly  of  the 
scanty  honours  they  had  bestowed  on  his 
memory.  Suddenly  a  voice  was  heard,  ap- 
parently proceeding  from  the  roof  of  the 
choir,  lamenting  the  situation  of  the  defunct 
20 


in  purgatory,  and  reproaching  the  brother- 
hood with  their  lukcwarniness  ajid  want 
of  zeal  on  his  account.  The  friars,  as  soon 
as  their  astonishment  gave  them  power  to 
speak,  consulted  together,  and  agreed  to  ac- 
quaint the  rest  of  the  community  with  this 
singular  event,  so  interesting  to  the  whole 
society.  M.  St.  Gill,  who  wished  to  carry 
on  the  joke  a  little  farther,  dissuaded  them 
from  taking  this  step,  telling  them  that  they 
would  be  treated  by  their  absent  brethren 
as  a  set  of  fools  and  visionaries.  lie  rec- 
oimnended  to  them,  however,  the  immedi- 
ately calling  the  whole  community  into  the 
church,  where  the  ghost  of  their  departed 
brother  might  probably  reiterate  his  com- 
plaints. Accordingly,  all  the  friars,  novices, 
lay-brothers,  and  even  the  domestics  of  the 
convent,  were  immediately  summoned  and 
called  together.  In  a  short  time  the  voice 
from  the  roof  renewed  its  lamentations  and 
reproaches,  and  the  whole  convent  fell  on 
their  faces,  and  vowed  a  solemn  reparation. 
As  a  first  step,  they  chanted  a  De  profundis 
in  a  full  choir:  during  the  intervals  of  which 
the  ghost  occasionally  expressed  the  comfort 
he  received  from  their  pious  exercises  and 
ejaculations  on  his  behalf.  When  all  was 
over,  the  prior  entered  into  a  serious  conver- 
sation with  M.  St.  Gill ;  and  on  the  strength 
of  what  had  just  passed,  sagaciously  in- 
veighed against  the  absurd  incredulity  of 
our  modern  sceptics  and  pretended  philos- 
ophers, on  the  article  of  ghosts  or  appari- 
tions. M.  St.  Gill  thought  it  high  time  to 
disabuse  the  good  fathers.  This  purpose, 
however,  he  found  it  extremely  difficult  to 
effect  till  he  had  prevailed  upon  them  to 
return  with  him  into  the  church,  and  there 
be  witnesses  of  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
conducted  this  ludicrous  deception."  Had 
not  the  ventriloquist  in  this  case  explained 
the  cause  of  the  deception,  a  whole  body  of 
men  might  have  sworn,  with  a  good  con- 
science, that  they  bail  heard  the  ghost  of  a 
departed  brother  address  them  again  and 
again  in  a  supernatural  voice. 

On  the  Improvement  of  Society,  Appendix. 


FREDERICK  CARL  WILHELM 
VON  SCHLEGEL, 

born  at  Hanover,  1772,  died  at  Dresden,  1829, 
was  the  author  of  the  following  excellent 
works :  Lectures  on  the  History  of  Litera- 
ture. Ancient  and  Modern,  from  the  German 
[by  J.  G.  Lockhart],  Edin.,  1838,  2  vols.  8vo, 
new  edition,  now  first  Completely  Translated, 
Lond.  (Bohn!s  Stand.  Lib.),  1839.  post  8vo ; 
Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  History, 
Translated,  with  a  Life  of  the  Author,  by 


306 


FREDERICK   CARL   W1LHELM   VON  SCHLEG'EL. 


J.  B.  Robertson,  Lond.,  1835,  2  vols.  8vo, 
lid  edit.,  revised  (Bolin's  Stand.  Lib.),  1846, 
p.  8vo,  7th  edit.,  1859,  p.  8vo  ;  Lectures  on  the 
Philosophy  of  Life  and  the  Philosophy  of 
Language,  Translated  by  A.  J.  W.  Morrison, 
Lond.  (Bohn's  Stand.  Lib.),  1847,  p.  8vo: 
Course  of  Lectures  on  Modern  History,  to 
which  are  added  Historical  Essays  on  the 
Beginning  of  our  History,  and  on  Coesar  and 
Alexander,  Translated  by  Lyndsey  Purcell 
and  R.  H.  Whitelock,  Lond.  (Bohn's  Stand. 
Lib.),  1849,  p.  8vo;  ^Esthetic  and  Miscella- 
neous Works,  etc.,  Translated  by  E.  J.  Mil- 
lington,  Lond.  (Bohn's  Stand.  Lib.).  1849, 
p.  8vo.  new  edit.,  1860.  In  German, — Sammt- 
liche  Werke,  Wien,  Klang,  15  vols.  8vo. 

LORD  BACON. 

The  Sixteenth  Century  was  the  age  of 
ferment  and  strife,  and  it  was  not  until  to- 
wards the  close  of  it  that  the  human  mind 
began  to  recover  from  the  violent  shock  it 
had  sustained.  With  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury new  paths  of  thinking  and  investiga- 
tion were  opened,  owing  to  the  revival  of 
classical  learning,  the  extension  given  to 
the  natural  sciences  and  geography,  and  the 
general  commotion  and  difference  in  relig- 
ious belief,  occasioned  by  Protestantism. 

The  first  name  suggested  by  the  mention 
of  these  several  features  is  Bacon.  This 
mighty  genius  ranks  as  the  father  of  modern 
physics,  inasmuch  as  he  brought  back  the 
spirit  of  investigation  from  the  barren  verbal 
subtleties  of  the  schools  to  nature  and  expe- 
rience: he  made  and  completed  many  im- 
portant discoveries  himself,  and  seems  to 
have  had  a  dim  and  imperfect  foresight  of 
many  others.  Stimulated  by  his  capacious 
and  stirring  intellect,  experimental  science 
extended  her  boundaries  in  every  direction: 
intellectual  culture — nay,  the  social  organ- 
ization of  modern  Europe  generally — as- 
sumed new  shape  and  complexion.  The 
ulterior  consequences  of  this  mighty  change 
became  objectionable,  dangerous,  and  even 
terrible  in  their  tendency  at  the  time  when 
Bacon's  followers  and  admirers  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century  attempted  to  wrest  from  mere 
experience  and  the  senses  what  he  had  never 
assumed  them  to  possess, — namely,  the  law 
of  life  and  conduct,  and  the  essentials  of  faith 
and  hope:  while  they  rejected  with  cool  con- 
tempt as  fanaticism  every  exalted  hope  and 
soothing  affection  which  could  not  be  prac- 
tically proved.  All  this  was  quite  contrary, 
however,  to  the  spirit  and  aim  of  the  founder 
of  this  philosophy.  In  illustration,  I  would 
only  refer  here  to  that  well-known  sentence 
of  his,  deservedly  remembered  by  all :  "  A 
little  philosophy  inclineth  man's  mind  to 
atheism,  but  depth  in  philosophy  bringeth 


man's    [men's]     mind    about   to   religion." 
[Essay  XVII.     Of  Atheism.] 

Both  in  religion  and  in  natural  philosophy 
this  great  thinker  believed  many  things  that 
would  have  been  regarded  as  mere  supersti- 
tion by  his  partisans  and  admirers  in  later 
times.  Neither  is  it  to  be  supposed  that  this 
was  a  mere  conventional  acquiescence  in  an 
established  belief,  or  some  prejudice  not  yet 
overcome  of  his  education  and  age.  His  dec- 
larations on  these  very  topics  relating  to  a 
supernatural  world,  are  most  of  all  stamped 
with  the  characteristic  of  his  clear  and  pene- 
trating spirit.  He  was  a  man  of  feeling  as 
well  as  of  invention,  arid  though  the  world 
of  experience  had  appeared  to  him  in  quite 
a  new  light,  the  higher  and  divine  region  of 
the  spiritual  world,  situated  far  above  com- 
mon sensible  experience,  was  not  viewed  by 
him  either  obscurely  or  remotely.  How 
little  he  partook,  I  will  not  merely  say  of 
the  crude  materialism  of  some  of  his  follow- 
ers, but  even  of  the  more  refined  deification 
of  nature,  which  during  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury was  transplanted  from  France  to  Ger- 
many, like  some  dark  offshoot  of  natural 
philosophy,  is  proved  by  his  views  of  the 
substantial  essence  of  a  correct  physical  sys- 
tem. The  natural  philosophy  of  the  ancients 
was,  according  to  a  judgment  pronounced 
by  himself,  open  to  the  following  censure, — 
viz.,  "that  they  held  nature  to  constitute  an 
image  of  the  Divinity,  whereas  it  is  in  con- 
formity with  truth  as  -well  as  Christianity  to 
regard  man  as  the  sole  image  and  likeness 
of  his  Creator  and  to  look  upon  nature  as 
his  handiwork."  In  the  term  Natural  Phi- 
losophy of  the  Ancients,  Bacon  evidently  in- 
cludes, as  may  be  seen  from  the  general 
results  attributed  to  it,  no  mere  individual 
theory  or  system,  but  altogether  the  best 
and  most  excellent  fruits  of  their  research 
within  the  boundaries  not  only  of  physical 
science,  but  also  of  mythology  and  natural 
religion.  And  when  he  claims  for  man  ex- 
clusively the  high  privilege,  according  to 
Christian  doctrine,  of  being  the  likeness  and 
image  of  God,  he  is  not  to  be  understood  as 
deriving  this  dignity  purely  from  the  high 
position  of  constituting  the  most  glorious  and 
most  complex  of  all  natural  productions  ; 
but  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  Bible  that  this 
likeness  and  image  is  the  gift  of  God's  love 
and  inspiration.  The  figurative  expression 
that  nature  is  not  a  mirror  or  image  of  the 
Godhead,  but  his  handiwork, — if  compre- 
hended in  all  its  profundity,  will  be  seen  to 
convey  a  perfect  explanation  of  the  relations 
of  the  sensible  and  super-sensible  world  of 
nature  and  of  divinity.  It  pre-eminently 
declares  the  fact  that  nature  has  not  an  in- 
dependent self-existence,  but  was  created  by 
God  for  an  especial  purpose.  In  a  word, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 


307 


Bacon's  plain  and  easy  discrimination  be- 
tween ancient  philosophy  and  his  own  Chris- 
tian ideas,  is  an  intelligible  and  clear  rule 
for  fixing  the  right  medium  between  profane 
and  nature-worship  on  the  one  hand,  find 
gloomy  hatred  of  nature  on  the  other :  to 
which  latter  one-sided  reason  is  peculiarly 
prone  ';  when  intent  only  upon  morality,  it 
is  perplexed  in  its  apprehensions  of  nature, 
and  has  only  imperfect  and  confused  notions 
of  divinity.  But  a  right  appreciation  of  the 
actual  difference  between  nature  and  God  is 
the  most  important  point  both  of  thought  and 
belief,  of  life  and  conduct.  Bacon's  views  on 
this  head  are  the  more  fittingly  introduced 
here,  because  the  philosophy  of  our  own 
time  is  for  the  most  part  distracted  between 
the  two  extremes  indicated  above  :  the  repre- 
hensible nature-worship  of  some  who  do 
not  distinguish  between  the  Creator  and  his 
works,  God  and  the  world:  or,  on  the  other, 
the  hatred  and  blindness  of  those  despisers 
of  nature,  whose  reason  is  exclusively  di- 
rected to  their  personal  destiny.  The  just 
medium  between  these  opposite  errors — that 
is  to  say,  the  only  correct  consideration  of 
nature — is  that  involved  in  a  sense  of  inti- 
mate connexion  of  our  immeasurable  superi- 
ority, morally,  and  to  a  proper  awe  of  those 
of  her  elements  that  significantly  point  to 
matters  of  higher  import  than  herself.  All 
such  vestiges,  exciting  either  love  or  fear,  as 
a  silent  awe,  or  a  prophetic  declaration,  re- 
veal the  hand  that  formed  them,  and  the 
purpose  which  they  are  designed  to  accom- 
plish. 

Lectures  on  Hie  History  of  Literature,  An- 
cient and  Modern,  Lect.  xiii. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT, 

baronet,  born  in  Edinburgh,  August  15, 
1771,  attended  the  Latin,  Greek,  and  Logic 
classes  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh  in 
1783-84 ;  became  apprentice  to  his  father  as 
a  Writer  to  the  Signet,  1786  ;  was  admitted 
by  the  Faculty  of  Advocates  to  his  first  trials, 
1791,  and  called  to  the  bar,  1792;  Sheriff  of 
Selkirkshire,  1799,  and  appointed  one  of  the 
principal  Clerks  of  the  Court  of  Session  (of 
•which  he  did  not  receive  the  full  endowment 
until  the  death  of  George  Home  in  1812) 
ism;  -.  made  a  baronet  1820  ;  involved  by  the 
failure  of  Constable  &  Co.  and  Ballantyne  & 
Co.,  in  1826.  to  the  amount  of  about  £147,- 
000,  which  he  had  reduced  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  September  21, 1832,  to  £54.000,which 
was  soon  afterwards  discharged.  In  another 
place  (Allibone's  Dictionary  of  English  Lit- 
erature and  British  and  American  Authors, 
vol.  ii..  1971-1975)  we  have  given  a  detailed 
bibliographical  catalogue  of  Scott's  publica- 


tions from  1796  to  1831.  Here  it  will  be  suffi- 
cient to  enumerate  his  principal  productions  : 
The  Chace,  and  William  and  Ellen,  1796; 
Gaetz  of  Berlichingen,  with  The  Iron  Hand, 
and  The  House  of  Aspen,  1799  ;  Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border,  1802;  Sir  Tristram, 
a  Metrical  Romance,  1804 ;  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,  and  Waverley,  chapters  i.-vii., 
1805  (not  published  until  1814);  Ballads 
and  Lyrical  Poems,  1806;  Marmion,  1808; 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  1810;  The  Vision 
of  Don  Roderick,  1811;  Rokeby,  and  The 
Bridal  of  Triermain,  1813;  Waverley,  and 
The  Lord  of  the  Isles,  1814;  Guy  Manner- 
ing,  The  Field  of  Waterloo,  and  (part  author 
of)  Peter's  Letters  to  His  Kinsfolk,  1815  ; 
The  Antiquary,  and  Tales  of  My  Landlord, 
First  Series  :  The  Black  Dwarf,  Old  Mortal- 
ity, 1816;  Harold  the  Dauntless,  1817;  Rob 
Roy,  and  Tales  of  My  Landlord,  Second  Se- 
ries:  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,  1818;  Tales 
of  My  Landlord,  Third  Series  :  The  Bride  of 
Lammermoor,  A  Legend  of  Montrose,  1819  ; 
Ivanhoe,  the  Monastery,  and  The  Abbot, 
1820;  Biographical  Prefaces  to  Ballantyne's 
Novelist's  Library,  10  vols.  royal  8vo,  and 
Kenilworth,  1821  ;  The  Pirate,  The  For- 
tunes of  Nigel,  1822  ;  Pevoril  of  the  Peak, 
and  Quentin  Durward,  1823 ;  St.  Ronan's 
Well,  and  Redgauntlet,  1824 ;  Tales  of  tho 
Crusaders:  The  Betrothed,  The  Talisman, 
1825  ;  Woodstock,  1826  ;  The  Life  of  Napo- 
leon Buonaparte,  Chronicles  of  the  Canon- 
gate,  First  Series  :  The  Two  Drovers.  The 
Highland  Widow,  The  Surgeon's  Daughter, 
and  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,  First  Series, 
1827  ;  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,  Second 
Series:  St.  Valentine's  Day,  or,  The  Fair 
Maid  of  Perth,  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,  Sec- 
ond Series,  and  Religious  Discourses,  by  a 
Layman,  1828  ;  Anne  of  Geierstein,  Tales 
of  a  Grandfather,  Third  Series,  and  History 
of  Scotland,  vol.  i.,  1829 ;  Tales  of  a  Grand- 
father, Fourth  Series :  History  of  France, 
History  of  Scotland,  vol.  ii.,  and  Letters  on 
Demonology  and  Witchcraft,  1830;  Tales  of 
My  Landlord,  Fourth  Series :  Count  Robert 
of  Paris,  Castle  Dangerous. 

"The  great  secret  of  his  popularity,  however, 
and  the  lending  characteristic  of  his  poetry,  ap- 
pears to  us  to  consist  evidently  in  this,  that  he  has 
made  more  use  of  common  topics,  images,  and  ex- 
pressions than  any  original  poi-t  of  later  time?, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  displayed  more  genius  and 
originality  than  any  recent  author  who  has  worked 
in  the  same  materials." — Lono  JEFFREY  :  Edin. 
Review,  August,  1810,  and  in  liis  Contrib.  to  Edin. 
Renew,  edit.  1853,  409,  et  *eq. 

"  It  is  the  great  glory  of  Scott  that,  by  nice  at- 
tention t>  costume  nnd  character  in  his  novels,  he 
has  raise  1  them  to  historic  importance  without  im- 
pairing their  interest  as  works  of  art.  Who  now 
would  imagine  that  he  could  form  a  satisfactory 
notion  of  the  golden  days  of  Queen  Bess  that  had 
not  read '  Kenilworth,'  or  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion 


308 


SIR    WALTER  SCOTT. 


and  his  brave  paladins  that  had  not  read  '  Ivan- 
hoe'?  .  .  .  Scott  was,  in  truth,  master  of  the  pic- 
turesque. He  understood  better  than  any  historian 
since  the  time  of  Livy  how  to  dispose  his  lights 
and  shades  so  as  to  produce  the  most  striking  re- 
sult. This  property  of  romance  he  had  a  right  to 
borrow.  This  talent  is  particularly  observable  in 
the  animated  parts  of  his  story, — in  his  battles, 
for  example.  No  man  has  painted  those  terrible 
scenes  with  greater  effect.  ...  It  is  when  trending 
on  Scottish  ground  that  he  seems  to  feel  all  his 
strength.  .  .  .' I  seem  always  to  step  more  firmly,' 
he  said  to  some  one,  'when  on  my  own  native 
heather.'  His  mind  was  steeped  in  Scottish  lore, 
and  his  bosom  warmed  with  a  sympathetic  glow 
for  the  age  of  chivalry." — WILLIAM  H.  PIIESCOTT: 
liiuyr.  and  Grit.  Mitcell.,  edit.  1855,  284,  2S5,  286. 
See  also  54,  130,  139,  606,  n.,  623,  702;  N.  Amei: 
Kecitic,  xx$v.  187. 

RAVENSWOOD  AND  Lucr  ASHTON. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  Miss  Ashton  ? — I  am 
still  that  Edgar  Ravenswood,  who.  for  your 
affection,  renounced  the  dear  ties  by  which 
injured  honour  bound  him  to  seek  ven- 
geance. I  am  that  Ravenswood,  who,  for 
your  sake,  forgave,  nay  clasped  hands  in 
friendship  with  the  oppressor  and  pillager 
of  his  house, — the  traducer  and  murderer  of 
his  father.'' 

"  My  daughter,"  answered  Lady  Ashton, 
interrupting  him,  "has  no  occasion  to  dis- 
pute the  identity  of  your  person  ;  the  venom 
of  your  present  language  is  sufficient  to 
remind  her  that  she  speaks  with  the  mortal 
enemy  of  her  father." 

"  I  pray  you  to  be  patient,  madam,"  an- 
swered Ravenswood  ;  "  my  answer  must 
come  from  her  own  lips. — Once  more,  Miss 
Lucy  Ashton,  I  am  that  Ravenswood  to 
whom  you  granted  the  solemn  engagement 
which  you  now  desire  to  retract  and  can- 
cel." 

Lucy's  bloodless  lips  could  only  falter  out 
the  words,  "  It  was  my  mother." 

"  She  speaks  truly,"  said  Lady  Ashton, 
"  it  was  I  who,  authorized  alike  by  the  laws 
of  God  and  man,  advised  her,  and  concurred 
with  her,  to  set  aside  an  unhappy  and  pre- 
cipitate engagement,  and  to  annul  it  by  the 
authority  of  Scripture  itself." 

"Scripture!"  said  llavenswood,  scorn- 
fully. 

"  Let  him  hear  the  text,"  said  Lady  Ash- 
ton, appealing  to  the  divine,  "  on  which 
you  yourself,  with  cautious  reluctance,  de- 
clared the  nullity  of  the  pretended  engage- 
ment insisted  upon  by  this  violent  man." 

The  clergyman  took  his  clasped  Bible  from 
his  pocket,  and  read  the  following  words:  ulf 
a  woman  vow  a  vow  unto  the  Lord,  and  bind 
herself  by  a  bond,  being  in  her  father's  house 
in  her  youth ;  and  her  father  hear  her  vow,  and 
her  bond  icherewith  she  ha1h  bound  her  sonl, 
and  her  father  shall  hold  his  peace  at  her :  then 


all  her  vows  shall  stand,  and  ever;/ vow  where- 
with she  hath  bound  her  soul  shall  stand.'1'1 

"  And  was  it  not  so  even  with  us?''  inter- 
rupted llavenswood. 

"Control  thy  impatience,  young  man," 
answered  the  divine,  "  and  hear  what  fol- 
lows in  the  sacred  text : — '  But  if  her  father 
disallow  her  in  the  day  that  he  hearcth  ;  not 
any  of  her  vows,  or  of  her  bonds  wherewith 
she  hath  bound  her  soul,  shall  stand:  and  the 
Lord  shall  forgive  her,  because  her  father  dis- 
allowed her.'  " 

"  And  was  not,"  said  Lady  Ashton.  fiercely 
and  triumphantly  breaking  in, — "was  not 
ours  the  case  stated  in  the  holy  writ? — Will 
this  person  deny  that  the  instant  her  parents 
heard  of  the  vow,  or  bond,  by  which  our 
daughter  had  bound  her  soul,  we  disallowed 
the  same  in  the  most  express  terms,  and  in- 
formed him  by  writing  of  our  determina- 
tion ?" 

"  And  is  this  all  ?"  said  Ravenswood,  look- 
ing at  Lucy.  "Are  you  willing  to  barter 
sworn  faith,  the  exercise  of  free  will,  and 
the  feelings  of  mutual  affection,  to  this 
wretched  hypocritical  sophistry  ?" 

"  Hear  him  !"  said  Lady  Ashton,  looking 
to  the  clergyman, — "  hear  the  blasphemer!" 

"May  God  forgive  him,"  said  Bide-the- 
bent,  "and  enlighten  his  ignorance." 

"  Hear  what  I  have  sacrificed  for  you," 
said  Ravenswood,  still  addressing  Lucy,  "ere 
you  sanction  what  has  been  done  in  your 
name.  The  honour  of  an  ancient  family, 
the  urgent  advice  of  my  best  friends,  have 
been  in  vain  used  to  swav  my  resolution  ; 
neither  the  arguments  of  reason,  nor  the 
portents  of  superstition,  have  shaken  my 
fidelity.  The  ver-y  dead  have  arisen  to  warn 
me,  and  their  warning  has  been  despised. 
Are  you  prepared  to  pierce  my  heart  for  its 
fidelity  with  the  very  weapon  which  my  rash 
confidence  intrusted  to  your  grasp?" 

"  Master  of  Ravenswood,"  said  Lady  Ash- 
ton, "  you  have  asked  what  questions  you 
thought  fit.  You  see  the  total  incapacity 
of  my  daughter  to  answer  you.  But  I  will 
reply  for  her,  and  in  a  manner  which  you 
cannot  dispute.  You  desire  to  know  whether 
Lucy  Ashton,  of  her  own  free  will,  desires 
to  annul  the  engagement  into  which  she  has 
been  trepanned.  You  have  her  letter  under 
her  own  hand,  demanding  the  surrender  of 
it ;  and,  in  yet  more  full  evidence  of  her 
purpose,  here  is  the  contract  which  she  has 
this  morning  subscribed,  in  presence  of  this 
reverend  gentleman,  with  Mr.  Hayston  of 
Bucklaw." 

Ravenswood  gazed  upon  the  deed  as  if 
petrified.  "  And  it  was  without  fraud  or 
compulsion,"  said  he,  looking  towards  the 
clergyman,  "  that  Miss  Ashton  subscribed 
this  parchment?" 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT. 


309 


"  I  vouch  it  upon  my  sacred  character." 

"This  is  indeed,  inadamc,  an  undeniable 
piece  of  evidence,''  said  Ravenswood,  sternly  ; 
"  and  it  will  be  equally  unnecessary  and  dis- 
honourable to  waste  another  word  in  useless 
remonstrance  or  reproach.  There,  madaine," 
he  said,  laying  down  before  Lucy  the  signed 
paper  and  the  broken  piece  of  gold, — "  there 
are  the  evidences  of  your  first  engagement; 
may  you  be  more  faithful  to  that  which  you 
have  just  formed.  I  will  trouble  you  to  re- 
turn the  corresponding  tokens  of  my  ill-placed 
confidence, — I  ought  rather  to  say,  of  my 
egregious  folly." 

Lucy  returned  the  scornful  glance  of  her 
lover  with  a  gaze  from  which  perception 
seemed  to  have  been  banished  ;  yetshe  seemed 
partly  to  have  understood  his  meaning,  for 
she  raised  her  hands  .as  if  to  undo  a  blue 
ribbon  which  she  wore  around  her  neck. 
She  was  unable  to  accomplish  her  purpose, 
but  Lady  Ashton  cut  the  ribbon  asunder, 
and  detached  the  broken  piece  of  gold  which 
Miss  Ashton  had  till  then  concealed  in  her 
bosom :  the  written  counterpart  of  the  lovers' 
engagement  she  for  some  time  had  had  in 
her  own  possession.  With  a  haughty  curtsy 
she  delivered  both  to  Ravenswood,  who  was 
much  softened  when  he  took  the  piece  of 
gold. 

"  And  she  could  wear  it  thus,"  he  said — 
speaking  to  himself — "could  wear  it  in  her 
very  bosom — could  wear  it  next  to  her  heart 
— even  when —  But  complaint  avails  not," 
he  said,  dashing  from  his  eye  the  tear  which 
had  gathered  in  it,  and  resuming  the  stern 
composure  of  his  manner.  He  strode  to  the 
chimney  and  threw  into  the  fire  the  paper 
and  piece  of  gold,  stamping,  upon  the  coals 
with  the  heel  of  his  boot,  as  if  to  ensure 
their  destruction.  "I  will  be  no  longer,"  he 
then  said,  "  an  intruder  here.  Your  evil 
wishes  and  your  worse  offices,  Lady  Ashton, 
I  will  only  return,  by  hoping  these  will  be 
your  last  machinations  against  your  daugh- 
ter's honour  and  happiness.  And  to  you, 
madaine,"  he  said,  addressing  Lucy,  "  I  have 
nothing  farther  to  say,  except  to  pray  to  God 
that  you  may  not  become  a  world's  wonder 
for  this  act  of  wilful  and  deliberate  perjury." 
Having  uttered  these  words,  he  turned  on 
his  heel,  and  left  the  apartment. 

The  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  Chap,  xxxiii. 

BOIS-GUILBERT   AND  REBECCA. 

'*  The  friend  and  protector,"  said  the  Tem- 
plar, gravely,  "  I  will  yet  be, — but  mark  at 
what  risk,  or  rather  at  what  certainty,  of 
dishonour  :  and  then  blame  me  not  if  I  make 
my  stipulations,  before  I  offer  up  all  that  I 
have  hitherto  held  dear,  to  save  the  life  of  a 
Jewish  maiden." 


"Speak,"  said  Rebecca;  "I  understand 
thee  not." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Bois-Guilbert,  "  I  will 
speak  as  freely  as  ever  did  doting  penitent 
to  his  ghostly  father,  when  placed  in  the 
tricky  confessional.  Rebecca,  if  I  appear 
not  in  these  lists  I  lose  fame  and  rank, — lose 
that  which  is  the  breath  of  my  nostrils  ;  the 
esteem,  I  mean,  in  which  1  am  held  by  my 
brethren,  and  the  hopes  I  have  of  succeed- 
ing to  that  mighty  authority  which  is  now 
wielded  by  the  bigoted  dotard  Lucas  de  Beau- 
manoir,  but  of  which  I  should  make  a  far 
different  use.  Such  is  my  certain  doom,  ex- 
cept I  appear  in  arms  against  thy  cause. 
Accursed  be  he  of  Goodalricke,  who  baited 
this  trap  for  me!  and  doubly  accursed  Albert 
de  Malvoison,  who  withheld  me  from  the 
resolution  I  had  formed  of  hurling  back  the 
glove  at  the  face  of  the  superstitious  and 
superannuated  fool  who  listened  to  a  charge 
so  absurd  and  against  a  creature  so  high  in 
mind  and  so  lovely  in  form  as  thou  art!" 

"  And  what  now  avails  rant  or  flattery?'' 
answered  Rebecca.  "  Thou  hast  made  thy 
choice  between  causing  to  be  shed  the  blood 
of  an  innocent  woman,  or  of  endangering 
thine  own  earthly  state  and  earthly  hopes, — 
what  avails  it  to  reckon  together? — thy 
choice  is  made." 

"  No,  Rebecca,"  said  the  knight,  in  a  softer 
tone,  and  drawing  nearer  towards  her;  "  my 
choice  is  NOT  made, — nay,  mark,  it  is  thine  t  > 
make  the  election.  If  I  appear  in  the  lists, 
I  must  maintain  my  name  in  arms;  and  if  1 
do  so,  championed  or  unchampioned,  thou 
diest  by  the  stake  and  faggot, — for  there  lives 
not  the  knight  who  hath  coped  with  me  in 
arms  on  equal  issue,  or  on  terms  of  vantage, 
save  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion,  and  his  minion 
of  Ivanhoe.  Ivanhoe,  as  thou  well  knowest, 
is  unable  to  bear  his  corslet,  and  Richard  is 
in  a  foreign  prison.  If  I  appear,  then,  thou 
diest,  even  although  thy  charms  should  in- 
stigate some  hot-headed  youth  to  enter  the 
lists  in  thy  defence." 

"  And  what  avails  repeating  this  so  often?" 
said  Rebecca. 

"  Much,"  replied  the  Templar;  "for  thou 
must  learn  to  look  at  thy  fate  on  every  side." 

"  Well,  then,  turn  the  tapestry,"  said  the 
Jewess,  "and  let  me  see  the  other  side." 

"If  I  appear,"  said  Bois-Guilbert,  "in  the 
fatal  lists,  thou  diest  by  a  slow  and  cruel 
death,  in  pain  such  as  they  say  is  destined 
to  the  guilty  hereafter.  But  if  I  appear 
not,  then  am  I  a  degraded  and  dishonoured 
knight,  accused  of  witchcraft  and  of  com- 
munion with  infidels, — the  illustrious  name, 
which  has  grown  yet  more  so  under  my 
wearing,  becomes  a  hissing  and  a  reproach. 
I  lose  fame,  I  lose  honour,  I  lose  the  pros 
pect  of  such  greatness  as  scarce  emperors 


310 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT. 


attain  to, — I  sacrifice  mighty  ambition.  I 
destroy  schemes  built  as  high  as  the  moun- 
tains with  which  heathens  say  their  heaven 
was  once  nearly  scaled, — and  yet,  Rebecca," 
he  added,  throwing  himself  at  her  feet,  "  this 
greatness  will  I  sacrifice,  this  fame  will  I 
renounce,  tins  power  will  I  forego,  even 
now  when  it  is  half  within  my  grasp,  if 
thou  wilt  say,  '  Bois-Guilbert,  I  receive  thee 
for  my  lover.'  " 

"Think  not  of  such  foolishness,  Sir 
Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  "  but  hasten  to 
the  Regent,  the  Queen  Mother,  and  to  Prince 
John, — they  cannot,  in  honour  to  the  English 
crown,  allow  of  the  proceedings  of  your 
Grand  Master.  So  shall  you  give  me  pro- 
tection without  sacrifice  on  your  part,  or  the 
pretext  of  requiring  any  requital  from  me." 

"  With  these  I  deal  not,"  he  continued, 
holding  the  train  of  her  robe, — "  it  is  thee 
only  I  address-;  and  whatcan  counterbalance 
thy  choice?  Bethink  thee,  were  I  a  fiend, 
yet  death  is  a  worse,  and  it  is  death  who  is 
my  rival." 

"  I  weigh  not  these  evils,"  said  Rebecca, 
afraid  to  provoke  the  wild  knight,  yet 
equally  determined  neither  to  endure  his 
passion,  nor  even  feign  to  endure  it.  "  Be 
a  man,  be  a  Christian  !  If,  indeed,  thy  faith 
recommends  that  mercy  which  rather  your 
tongue  than  your  actions  pretend,  save  me 
from  this  dreadful  death,  without  seeking  a 
requital  which  would  change  thy  magna- 
nimity into  base  barter." 

"  No,  damsel !"  said  the  proud  Templar, 
springing  up,  "  thou  shalt  not  thus  impose 
on  me, — if  I  renounce  present  fame  and  fu- 
ture ambition,  I  renounce  it  for  thy  sake, 
and  we  will  escape  in  company.  Listen  to 
me,  Rebecca,"  he  said,  again  softening  his 
tone;  "  England — Europe — is  not  the  world. 
There  are  spheres  in  which  we  may  act, 
ample  enough  even  for  my  ambition.  We 
will  yo  to  Palestine,  where  Conrade,  Marquis 
of  Montserrat,  is  my  friend, — a  friend  free  as 
myself  from  the  doting  scruples  which  fetter 
our  free-born  reason, — rather  with  Saladin 
will  we  league  ourselves  than  endure  the 
scorn  of  the  bigots  whom  we  contemn. — I 
•will  form  new  paths  to  greatness,"  he  con- 
tinued, again  traversing  the  room  with  hasty 
strides, — •'  Europe  shall  hear  the  loud  step  of 
him  she  has  driven  from  her  sons! — Not  the 
millions  whom  her  crusades  send  to  slaugh- 
ter can  do  so  much  to  defend  Palestine, — 
not  the  sabres  of  the  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  Saracens  can  hew  their  way  so 
deep  into  that  land  for  which  nations  are 
striving,  as  the  strength  and  policy  of  me 
and  those  brethren,  who,  in  despite  of  yon- 
der old  bigot,  will  adhere  to  me  in  good  and 
evil.  Thou  shalt  be  a  queen,  Rebecca. — on 
Mount  Carmel  shall  we  pitch  the  throne 


which  my  valour  will  gain  for  you,  and  I 
will  exchange  my  long-desired  baton  for  a 
sceptre." 

Ivanhoe,  Chap,  xxxix. 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH,  AMY  ROBSART,  AND 
LEICESTER. 

Urged  to  this  extremity,  dragged,  as  it 
were,  by  irresistible  force  to  the  verge  of  the 
precipice,  which  she  saw  but  could  not  avoid, 
— permitted  not  a  moment's  respite  by  the 
eager  words  and  menacing  gestures  of  the 
offended  Queen,  Amy  at  length  uttered  in 
despair,  "  The  Earl  of  Leicester  knows  it  all." 

''The  Earl  of  Leicester!"  said  Elizabeth, 
in  utter  astonishment.  "  The  Earl  of  Leices- 
ter !  The  Earl  of  Leicester!"  she  repeated, 
with  kindling  anger.  ''  AVoman,  thou  art  set 
on  to  this, — thou  dost  belie  him, — he  takes 
no  keep  of  such  things  as  thou  art.  Thou 
art  suborned  to  slander  the  noblest  lord  and 
the  truest-hearted  gentleman  in  England! 
But  were  he  the  right  hand  of  our  trust,  or 
something  yet  dearer  to  us,  thou  shalt  have 
thy  hearing,  and  that  in  his  presence.  Come 
with  me, — come  with  me  instantly  !" 

As  Amy  shrunk  back  with  terror,  which 
the  incensed  Queen  interpreted  as  that  of 
conscious  guilt,  Elizabeth  rapidly  advanced, 
seized  on  her  arm,  and  hastened  with  swift 
and  long  steps  out  of  the  grotto,  and  along 
the  principal  alley  of  the  Pleasance,  dragging 
with  her  the  terrified  Countess,  whom  she 
still  held  by  the  arm,  and  whose  utmost  ex- 
ertions could  but  just  keep  pace  with  those 
of  the  indignant  Queen. 

Leicester  was  at  this  moment  the  centre 
of  a  splendid  group  of  lords  and  ladies,  as- 
sembled together  under  an  arcade  or  portico, 
which  closed  the  alley.  The  company  had 
drawn  together  in  that  place  to  attend  the 
commands  of  her  Majesty  when  the  hunting 
party  should  go  forward,  and  their  astonish- 
ment may  be  imagined,  when,  instead  of 
seeing  Elizabeth  advance  towards  them  with 
her  usual  measured  dignity  of  motion,  they 
beheld  her  walking  so  rapidly  that  she  was 
in  the  midst  of  them  ere  they  were  aware; 
and  then  observed,  with  fear  and  surprise, 
that  her  features  were  flushed  betwixt  anger 
and  agitation,  that  her  hair  was  loosened 
by  her  haste  of  motion,  and  that  her  eyes 
sparkled  as  they  were  wont  when  the  spirit 
of  Henry  VIII.  mounted  highest  in  his 
daughter.  Nor  were  they  less  astonished 
at  the  appearance  of  the  pale,  extenuated, 
half  dead,  yet  still  lovely  female,  whom  the 
Queen  upheld  by  main  strength  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  she  waved  aside 
the  ladies  and  nobles  who  pressed  towards 
her,  under  the  idea  that  she  was  taken  sud- 
denly ill.  "  Where  is  my  Lord  of  Leices- 


JOSIAH  QUINCY. 


311 


ter?"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  thrilled  with 
astonishment  all  the  courtiers  who  stood 
around.  "  Stand  forth,  iny  Lord  of  Leices- 
ter!" 

If  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serene  day 
of  summer,  when  all  is  light  and  laughing 
around,  a  thunderbolt  were  to  fall  from  the 
clear  blue  vault  of  heaven,  and  rend  the 
earth  at  the  very  feet  of  some  careless  trav- 
eller, he  could  not  gaze  upon  the  smoulder- 
ing chasm,  which  so  unexpectedly  yawned 
before  him,  with  half  the  astonishment  and 
fear  which  Leicester  felt  at  the  sight  that 
so  suddenly  presented  itself.  He  had  that 
instant  been  receiving,  with  a  political  affec- 
tation of  disavowing  and  misunderstanding 
their  meaning,  the  half-uttered,  half-inti- 
mated commendations  of  the  courtiers  upon 
the  favour  of  the  Queen,  carried  apparently 
to  its  highest  pitch  during  the  interview  of 
that  morning;  from  which  most  of  them 
seemed  to  augur  that  he  might  soon  arise 
from  their  equal  in  rank  to  become  their 
master.  And  now,  while  the  subdued  yet 
proud  smile  with  which  he  disclaimed  those 
inferences  was  yet  curling  his  cheek,  the 
Queen  shot  into  the  circle,  her  passions  ex- 
cited to  the  uttermost;  and,  supporting  with 
one  hand,  and  apparently  without  an  effort, 
the  pale  and  sinking  form  of  his  almost 
expiring  wife,  and  pointing  with  the  finger 
of  the  other  to  her  half-dead  features,  de- 
manded in  a  voice  that  sounded  to  the  ears 
of  the  astounded  statesman  like  the  last 
dread  trumpet  call,  that  is  to  summon  body 
and  spirit  to  the  judgment-seat,  "  Knowest 
thou  this  woman  ?" 

As,  at  the  blast  of  that  last  trumpet  the 
guilty  shall  call  upon  the  mountains  to  cover 
them,  Leicester's  inward  thoughts  invoked 
the  stately  arch  which  he  had  built  in  his 
pride,  to  burst  its  strong  conjunction,  and 
overwhelm  them  in  its  ruins.  But  the 
cemented  stones,  architrave  and  battlement, 
stood  fast ;  and  it  was  the  proud  master 
himself,  who,  as  if  some  actual  pressure  had 
bent  him  to  the  earth,  kneeled  down  before 
Elizabeth,  and  prostrated  his  brow  to  the 
marble  flag-stones  on  which  he  stood. 

"Leicester,"  said  Elizabeth,  in  a  voice 
which  trembled  with  passion,  "  could  I 
think  thou  hast  practised  on  me, — on  me 
thy  sovereign — on  me  thy  confiding,  thy 
too  partial  mistress,  the  base  and  ungrateful 
deception  which  thy  present  confusion  sur- 
mises,— by  all  that  is  holy,  false  lord,  that 
head  of  thine  were  in  as  great  peril  as  ever 
was  thy  father's  !" 

Leicester  had  not  conscious  innocence,  but 
he  had  pride,  to  support  him.  He  raised 
slowly  his  brow  and  features,  which  were 
black  and  swollen  with  contending  emotions, 
and  only  replied,  "  My  head  cannot  fall  but 


by  the  sentence  of  my  peers, — to  them  I 
will  plead,  and  not  to  a  princess  who  thus 
requites  my  faithful  service." 

"  What !  rny  lords,"  said  Elizabeth,  look- 
ing around,  "we  are  defied,  I  think, — defied 
in  the  Castle  we  have  ourselves  bestowed 
on  this  proud  man  ! — My  Lord  Shrewsbury, 
you  are  Marshal  of  England,  attach  him  of  'I 
high  treason." 

"Whom  does  your  Grace  mean?"  said 
Shrewsbury,  much  surprised,  for  he  had  that 
instant  joined  the  astonished  circle. 

"  Whom  should  I  mean,  but  that  traitor 
Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester  ! — Cousin  of  Huns- 
don,  order  out  your  band  of  gentlemen-pen- 
sioners, and  take  him  into  instant  custody. 
— I  say,  villain,  make  haste  !" 

Hunsdon,  a  rough  old  noble,  who,  from  his 
relationship  to  the  Boleyns,  was  accustomed 
to  use  more  freedom  with  the  Queen  than  al- 
most any  other  dared  to  do,  replied  bluntly, 
"  And  it  is  like  your  Grace  might  order  me 
to  the  Tower  to-morrow  for  making  too  much 
haste.  I  do  beseech  you  to  be  patient." 

"  Patient, — God's  life  !"  exclaimed  the 
Queen, — "  name  not  the  word  to  me, — thou 
know'st  not  of  what  he  is  guilty  !" 

Amy,  who  had  by  this  time  in  some  de- 
gree recovered  herself,  and  who  saw  her 
husband,  as  she  conceived,  in  the  utmost 
danger  from  the  rage  of  an  offended  Sover- 
eign, instantly  (and  alas  !  how  many  women 
have  done  the  same  !)  forgot  her  own  wrongs, 
and  her  own  danger,  in  her  apprehensions 
for  him,  and  throwing  herself  before  the 
Queen,  embraced  her  knees,  while  she  ex- 
claimed, "  He  is  guiltless,  madam, — he  is 
guiltless, — no  one  can  lay  aught  to  the 
charge  of  the  noble  Leicester!'1 

Kenilworth,  Chap,  xxxiv. 


JOSIAH    QUINCY,   LL.D., 

a  son  of  Josiah  Quincy,  Junior  (an  eminent 
American  patriot,  born  1744,  died  1775),  was 
born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  Feb.  4. 1772, 
filled  many  important  political  positions; 
was  President  of  Harvard  College,  1829- 
1845,  and  died  at  his  country-seat  at  Quincy, 
Massachusetts  (the  residence  of  his  family 
for  more  than  two  centuries),  July  1,  1864. 
He  was  the  author  of  Memoir  of  the  Life  of 
Josiah  Quincy,  Jun.,  Bost.,  1825.  8vo :  The 
History  of  Harvard  University,  Bost.,  1840, 
2  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit,  Bost,,  1860,  2  vols. 
8vo  ;  The  History  of  the  Boston  Athenaeum, 
with  Biographical  Notices  of  its  Deceased 
Founders,  Bost.,  1851,  8vo ;  A  Municipal 
History  of  the  Town  and  City  of  Boston 
During  Two  Centuries  :  From  September  17, 
1030,  to  September  17,  1830,  Bost.,  1830, 8vo  j 


312 


JO  SI  All  QUINCY. 


Memoir  of  the  Life  of  John  Qiiincy  Adams, 
Bust.,  1858,  8vo  ;  Essays  on  the  Soiling  of 
Cattle,  Illustrated  by  Experience,  etc.,  Bost., 
1859-,  8vo,  I'd  edit.,  1860,  new  edit.,  1866, 8vo. 
lie  also  published  many  Addresses,  Speeches, 
etc.,  and  from  one  of  these  minor  publica- 
tions we  present  an  extract. 

"  Few  men  have  acquired  so  just  a  distinction 
for  unspotted  integrity,  fearless  justice,  consistent 
principles,  high  talents,  and  extensive  literature. 
Still  fewer  possess  the  merit  of  having  justified  the 
public  confidence  by  the  singleness  of  heart  and 
purpose  with  which  they  have  devoted  themselves 
to  the  best  interests  of  society." — JUDGE  JOSEPH 
STORY:  Dedicution  of  Story's  Miscellaneous  Works 
to  the  Hon.  Josiah  Quiiicy,  LL.D.,  October,  1835. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

If,  after  this  general  survey  of  the  surface 
of  New  England,  we  cast  our  -  eyes  on  its 
cities  and  great  towns,  with  what  wonder 
should  we  behold,  did  not  familiarity  render 
the  phenomenon  almost  unnoticed,  men, 
combined  in  great  multitudes,  possessing 
freedom  and  the  consciousness  of  strength, 
— the  comparative  physical  power  of  a  ruler 
less  than  that  of  a  cobweb  across  a  lion's 
path, — yet  orderly,  obedient,  and  respectful 
to  authority  ;  a  people,  but  no  populace ; 
every  class  in  reality  existing  which  the 
general  law  of  society  acknowledges,  except 
one, — and  this  exception  characterizing  the 
whole  country.  The  soil  of  New  England 
is  trodden  by  no  slave.  In  our  streets,  in  our 
assemblies,  in  the  hcills  of  election  and  legis- 
lation, men  of  every  rank  and  condition 
meet,  and  unite  or  divide  on  other  princi- 
ples, and  are  actuated  by  other  motives  than 
those  growing  out  of  such  distinctions.  The 
fears  and  jealousies  which  in  other  countries 
separate  classes  of  men,  and  make  them  hos- 
tile to  each  other,  have  here  no  influence,  or  a 
very  limited  one.  Each  individual,  of  what- 
ever condition,  has  the  consciousness  of  liv- 
ing under  known  laws,  which  secure  equal 
rights,  and  guarantee  to  each  whatever  por- 
tion of  the  goods  of  life,  be  it  great  or  small, 
chance  or  talent  or  industry  may  have  be- 
stowed. All  perceive  that  the  honors  and 
rewards  of  society  are  open  equally  to  the 
fair  competition  of  all, — that  the  distinc- 
tions of  wealth,  or  of  power,  are  not  fixed 
in  families, — that  whatever  of  this  nature 
exists  to-day  may  be  changed  to-morrow,  or, 
in  a  coming  generation,  be  absolutely  re- 
versed. Common  principles,  interests,  hopes, 
and  affections  are  the  result  of  universal 
education.  Such  are  the  consequences  of 
the  equality  of  rights,  and  of  the  provisions 
for  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and 
the  distribution  of  intestate  estates,  estab- 
lished by  the  laws  framed  by  the  earliest 
emigrants  to  New  England. 


If  from  our  cities  we  turn  to  survey  the 
wide  expanse  of  the  interior,  how  do  the 
effects  of  the  institutions  and  example  of 
our  early  ancestors  appear,  in  all  the  local 
comfort  and  accommodation  which  mark  the 
general  condition  of  the  whole  country  ! — 
unobtrusive  indeed,  but  substantial ;  in  noth- 
ing splendid,  but  in  everything  sufficient  ;ind 
satisfactory.  Indications  of  active  talent  and 
practical  energy  exist  everywhere.  With  a 
soil  comparatively  little  luxuriant,  and  in 
great  proportion  either  rock,  or  hill,  or  sand, 
the  skill  and  industry  of  man  are  set'n  tri- 
umphing over  the  obstacles  of  nature  :  mak- 
ing the  rock  the  guardian  of  the  field  ;  mould- 
ing the  granite  as  though  it  were  .clay  ; 
leading  cultivation  to  the  hill-top,  and 
spreading  over  the  arid  plain  hitherto  un- 
known and  unanticipated  harvests.  The 
lofty  mansion  of  the  prosperous  adjoins  the 
lowly  dwelling  of  the  husbandman  ;  their 
respective  inmates  are  in  the  daily  inter- 
change of  civility,  sympathy,  and  respect. 
Enterprise  and  skill,  which  once  held  chief 
affinity  with  the  ocean  or  the  sea-board,  now 
begin  to  delight  the  interior,  haunting  our 
rivers,  where  the  music  of  the  waterfall, 
with  powers  more  attractive  than  those  of 
the  fabled  harp  of  Orpheus,  collects  around 
it  intellectual  man  and  material  nature. 
Towns  and  cities,  civilized  and  happy  com- 
munities, rise,  like  exhalations,  on  rocks 
and  in  forests,  till  the  deep  and  far-sound- 
ing voice  of  the  neighboring  torrent  is  itself 
lost  and  unheard,  amid  the  predominating 
noise  of  successful  and  rejoicing  labor. 

What  lessons  has  New  England,  in  every 
period  of  her  history,  given  to  the  world  1 
What  lessons  do  her  condition  and  example 
still  give!  How  unprecedented,  yet  how 
practical !  How  simple,  yet  how  powerful! 
She  has  proved  that  all  the  variety  of  Chris- 
tian sects  may  live  together  in  harmony  under 
a  government  which  allows  equal  privileges 
to  all,  exclusive  pre-eminence  to  none.  She 
has  proved  that  ignorance  among  the  multi- 
tude is  not  necessary  to  order,  but  that  the 
surest  basis  of  perfect  order  is  the  informa- 
tion of  the  people.  She  has  proved  the  old 
maxim,  that  "No  government  except  a  des- 
potism with  a  standing  army  can  subsist 
where  the  people  have  arms,"  to  be  false. 
Ever  since  the  first  settlement  of  the  coun- 
try arms  have  been  required  to  be  in  the 
hands  of  the  whole  multitude  of  New  Eng- 
land :  yet  the  use  of  them  in  a  private 
quarrel,  if  it  have  ever  happened,  is  so  rare 
that  a  late  writer  of  great  intelligence,  who 
had  passed  his  whole  life  in  New  England 
and  possessed  extensive  means  of  informa- 
tion, declares,  "  I  know  not  a  single  instance 
of  it."  [See  Travels  in  New  England  and 
New  York,  by  Timothy  Dwight,  S.T.D., 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 


313 


LL.D.,  late  President  of  Yale  College,  vol. 
iv.,  p.  334.  Foot-note.]  She  has  proved  that 
a  people  of  a  character  essentially  military 
may  subsist  without  duelling.  New  Eng- 
land has  at  all  times  been  distinguished 
both  on  the  land  and  on  the  ocean  for  a 
daring,  fearless,  ;tnd  enterprising  spirit;  yet 
the  same  writer  asserts  [ibid.,  p.  336]  that, 
during  the  whole  period  of  her  existence 
her  soil  has  been  disgraced  but  by  jice  duels, 
and  that  only  two  of  these  were  fought  by 
her  native  inhabitants  !  Perhaps  this  asser- 
tion is  not  minutely  correct.  There  can, 
however,  be  no  question  that  it  is  suffi- 
ciently near  the  truth  to  justify  the  position 
for  which  it  is  here  adduced,  and  which  the 
history  of  New  England,  as  Avell  as  the  ex- 
perience of  her  inhabitants,  abundantly  con- 
firms,— that,  in  the  present  and  in  every  past 
age  the  spirit  of  our  institutions  has,  to 
every  important  practical  purpose,  annihi- 
lated the  spirit  of  duelling. 

Such  are  the  true  glories  of  the  institu- 
tions of  our  fathers !  Such  the  natural 
fruits  of  that  patience  in  toil,  that  frugality 
of  disposition,  that  temperance  of  habit, 
that  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and 
that  sense  of  religious  responsibility,  incul- 
cated by  the  precepts,  and  exhibited  in  the 
example,  of  every  generation  of  our  ances- 
tors !  .  .  . 

The  great  comprehensive  truths,  written 
in  letters  of  living  light  on  every  page  of 
our  history, — the  language  addressed  by 
every  past  age  of  New  England  to  all  future 
ages,  is  this  :  Human  happiness  has  no  per- 
fect security  but  freedom ;  freedom,  none  but 
virtue;  virtue,  none  but  knowledge;  and 
neither  freedom,  nor  virtue,  nor  knowledge 
has  ant/  vigor,  or  immortal  hope,  except  in 
the  principles  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  in 
the  sanctions  of  the  Christian  religion. 

Men  of  Massachusetts  !  citizens  of  Boston  ! 
descendants  of  the  early  emigrants!  con- 
sider your  blessings ;  consider  your  duties. 
You  have  an  inheritance  acquired  by  the 
labors  and  sufferings  of  six  successive  gen- 
erations of  ancestors.  They  founded  the 
fabric  of  your  prosperity  in  a  severe  and 
masculine  morality,  having  intelligence  for 
its  cement,  and  religion  for  its  groundwork. 
Continue  to  build  on  the  same  foundation, 
and  by  the  same  principles;  let  the  extend- 
ing temple  of  your  country's  freedom  rise, 
in  the  spirit  of  ancient  times,  in  proportions 
of  intellectual  find  moral  architecture, — just, 
simple,  and  sublime.  As  from  the  first  to 
this  day,  let  New  England  continue  to  be  an 
example  to  the  world  of  the  blessings  of  a 
free  government,  and  of  the  means  and 
capacity  of  man  to  maintain  it.  And  in  all 
times  to  come,  as  in  all  times  past,  may  Bos- 
ton be  amon";  the  foremost  and  the  boldest 


to  exemplify  and  uphold  whatever  constitutes 
the  prosperity,  the  happiness,  and  the  glory 
of  New  England. 

Address  to  the  Citizens  of  Boston,  XVII. 
September,  MDCCCXXX.,  the  Close  of 
the  Second  Century  from  the  First  Settle- 
ment of  the  City,  Boat.,  1830,  8vo. 


FRANCIS   JEFFREY, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1773,  educated  at  the 
University  of  Glasgow  and  at  Queen's  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  was  admitted  an  advocate  at 
the  Scotch  bar  171J4;  was  editor  of  The 
Edinburgh  Review  (of  which  he  was  with 
Henry  Brougham  and  Sydney  Smith  a  co- 
founder),  July,  1803,  to  June,  182'J,  Lord 
Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  1820, 
Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  June, 
182(J,  Lord  Advocate,  1830,  member  of  Par- 
liament, 1831-1834,  Judge  in  the  Scotch 
Court  of  Session,  with  the  title  of  Lord 
Jeffrey,  from  1834  until  his  death,  1850. 

To  The  Edinburgh  Review  he  contributed 
200  articles, — No.  1,  being  the  first  article  in 
the  first  number,  October,  1802,  and  No. 
200,  published  January,  1848.  Of  these,  79 
were  published  together  as  Contributions  to 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  London,  1843,  4 
vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1846,  3  vols.  8vo,  3d  edit., 
1853,  8vo.  The  121  remaining  articles 
should  be  collected.  His  article  on  Beauty, 
republished,  with  alterations,  in  the  Ency- 
clopaedia Britanniea,  will  be  found  in  the 
Contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

"  Of  all  the  treatises  that  have  been  published  on 
the  theory  of  taste,  it  is  the  most  complete  in  its 
philosophy  and  the  most  delightful  in  its  writing  ; 
and  it  is  as  sound  as  the  subject  admits  of." — LOUD 
CoCKBURJf :  Life  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  vol.  i. 

"  Few  works  of  the  kind  are  more  questionable 
in  the  principle,  or  more  loose  in  the  arrangement 
and  argument." — LYALL:  Aynuixtet,  or  Philosoph. 
Stricture*,  eta.,  Lond.,  1856,  18-44. 

"  Mr.  Jeffrey  is  far  from  a  flowery  or  affected 
writer:  he  has  few  tropes  or  figures,  still  less  any 
odd  startling  thoughts  or  quaint  innovations  in  ex- 
pression ;  but  he  has  a  constant  supply  of  ingeni- 
ous solutions  and  pertinent  examples;  he  never 
proses,  never  grows  dull,  never  wears  an  argument 
to  tatters:  and  by  the  number,  the  liveliness,  and 
facility  of  his  transitions,  keeps  that  appearance 
of  vivacity,  of  novel  and  sparkling  eflt-ct,  for  which 
others  are  too  often  indebted  to  singularity  of  com  • 
bination  or  tinsel  ornaments." — HAZLITT:  Spirit 
of  tlie  Aye.  See  also  Selections  from  the  Corres- 
pondence of  the  la'e  Macvey  Napier,  Esq.  Edited 
by  His  Son,  Macvey  Napier.  London,  1879,  8vo. 
Index,  p.  548. 


PROGRESS  OF  E.VGUSII  LITERATURE. 


By  far  the  most  considerable  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  the  world  of  letters,  in 


314 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 


our  days,  is  that  by  which  the  wits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  have  been  gradually  brought 
down  from  the  supremacy  which  they  had 
enjoyed,  without  competition  for  the  best 
part  of  a  century.  When  we  were  at  our 
studies,  some  twenty-five  years  ago,  we  can 
perfectly  remember  that  every  young  man 
was  set  to  read  Pope,  Swift,  and  Addison  as 
regularly  as  Virgil,  Cicero,  and  Horace.  All 
•who  had  any  tincture  of  letters  were  familiar 
with  their  writings  and  their  history ;  allu- 
sions to  them  abounded  hi  all  popular  dis- 
courses and  all  ambitious  conversation  ;  and 
they  and  their  contemporaries  were  univer- 
sally acknowledged  as  our  great  models  of  ex- 
cellence, and  placed  without  challenge  at  the 
head  of  our  national  literature.  New  books, 
even  when  allowed  to  have  merit,  were  never 
thought  of  as  fit  to  be  placed  in  the  same 
class,  but  were  generally  read  and  forgotten, 
and  passed  away  like  the  transitory  meteors 
of  a  lower  sky  ;  while  they  remained  in  their 
brightness,  and  were  supposed  to  shine  with 
a  fixed  and  unalterable  glory. 

All  this,  however,  we  take  it,  is  now  pretty 
well  altered  ;  and  in  so  far  as  persons  of  our 
antiquity  can  judge  of  the  training  and 
habits  of  the  rising  generation,  those  cele- 
brated writers  no  longer  form  the  manual  of 
our  studious  youth,  or  enter  necessarily  into 
the  institution  of  a  liberal  education.  Their 
names,  indeed,  are  still  familiar  to  our  ears ; 
but  their  writings  no  longer  solicit  our  habit- 
ual notice,  and  their  subjects  begin  already 
to  fade  from  our  recollection.  Their  high 
privileges  and  proud  distinctions,  at  any  rate, 
have  evidently  passed  into  other  hands.  It 
is  no  longer  to  them  that  the  ambitious  look 
up  with  envy,  or  the  humble  with  admira- 
tion ;  nor  is  it  in  their  pages  that  the  pre- 
tenders to  wit  and  eloquence  now  search  for 
allusions  that  are  sure  to  captivate,  and  illus- 
trations that  cannot  be  mistaken.  In  this 
decay  of  their  reputation  they  have  few  ad- 
vocates, and  no  imitators:  and,  from  a  com- 
parison of  many  observations,  it  seems  to  be 
clearly  ascertained  that  they  are  declined 
considerably  from  "  the  high  meridian  of 
their  glory,"  and  may  fairly  be  apprehended 
to  be  "hastening  to  their  setting."  Neither 
is  it  time  alone  that  has  wrought  this  ob- 
scuration ;  for  the  fame  of  Shakspeare  still 
shines  in  undecaying  brightness:  and  that 
of  Bacon  has  been  steadily  advancing  and 
gathering  new  honours  during  the  whole 
period  which  has  witnessed  the  rise  and 
decline  of  less  vigorous  successors. 

There  are  but  two  possible  solutions  for 
phenomena  of  this  sort.  Our  taste  has  either 
degenerated,  or  its  old  models  have  been 
fairly  surpassed :  and  we  have  ceased  to 
admire  the  writers  of  the  last  century  only 
because  they  are  too  good  for  us, — or  be- 


cause they  arc  not  good  enough.  Now,  we 
confess  we  are  not  believers  in  the  abso- 
lute and  permanent  corruption  of  national 
taste :  on  the  contrary,  we  think  that  it  is, 
of  all  faculties,  that  which  is  most  sure  to 
advance  and  improve  with  time  and  experi- 
ence ;  and  that,  with  the  exception  of  those 
great  physical  or  political  disasters  which 
have  a  check  to  civilization  itself,  there  has 
always  been  a  sensible  progress  in  this  par- 
ticular :  and  that  the  general  taste  of  every 
successive  generation  is  better  than  that  of 
its  predecessors.  There  are  little  capricious 
fluctuations,  no  doubt,  and  fits  of  foolish  ad 
miration  or  fastidiousness,  which  cannot  be 
so  easily  accounted  for:  but  the  great  move- 
ments are  all  progressive  ;  and  though  the 
progress  consists  at  one  time  in  withholding 
toleration  from  gross  faults,  and  at  another 
in  giving  their  high  prerogative  to  great 
beauties,  this  alteration  has  no  tendency  to 
obstruct  the  general  advance;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  is  the  best  and  the  safest  course  in 
which  it  can  be  conducted. 

We  are  of  opinion,  then,  that  the  writers 
who  adorned  the  beginning  of  the  last  cen- 
tury have  been  eclipsed  by  those  of  our  own 
time ;  and  that  they  have  no  chance  of  ever 
regaining  the  supremacy  in  which  they  have 
been  supplanted.  There  is  not,  however,  in 
our  judgment,  anything  very  stupendous  in 
this  triumph  of  our  contemporaries ;  and 
the  greater  wonder  with  us  is  that  it  was  so 
long  delayed,  and  left  for  them  to  achieve. 
For  the  truth  is,  that  the  writers  of  the 
former  age  had  not  a  great  deal  more  than 
their  judgment  and  industry  to  stand  on  ; 
and  were  always  much  more  remarkable  for 
the  fewness  of  their  faults  than  the  great- 
ness of  their  beauties.  Their  laurels  were 
won  much  more  by  good  conduct  and  dis- 
cipline, than  by  enterprising  boldness  or 
native  force :  nor  can  it  be  regarded  as  any 
very  great  merit  in  those  who  had  so  little 
of  that  inspiration  of  genius,  to  have  steered 
clear  of  the  dangers  to  which  that  inspira- 
tion is  liable.  Speaking  generally  of  that 
generation  of  authors,  it  may  be  said  that, 
as  poets,  they  had  no  force  or  greatness  of 
fancy, — no  pathos,  and  no  enthusiasm  ; — 
and,  as  philosophers,  no  comprehensiveness, 
depth,  or  originality.  They  are  sagacious, 
no  doubt,  neat,  clear,  and  reasonable,  but  for 
the  most  part,  cold,  timid,  and  superficial. 
They  never  meddle  with  the  great  scenes  of 
nature,  or  the  great  passions  of  man ;  but 
content  themselves  with  just  and  sarcastic 
representations  of  city  life,  and  of  the  paltry 
passions  and  meaner  vices  that  are  bred  in 
that  lower  element.  Their  chief  care  is  to 
avoid  being  ridiculous  in 'the  eyes  of  the 
witty,  and  above  all  to  eschew  the  ridicule 
of  excessive  sensibility  or  enthusiasm, — to 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 


315 


be  at  once  witty  and   rational   themselves, 
with  as  good   a  grace  as  possible ;    but   to 

five  their  countenance  to  no  wisdom,  no 
mcy,  and  no  morality  which  passes  the 
standards  current  in  good  company  Their 
inspiration,  accordingly,  is  nothing  more 
than  a  sprightly  sort  of  good  sense ;  and 
they  have  scarcely  any  invention  but  what 
is  subservient  to  the  purposes  of  derision 
and  satire.  Little  gleams  of  pleasantry  and 
sparkles  of  wit  glitter  through  their  com- 
positions ;  but  no  glow  of  feeling — no  blaze 
of  imagination — no  flashes  of  genius  ever 
irradiate  their  substance.  They  never  pass 
beyond  "  the  visible  diurnal  sphere,"  or  deal 
in  any  thing  that  can  either  lift  us  above  our 
vulgar  nature,  or  ennoble  its  reality.  AVith 
these  accomplishments,  they  may  pass  well 
enough  for  sensible  and  polite  writers, — but 
scarcely  for  men  of  genius  :  .and  it  is  cer- 
tainly far  more  surprising  that  persons  of 
this  description  should  have  maintained 
themselves  for  near  a  century,  at'  the  head 
of  the  literature  of  a  country  that  had  pre- 
viously produced  a  Shakspeare,  a  Spenser, 
a  Bacon,  and  a  Taylor,  than  that,  towards 
the  end  of  that  long  period,  doubts  should 
have  .arisen  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  a  title  by 
which  they  laid  claim  to  that  high  station. 
Both  parts  of  the  phenomenon,  however, 
\ve  dare  say,  had  causes  which  better  ex- 
pounders might  explain  to  the  satisfaction 
of  all  the  world.  We  see  them  but  imper- 
fectly, and  have  room  only  for  an  imperfect 
sketch  of  what  we  sec. 

Our  first  literature  consisted  of  saintly 
legends  and  romances  of  chiv.'ilry,  though 
Chaucer  gave  it  a  more  national  and  popu- 
lar character,  by  his  original  descriptions 
of  external  nature,  and  the  familiarity  and 
gaiety  of  his  social  humour.  In  the  time 
of  Elizabeth  it  received  a  copious  infu- 
sion of  classical  images  and  ideas;  but  it 
was  still  intrinsically  romantic,  serious, 
and  even  somewhat  lofty  and  enthusiastic. 
Authors  were  then  so  few  in  number  that 
they  were  looked  upon  with  a  sort  of  vener- 
ation, and  considered  as  a  kind  of  inspired 
persons ;  at  least  they  were  not  yet  so  nu- 
merous as  to  be  obliged  to  abuse  each  other, 
in  order  to  obtain  a  share  of  distinction  for 
themselves;  and  they  neither  affected  a  tone 
of  derision  in  their  writings,  nor  wrote  in  fear 
of  derision  from  others.  They  were  filled 
with  their  subjects,  and  dealt  with  them 
fearlessly  in  their  own  way  ;  and  the  stamp 
of  originality,  force,  and  freedom  is  conse- 
quently upon  almost  all  their  productions. 
In  the  reign  of  James  I.  our  literature,  with 
some  few  exceptions,  touching  rather  the 
form  than  the  substance  of  its  merits,  ap- 
pears to  us  to  have  reached  the  greatest  per- 
fection to  which  it  has  yet  attained  ;  though 


it  would  probably  have  advanced  still  farther 
in  the  succeeding  reign  had  not  the  great 
national  dissensions  which  then  arose  turned 
the  talent  and  energy  of  the  people  into  other 
channels, — first  to  the  assertion  of  their 
civil  rights,  and  afterwards  to  the  discussion 
of  their  religious  interests.  The  graces  of 
literature  sutfered  of  course  in  those  fierce 
contentions,  and  a  deeper  shade  of  austerity 
was  thrown  upon  the  intellectual  character 
of  the  nation.  Her  genius,  however,  though 
less  captivating  and  adorned  than  in  the 
happier  days  which  preceded,  was  still  ac- 
tive, fruitful,  and  commanding ;  and  the 
period  of  the  civil  wars,  besides  the  mighty 
minds  that  guided  the  public  counsels,  and 
were  absorbed  in  public  cares,  produced  the 
giant  powers  of  Taylor,  and  llobbes,  and 
Barrow, — the  muse  of  Milton,  the  learning 
of  Coke,  and  the  ingenuity  of  Cowley. 

The  Restoration  introduced  a  French  court, 
under  circumstances  more  favourable  for  the 
effectual  exercise  of  court  influence  than  ever 
before  existed  in  England  ;  but  this  of  itself 
would  not  have  been  sufficient  to  account  for 
the  sudden  change  in  our  literature  which 
ensued.  It  was  seconded  by  causes  of  far 
more  general  operation.  The  Restoration 
was  undoubtedly  a  popular  act;  and,  inde- 
fensible as  the  conduct  of  the  army  and  the 
civil  leaders  was  on  that  occasion,  there  can 
be  no  question  that  the  severities  of  Crom- 
well and  the  extravagances  of  the  sectaries 
had  made  republican  professions  hateful 
and  religious  ardour  ridiculous,  in  the  eyes 
of  a  great  proportion  of  the  people.  All 
the  eminent  writers  of  the  preceding  period, 
however,  had  inclined  to  the  party  that  was 
now  overthrown,  and  their  writings  had  not 
merely  been  accommodated  to  the  character 
of  the  government  under  which  they  were 
produced,  but  were  deeply  imbued  with  its 
obnoxious  principles,  which  were  those  of 
their  respective  authors.  When  the  re- 
straints of  authority  were  taken  off,  there- 
fore, and  it  became  profitable,  as  well  as 
popular,  to  discredit  the  fallen  party,  it  was 
natural  that  the  leading  authors  should  affect 
a  style  of  levity  and  derision,  as  most  oppo- 
site to  that  of  their  opponents,  and  best  cal- 
culated for  the  purposes  they  had  in  view. 
The  nation,  too.  was  now  for  the  first  time 
essentially  divided  in  point  of  character  and 
principle,  and  a  much  greater  proportion 
were  capable  both  of  writing  in  support  of 
their  own  notions  and  of  being  influenced 
by  what  was  written.  Add  to  this,  that 
there  were  real  and  serious  defects  in  the 
style  and  manner  of  the  former  generation  • 
and  that  the  grace,  and  brevity,  and  vivacity 
of  that  gayer  manner,  which  was  now  intro- 
duced from  France,  were  not  only  good  and 
captivating  in  themselves,  but  had  then  all 


316 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 


the  charms  of  novelty  and  of  contrast,  and 
it  will  not  be  difficult  to  understand  how  it 
came  to  supplant  that  which  had  been  estal>- 
lished  of  old  in  the  country,  and  that  so  sud- 
denly, that  the  same  generation  among  whom 
Milton  had  been  formed  to  the  severe  sanc- 
tity of  wisdom  and  the  noble  independence 
of  genius,  lavished  its  loudest  applauses  on 
the  obscenity  and  servility  of  such  writers 
as  Rochester  and  Wycherly. 

This  change,  however,  like  all  sudden 
changes,  WHS  too  tierce  and  violent  to  be  long 
maintained  at  the  same  pitch,  and  when  the 
wits  and  profligates  of  King  Charles  had 
sufficiently  insulted  the  seriousness  and  vir- 
tue of  their  predecessors,  there  would  prob- 
ably have  been  a  revulsion  towards  the  ac- 
customed taste  of  the  nation,  had  not  the 
party  of  the  innovators  been  reinforced  by 
champions  of  more  temperance  and  judg- 
ment. The  result  seemed  at  one  time  sus- 
pended on  the  will  of  Dryden,  in  whose 
individual  person  UKJ  genius  of  the  English 
and  of  the  French  school  of  literature  may 
be  said  to  have  maintained  a  protracted 
struggle.  But  the  evil  principle  prevailed! 
Carried  by  the  original  bent  of  his  genius, 
and  his  familiarity  with  our  older  models,  to 
the  cultivation  of  our  native  style,  to  which 
he  might  have  imparted  more  steadiness  and 
correctness, — for  in  force  and  in  sweetness  it 
was  already  matchless, — he  was  unluckily 
seduced  by  the  attractions  of  fashion,  and 
the  dazzling  of  the  clear  wit  and  rhetoric  in 
which  it  delighted,  to  lend  his  powerful  wit  to 
the  new  corruptions  and  refinements  and,  in 
fact,  to  prostitute  his  great  gifts  to  the  pur- 
poses of  party  rage  or  licentious  ribaldry. 

The  sobriety  of  the  succeeding  reigns  al- 
layed this  fever  of  profanity,  but  no  genius 
arose  sufficiently  powerful  to  break  the  spell 
that  still  withheld  us  from  the  use  of  our 
own  peculiar  gifts  and  faculties.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  the  unfortunate  ambition 
of  the  next  generation  of  authors  to  improve 
and  perfect  the  new  style  rather  than  to  re- 
turn to  the  old  one;  and  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  they  did  improve  it.  They  corrected 
its  gross  indecency,  increased  its  precision 
and  correctness,  made  its  pleasantry  and 
sarcasm  more  polished  and  elegant,  and 
spread  through  the  whole  of  its  irony,  its 
narration,  and  its  reflection  a  tone  of  clear 
and  condensed  good  sense,  which  recom- 
mended itself  to  all  who  had  and  all  who 
had  not  any  relish  for  higher  beauties. 

This  is  the  praise  of  Queen  Anne's  wits, 
nnd  to  this  praise  they  are  justly  entitled. 
This  was  left  for  them  to  do,  and  they  did  it 
well.  They  were  invited  to  it  by  the  cir- 
cumstances of  their  situation,  and  do  not 
seem  to  have  been  possessed  of  any  such 
bold  or  vigorous  spirit  as  cither  to  neglect 


or  to  outgo  the  invitation.  Coming  into  life 
immediately  after  the  consummation  of  a 
bloodless  revolution,  effected  much  more  by 
the  cool  sense  than  the  angry  passion  of  the 
nation,  they  seem  to  have  felt  that  they  were 
born  in  an  age  of  reason  rather  than  of  feel- 
ing or  fancy  ;  and  that  men's  minds,  though 
considerably  divided  and  unsettled  upon 
many  points,  were  in  a  much  better  temper 
to  relish  judicious  argument  and  cutting 
satire  than  the  glow  of  enthusiastic  passion 
or  the  richness  of  a  luxuriant  imagination. 
To  those  accordingly  they  made  no  preten- 
sions;  but,  writing  with  infinite  good  sense, 
and  great  grace  and  vivacity,  and,  above  all, 
writing  for  the  first  time  in  a  tone  that  was 
peculiar  to  the  upper  ranks  of  society,  and 
upon  subjects  that  were  almost  exclusively 
interesting  to  them,  they  naturally  figured, 
at  least  while  the  manner  was  new,  as  the 
most  accomplished,  fashionable,  and  perfect 
writers  which  the  world  had  ever  seen  ;  and 
made  the  wild,  luxuriant,  and  humble  sweet- 
ness of  our  earlier  authors  appear  rude  and 
untutored  in  the  comparison.  Men  grew 
ashamed  of  admiring  and  afraid  of  imitating 
writers  of  so  little  skill  and  smartness  ;  and 
the  opinion  became  general,  not  only  that 
their  faults  were  intolerable,  but  that  even 
their  beauties  were  puerile  and  barbarous, 
and  unworthy  the  serious  regard  of  a  polite 
and  distinguishing  age. 

These,  and  similar  considerations,  will  go 
far  to  account  for  the  celebrity  which  those 
authors  acquired  in  their  day  ;  but  it  is  not 
quite  so  easy  to  explain  how  they  should 
have  so  long  retained  their  ascendant.  One 
cause,  undoubtedly,  was  the  real  excellence 
of  their  productions,  in  the  style  which  they 
had  adopted.  It  was  hopeless  to  think  of 
surpassing  them  in  that  style:  and,  recom- 
mended as  it  was  by  the  felicity  of  their  ex- 
ecution, it  required  some  courage  to  depart 
from  it,  and  to  recur  to  another,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  so  lately  abandoned 
for  its  sake.  The  age  which  succeeded,  too, 
was  not  the  age  of  courage  or  adventure. 
There  never  was,  on  the  whole,  a  quieter 
time  than  the  reigns  of  the  two  first  Georges, 
and  the  greater  part  of  that  which  ensued. 
There  were  two  little  provincial  rebellions 
indeed,  and  a  fair  proportion  of  foreign  war; 
but  there  was  nothing  to  stir  the  minds  of 
the  people  at  large,  to  rouse  their  passions 
or  excite  their  imaginations,  nothing  like 
the  agitations  of  the  Reformation  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  or  of  the  civil  wars  in  the 
seventeenth.  They  went  on,  accordingly, 
minding  their  old  business,  and  reading 
their  old  books,  with  great  patience  and 
stupidity.  And  certainly  there  never  was 
so  remarkable  a  dearth  of  original  talent — 
so  long  an  interregnum  of  native  genius — 


FRANCIS  JEFFREY. 


317 


as  during  about  sixty  years  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century. 

The  dramatic  art  was  dead  fifty  years  be- 
fore; and  poetry  seemed  verging  to  a  similar 
extinction.  The  few  sparks  that  appeared 
too,  showed  that  the  old  fire  was  burnt  out, 
and  that  the  altar  must  hereafter  be  heaped 
with  fuel  of  another  quality.  Gray,  with 
the  talents  rather  of  a  critic  than  a  poet, 
with  learning,  fastidiousness,  and  scrupulous 
delicacy  of  taste,  instead  of  fire,  tenderness, 
or  invention,  began  and  ended  a  small  school, 
which  we  could  scarcely  have  wished  to  be- 
come permanent,  admirable  in  many  re- 
spects as  some  of  its  productions  are,  being 
far  too  elaborate  and  artificial  either  for 
grace  or  for  fluency,  and  fitter  to  excite  the 
admiration  of  scholars  than  the  delight  of 
ordinary  men.  However,  he  had  the  merit 
of  not  being  in  any  degree  French,  and  of 
restoring  to  our  poetry  the  dignity  of  serious- 
ness, and  the  tone  at  least  of  force  and  en- 
ergy. The  Wartons,  both  as  critics  and  as 
poets,  were  of  considerable  service  in  dis- 
crediting the  high  pretensions  of  the  former 
race,  and  in  bringing  back  to  public  notice 
the  great  stores  and  treasures  of  poetry 
which  lay  hid  in  the  records  of  our  older 
literature.  Akenside  attempted  a  sort  of 
classical  and  philosophical  rapture,  which 
no  language  could  easily  have  rendered  pop- 
ular, but  which  had  merits  of  no  vulgar  or- 
der for  those  who  could  study  it.  Goldsmith 
wrote  with  perfect  elegance  and  beauty,  in  a 
style  of  mellow  tenderness  and  elaborate  sim- 
plicity, lie  had  the  harmony  of  Pope  with- 
out his  quaintness,  and  his  selectness  of 
diction  without  his  coldness  and  eternal  vi- 
vacity. And  last  of  all  came  Cowper,  with 
a  style  of  complete  originality  ;  and,  for  the 
last  time,  made  it  apparent  to  readers  of  all 
descriptions  that  Pope  and  Addison  were  no 
longer  to  be  the  models  of  English  poetry. 

In  philosophy  and  prose  writing  in  general 
the  case  was  nearly  parallel.  The  name  of 
Hume  is  by  far  the  most  considerable  which 
occurs  in  the  period  to  which  we  have  al- 
luded. But  though  his  thinking  was  Eng- 
lish, his  style  is  entirely  French  ;  and,  being 
naturally  of  a  cold  fancy,  there  is  nothing 
of  that  eloquence  or  richness  about  him 
which  characterizes  the  writings  of  Taylor, 
and  Hooker,  and  Bacon  ;  and  continues,  with 
less  weight  of  matter,  to  please  in  those  of 
Covvley  and  Clarendon.  Warburton  had 
great  powers,  and  wrote  with  more  force  and 
freedom  than  the  wits  to  whom  he  succeeded  ; 
but  his  faculties  were  perverted  by  a  paltry 
love  of  pai-adox,  and  rendered  useless  to 
mankind  by  an  unlucky  choice  of  subjects, 
and  the  arrogance  and  dogmatism  of  his 
temper.  Adam  Smith  was  nearly  the  first  who 
made  deeper  reasonings  and  more  exact 


knowledge  popular  among  us ;  and  Junius 
and  Johnson  the  first  who  again  familiarized 
us  with  more  glowing  and  sonorous  diction, 
and  made,  us  feel  the  tameness  and  poorness 
of  the  serious  style  of  Addison  and  Swift. 

This  brings  us  down  almost  to  the  present 
times,  in  which  the  revolution  in  our  litera- 
ture has  been  accelerated  and  confirmed  by 
the  concurrence  of  many  causes.  The  agita- 
tions of  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  dis- 
cursions  as  well  as  the  hopes  and  terrors  to 
which  it  gave  occasion, — the  genius  of  Ed- 
mund Burke,  and  some  others  of  his  land  of 
genius, — the  impression  of  the  new  literature 
of  Germany,  evidently  the  original  of  our 
late  school  of  poetry,  and  of  many  innova- 
tions in  our  drama, — the  rise  or  revival  of  a 
more  evangelical  spirit  in  the  body  of  the 
people, — and  the  vast  extension  of  our  politi- 
cal and  commercial  relations,  which  have 
not  only  familiarized  all  ranks  of  people 
with  distant  countries  and  great  under- 
takings, but  have  brought  knowledge  and 
enterprise  home,  not  merely  to  the  imagina- 
tion, but  to  the  actual  experience  of  almost 
every  individual. — all  these,  and  several  other 
circumstances,  have  so  far  improved  or  ex- 
cited the  character  of  our  nation,  as  to  have 
created  an  effectual  demand  for  more  pro- 
found speculation  and  more  serious  emotion 
than  was  dealt  in  by  the  writers  of  the  former 
century,  and  which,  if  it  has  not  yet  pro- 
duced a  corresponding  supply  in  all  branches, 
has  at  least  had  the  effect  of  decrying  the 
commodities  that  were  previously  in  vogue, 
as  unsuited  to  the  altered  condition  of  the 
times. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

Many  persons  are  very  sensible  of  the 
effect  of  fine  poetry  upon  their  feelings  who 
do  not  well  know  how  to  refer  those  feelings 
to  their  causes  ;  and  it  is  always  a  delightful 
thing  to  be  made  to  see  clearly  the  sources 
from  which  our  delight  has  proceeded,  and 
to  trace  the  mingled  stream  that  has  flowed 
upon  our  hearts  to  the  remoter  fountains 
from  which  it  has  been  gathered  ;  and  when 
this  is  done  with  warmth  as  well  as  precis- 
ion, and  embodied  in  an  eloquent  description 
of  the  beauty  which  is  explained,  it  forms 
one  of  the  most  attractive,  and  not  the  least 
instructive,  of  literary  exercises.  In  all 
works  of  merit,  however,  and  especially  in 
all  works  of  original  genius,  there  are  a 
thousand  retiring  and  less  obtrusive  graces, 
which  escape  hasty  and  superficial  observers, 
and  only  give  out  their  beauties  to  fond  and 
patient  contemplation;  a  thousand  slight 
and  harmonizing  touches,  the  merit  and  the 
effect  of  which  are  equally  imperceptible  to 
vulgar  eyes;  and  a  thousand  indications  of 
the  continual  presence  of  that  poetical  spirit 


318 


ROBERT  S  OUT  HEY. 


which  can  only  be  recognized  by  those  who 
are  iti  some  measure  under  its  influence,  and 
have  prepared  themselves  to  receive  it  by 
worshipping  meekly  at  the  shrines  which  it 
inhabits. 

In  the  exposition  of  these  there  is  room 
enough  for  originality,  and  more  room  than 
Mr.  Hazlitt  has  yet  filled.  In  many  points, 
however,  he  has  acquitted  himself  excellently; 
particularly  in  the  development  of  the  prin- 
cipal characters  with  which  Shakspeare  has 
peopled  the  fancies  of  all  English  readers, — 
but  principally,  we  think,  in  the  delicate 
sensibility  with  which  he  has  traced,  and 
the  natural  eloquence  with  which  he  has 
pointed  out,  that  familiarity  with  beautiful 
forms  and  images, — that  eternal  recurrence 
to  what  is  sweet  or  majestic  in  the  simple 
aspect  of  nature, — that  indestructible  love 
of  flowers  and  odours,  and  dews  and  clear 
waters, — and  soft  airs  and  sounds,  and  bright 
skies,  and  woodland  solitudes,  and  moonlight 
bowers, — which  are  the  material  elements 
of  poetry, — and  that  fine  sense  of  their  un- 
definable  relation  to  mental  emotion,  which 
is  its  essence  and  vivifying  soul, — and  which, 
in  the  midst  of  Shakspeare's  most  busy  and 
atrocious  scenes,  falls  like  gleams  of  sunshine 
on  rocks  and  ruins, — contrasting  with  all 
that  is  rugged  and  repulsive,  and  reminding 
us  of  the  existence  of  purer  and  brighter 
elements, — which  he  alone  has  poured  out 
from  the  richness  of  his  own  mind,  without 
effort  or  restraint,  and  contrived  to  inter- 
mingle with  the  play  of  all  the  passions,  and 
the  vulgar  course  of  this  world's  affairs, 
without  deserting  for  an  instant  the  proper 
business  of  the  scene,  or  appearing  to  pause 
or  digress  from  love  of  ornament  or  need  of 
repose  ;  he  alone,  who,  when  the  subject  re- 
quires it,  is  always  keen,  and  worldly,  and 
practical,  and  who  yet,  without  changing  his 
hand,  or  stopping  his  course,  scatters  around 
him  as  he  goes  all  sounds  and  shapes  of 
sweetness,  and  conjures  up  landscapes  of 
immortal  fragrance  and  freshness,  and  peo- 
ples them  with  spirits  of  glorious  aspect  and 
attractive  grace,  and  is  a  thousand  times 
more  full  of  imagery  and  splendour  than 
those  who.  for  the  sake  of  such  qualities, 
have  shrunk  back  from  the  delineation  of 
character  or  passion,  and  declined  the  dis- 
cussion of  human  duties  and  cares.  More 
full  of  wisdom,  and  ridicule,  and  sagacity 
than  all  the  moralists  and  satirists  in  exist- 
ence, he  is  more  wild,  airy,  and  inventive, 
and  more  pathetic  and  fantastic,  than  all  the 
poets  of  all  regions  and  ages  of  the  world  ; 
and  has  all  those  elements  so  happily  mixed 
up  in  him,  and  bears  his  high  faculties  so 
temperately,  that  the  most  severe  reader  can- 
not complain  of  him  for  want  of  strength  or 
of  reason,  nor  the  most  sensitive  for  defect 


of  ornament  or  ingenuity.  Everything  in 
him  is  in  unmeasured  abundance  and  un- 
equalled perfection  ;  but  everything  so  bal- 
anced and  kept  in  subordination  as  not  to 
jostle  or  disturb  or  take  the  place  of  another. 
The  most  exquisite  poetical  conceptions,  im- 
ages, and  descriptions  are  given  with  such 
brevity,  and  introduced  with  such  skill,  as 
merely  to  adorn  without  loading  the  sense 
they  accompany.  Although  his  sails  are 
purple,  and  perfumed,  and  his  prow  of 
beaten  gold,  they  waft  him  on  his  voyage, 
not  less,  but  more,  rapidly  and  directly  than 
if  they  had  been  composed  of  baser  materi- 
als. All  his  excellences,  like  those  of  Na- 
ture herself,  are  thrown  out  together ;  and 
instead  of  interfering  with,  support  and 
recommend  each  other.  His  flowers  are  not 
tied  up  in  garlands,  nor  his  fruits  crushed 
into  baskets,  but  spring  living  from  the  soil, 
in  all  the  dew  and  freshness  of  youth  ;  while 
the  graceful  foliage  in  which  they  lurk,  and 
the  ample  branches,  the  rough  and  vigorous 
stem,  and  the  wide-spreading  roots  on  which 
they  depend,  are  present  along  with  them, 
and  share,  in  their  places,  the  equal  care  of 
their  Creator. 

Review  of  Hazlitffs  Characters  of  Shake- 
speare's 1'lays. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  LL.D., 

born  at  Bristol,  England,  1774,  studied  at 
Balliol  College,  Oxford,  1793-1794;  resided 
at  Lisbon  part  of  1796.  in  the  summer  of 
which  he  returned  to  Bristol ;  removed  to 
London,  February,  1797,  entered  himself  a 
student  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  commenced  the 
study  of  the  law,  which  he  soon  relin- 
quished; again  visited  Lisbon,  and  after  his 
return  became,  in  1801,  private  secretary  to 
Mr.  Corry,  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  for 
Ireland,  which  post  he  resigned  in  a  little 
over  six  months,  and  resolved  to  devote 
himself  to  literature,  to  which  he  had  al- 
ready made  some  published  contributions; 
in  1804  established  himself  at  Greta  Hall, 
Keswick,  Cumberland,  and  there  spent  the 
remaining  forty  years  of  a  most  industrious 
life;  lost  his  first  wife  (Edith  Fricker).  who 
had  previously  suffered  for  about  three  years 
under  derangement,  Nov.  16,  1837  ;  married 
Miss  Cfiroline  Anne  Bowles,  June  5,  1839; 
shortly  afterwards  sank  into  a  state  of  men- 
tal imbecility,  from  which  he  never  fully 
recovered,  and  died,  in  his  69th  year,  March 
21,  1843.  In  his  youth  he  was  a  short  time 
"  a  liberal,"  both  in  politics  and  religion : 
his  later  opinions  respecting  Church  and 
State  were  of  a  very  different  cast. 

Among  his  many  publications  were  the 
following:   Joan   of  Arc,   an   Epic   Poem, 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


319 


Bristol,  1796,  4to;  Letters  Written  during 
a  Short  Residence  in  Spain  and  Portugal, 
etc.,  Bristol,  1797,  8vo ;  Thalaba  the  De- 
stroyer, Lorid.,  1801,  2  vols.  crown  8vo ; 
Ainadis  of  Gaul,  from  the  Spanish  Version 
of  G.  do  Montalvo,  Lond.,  18U3,  4  vols. 
12mo;  Madoc,  a  Poem,  Lond.,  1805,  4to  ; 
Specimens  of  the  Later  English  Poets,  with 
Preliminary  Notices,  Lond.,  1807,  3  vols. 
crown  8vo  ;  Palmerin  of  England,  from  the 
Portuguese,  Lond.,  1807,4  vols.  12mo;  Let- 
ters from  England,  by  Don  Manuel  Alvarez 
Espriella,  Lond.,  1807,4  vols.  12mo;  Chron- 
icle of  the  Cid  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  the 
Campeador.  from  the  Spanish,  Lond.,  1808, 
4to,  Lowell,  Mass.,  1846,  royal  8vo;  The 
History  of  Brazil,  Lond.,  1810-17-19,  3  vols. 
4to  ;  Omniana:  seu  Horge  Otiosiores,  Lond., 
1812,  2  vols.  12mo  ;  The  Life  of  Nelson, 
Lond.,  1813,  2  vols.  fp.  8vo,  large  paper, 

East  8vo  ;  Roderick,  the  Last  of  the  Goths, 
ond.,  1814,  4to;  The  Life  of  John  Wesley, 
and  the  Rise  and  Progress  of  Methodism, 
Lond.,  1820,  2  vols.  8vo ;  A  Vision  of  Judg- 
ment, Lond.,  1821,  4to ;  History  of  the 
Peninsular  War,  Lond.,  1823-27-32,  3  vols. 
4to;  The  Book  of  the  Church,  Lond.,  1824, 
2  vols.  8vo;  Sir  Thomas  More;  or,  Collo- 
quies on  the  Progress  and  Prospects  of  So- 
ciety, Lond.,  1829,  2  vols.  8vo:  Naval  His- 
tory of  England,  Lond.  (Lardner's  Cab. 
Cyc.,  123-27),  5  vols.  12mo  (part  of  vol.  v. 
by  Robert  Bell).  He  also  edited  Bunyan's 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  Lond.,  1830,  8vo,  large 
paper,  royal  8vo;  Select  Works  of  British 
Poets,  Lond.,  1831,  med.  8vo;  Cowper's 
Works,  Lond.,  1833-37,  15  vols.  fp.  8vo ; 
Watte' s  Lyric  Poems,  Lond.,  1834,  12mo.  See 
The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert  Southey,  col- 
lected by  Himself.  Lond.,  1837-38,  10  vols. 
fp.  8vo ;  Sou  they 'H  Common-Place  Book, 
Edited  by  his  Son-in-law,  John  Wood  War- 
ter,  B.D.,  Lond.,  1849-51,  4  vols.  sq.  crown 
8vo;  The  Life  and  Correspondence  of  Robert 
Southey,  Edited  by  his  Son,  the  Rev.  Charles 
Cuthbert  Southey,  Lond.,  1849-50, 6  vols. 8vo. 

"  Mr.  Southey's  prose  style  can  scarcely  be  too 
much  praised.  It  is  plain,  clear,  pointed,  familiar, 
perfectly  modern  in  its  texture,  but  with  a  grave 
and  sparkling  admixture  of  archaism*  in  its  orna- 
ments and  occasional  phrnseology.  He  is  the  best 
and  most  natural  prose  writer  of  any  poet  of  the 
day:  we  mean  that  he  is  far  better  than  Lord  By- 
ron, Mr.  Wordsworth,  or  Mr.  Coleridge,  for  in- 
ftance." — WILLIAM  HAZLITT:  Spirit  of  the  Aye 
(Mr.  Southey).  Sec  also  his  Table-Talk,  Essay 
XXIV.  :  On  the  Prose  Style  of  Poets. 

"  His  prose  is  perfect.  Of  his  poetry  there  are 
various  opinions:  there  is,  perhaps,  too  much  for 
the  present  generation  :  posterity  will  probably 
select.  He  has  passages  equal  to  any  thing.  At 
present  he  has  a  part;/,  but  no  public, — except  for 
his  prose  writings.  The  Life  of  Nelson  is  beauti- 
ful."—LORD  BYRON:  Journal,  Nov.  22,  1813: 
Moore's  Byron,  vol.  i. 


"The  Life  of  Nelson  is  beautiful!"  ex- 
claims Lord  Byron.  Can  this  term  be  prop- 
erly applied  to  the  shocking  narrations  of 
human  slaughter  which  compose  "  The  Life 
of  Nelson"  ?  Whilst  our  Christian  youth 
peruse  for  their  classical  studies  the  obscen- 
ities of  the  Greek  and  Roman  poets,  and  for 
their  hours  of  recreation  the  warlike  ex- 
ploits of  Alexander,  Caesar,  Frederick,  Na- 
poleon, Hastings,  Clive,  Wellington,  and 
Nelson,  can  we  expect  them  to  exemplify 
in  their  lives  those  principles  of  purity  and 
peace  which  Avere  inculcated  by  the  Great 
Teacher?— (S.  A.  A.) 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  NILE. 

The  French  fleet  arrived  at  Alexandria  on 
the  1st  of  July,  and  Brueys,  not  being  able 
to  enter  the  port,  which  time  and  neglect 
had  ruined,  moored  the  ships  in  Aboukir 
Bay,  in  a  strong  and  compact  line  of  battle  ; 
the  headmost  vessel,  according  to  his  own 
account,  being  as  close  as  possible  to  a  shoal 
on  the  north-west,  and  the  rest  of  the  fleet 
forming  a  kind  of  curve  along  the  line  of 
deep  water,  so  as  not  to  be  turned  by  any 
means  in  the  south-west. 

The  advantage  of  numbers,  both  in  ships, 
guns,  and  men,  was  in  favour  of  the  French. 
They  had  thirteen  ships  of  the  line  and  four 
frigates,  carrying  1196  guns  and  11,230 
men.  The  English  had  the  same  number 
of  ships  of  the  line,  and  one  fifty-gun  ship, 
carrying  1012  guns  and  8068  men.  The 
English  ships  were  all  seventy-fours;  the 
French  had  three  eighty-gun  ships,  and  one 
three-decker  of  one  hundred  and  twenty. 

During  the  whole  pursuit  it  had  been 
Nelson's  practice,  whenever  circumstances 
would  permit,  to  have  his  captains  on  board 
the  Vanguard,  and  explain  to  them  his  own 
ideas  of  the  different  and  best  modes  of  at- 
tack, and  such  plans  as  he  proposed  to  exe- 
cute on  falling  in  with  the  enemy,  whatever 
their  situation  might  be.  There  is  no  possi- 
ble position,  it  is  said,  which  he  did  not 
take  into  consideration.  His  officers  were 
thus  fully  acquainted  with  his  principles  of 
tactics ;  and  such  was  his  confidence  in  their 
abilities,  that  the  only  thing  determined 
upon,  in  case  they  should  find  the  French 
at  anchor,  was  for  the  ships  to  form  as  most 
convenient  for  their  mutual  support,  and  to 
anchor  by  the  stern.  "  First  gain  your  vic- 
tory," he  said,  "and  then  make  the  best  use 
of  it  you  can."  The  moment  he  perceived 
the  position  of  the  French,  that  intuitive 
genius  with  which  Nelson  was  endowed  dis- 
played itself:  and  it  instantly  struck  him 
that  where  there  was  room  for  an  enemy's 
ship  to  swing  there  was  room  for  one  of  ours 
to  anchor.  The  plan  which  he  intended  to 


320 


ROBERT  SOU  THEY. 


pursue,  therefore,  was  to  keep  entirely  on 
the  outer  side  of  the  French  line,  and  station 
his  ships,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  one  on  the 
outer  bow  and  another  on  the  outer  quarter 
of  each  of  the  enemy's.  Captain  Berry, 
when  he  comprehended  the  scope  of  the  de- 
sign, exclaimed  with  transport,  "If  we  suc- 
ceed, what  will  the  world  say?"  "  There  is 
no  if  in  the  case,"  replied  the  admiral : 
'•  that  we  shall  succeed  is  certain. — Avho 
may  live  to  tell  the  story  is  a  very  different 
question." 

As  the  squadron  advanced,  they  were  as- 
sailed by  a  shower  of  shot  and  shell  from 
the  batteries  on  the  island,  and  the  enemy 
opened  a  steady  fire  from  the  starboard  side 
of  their  whole  line,  within  half-gunshot  dis- 
tance, full  into  the  bows  of  our  van  ships. 
It  was  received  in  silence;  the  men  on  board 
every  ship  were  employed  aloft  in  furling 
sails,  and  below  in  tending  the  braces,  and 
niiiking  ready  for  anchoring: — a  miserable 
sight  for  the  French,  who,  with  all  their 
skill  and  all  their  courage,  and  all  their 
advantages  of  number  and  situation,  were 
upon  that  element  on  which,  when  the  hour 
ot  trial  comes,  a  Frenchman  has  no  hope. 
Admiral  Brueys  was  a  brave  and  able  man; 
yet  the  indelible  character  of  his  country 
broke  out  in  one  of  his  letters,  wherein  he 
delivered  it  as  his  private  opinion  that  the 
English  had  missed  him,  because,  not  being 
superior  in  force,  they  did  not  think  it  pru- 
dent to  try  their  strength  with  him.  The 
moment  was  now  come  in  which  he  was  to 
be  undeceived. 

A  French  brig  was  instructed  to  decoy 
the  English,  by  manoeuvring  so  as  to  tempt 
them  towards  a  shoal  lying  off  the  island 
of  Beguieres  ;  but  Nelson  either  knew  the 
danger,  or  suspected  some  deceit,  and  the 
lure  was  unsuccessful.  Captain  Foley  led 
the  way  in  tlie  Goliath,  outsailing  the  Zeal- 
ous, which  for  some  minutes  disputed  this 
post  of  honour  with  him.  He  had  long  con- 
ceived that,  if  the  enemy  were  moored  in 
line  of  battle  in  with  the  land,  the  best  plan 
of  attack  would  be  to  lead  between  them 
and  the  shore,  because  the  French  guns  on 
that  side  were  not  likely  to  be  manned,  nor 
even  ready  for  action.  Intending,  there- 
fore, to  fix  himself  on  the  inner  bow  of  the 
Guerrier,  he  kept  as  near  the  edge  of  the 
bank  as  the  depth  of  water  would  admit: 
but  his  anchor  hung,  and  having  opened  his 
fire,  he  drifted  to  the  second  ship,  the  Con- 
qugrant,  before  it  was  cleared,  then  anchored 
by  the  stern,  inside  of  her,  and  in  ten  min- 
utes shot  away  her  masts.  Hood,  in  the 
Zealous,  perceiving  this,  took  the  station 
which  the  Goliath  intended  to  have  occu- 
pied, and  totally  disabled  the  Guerrier  in 
twelve  minutes.  The  third  ship  which 


doubled  the  enemy's  van  was  the  Orion,  Sir 
J.  Saumarez;  she  passed  to  windward  of  the 
Zealous,  and  opened  her  larboard  guns  as 
long  as  they  bore  on  the  Guerrier;  then, 
passing  inside  the  Goliath,  sunk  a  frigate 
which  annoyed  her,  hauled  towards  the 
French  line,  and.  anchoring  inside  between 
the  fifth  and  sixth  ships  from  the  Guerrier, 
took  her  station  on  the  larboard  bow  of 
the  Franklin  and  the  quarter  of  the  Peiiple 
Souverain.  The  Theseus,  Captain  Miller, 
followed,  brought  down  the  Guerrier's  re- 
maining main  and  mizzen  masts,  then  an- 
chored inside  the  Spartiate  the  third  in  the 
French  line. 

While  these  advanced  ships  doubled  the 
French  line,  the  Vanguard  was  the  first  that 
anchored  on  the  outer  side  of  the  enemy, 
within  half-pistol  shot  of  their  third  ship, 
the  Spartiate.  Nelson  had  six  colours  fly- 
ing in  different  parts  of  the  rigging  lest  they 
should  be  shot  away. — that  they  should  be 
struck,  no  British  admiral  considers  as  a 
possibility.  He  veered  half  a  cable,  and  in- 
stantly opened  a  tremendous  fire,  under  cover 
of  which  the  other  four  ships  of  his  division, 
the  Minotaur,  Bellerophon,  Defence,  and  Ma- 
jestic, sailed  on  ahead  of  the  admiral.  In  a 
few  minutes  every  man  stationed  at  the  first 
six  guns  in  the  fore  part  of  the  Vanguard's 
deck  was  killed  or  wounded, — these  guns 
were  three  times  cleared.  Captain  Louis,  in 
the  Minotaur,  anchored  next  ahead,  and  took 
off  the  fire  of  the  Aqnilon,  the  fourth  in  the 
enemy's  line.  The  Bellerophon,  Captain 
Darby,  passed  ahead,  and  dropped  her  stern 
anchor  on  the  starboard  bow  of  the  Orient, 
seventh  in  the  line.  Bruey's  own  ship,  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  guns,  whose  difference 
in  force  was  in  proportion  of  more  than 
seven  to  three,  and  whose  weight  of  ball, 
from  the  lower  deck  alone,  exceeded  that 
from  the  whole  broadside  of  the  Bellerophon. 
Captain  Peyton,  in  the  Defence,  took  his 
station  ahead  of  the  Minotaur  and  engaged 
the  Franklin,  the  sixth  in  the  line  ;  by  which 
judicious  movement  the  British  line  re- 
mained unbroken.  The  Majestic,  Captain 
Westcott,  got  entangled  with  the  main  rig- 
ging of  one  of  the  French  ships  astern  of  the 
Orient,  and  suffered  dreadfully  from  that 
three-decker's  fire  ;  but  she  swung  clear,  and 
closely  engaging  the  Hereiix,  the  ninth  ship 
in  the  starboard  bow,  received  also  the  fire 
of  the  Tonnant,  which  was  the  eighth  in  the 
line.  The  other  four  ships  of  the  British 
squadron,  having  been  detached  previous  to 
the  discovery  of  the  French,  were  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  when  the  action  began. 
It  commenced  at  half-after  six,  about  seven 
the  night  closed,  and  there  was  no  other 
liilht  than  that  from  the  fire  of  the  contend- 
ing fleets. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


321 


Trowbridge,  in  the  Cullodcn,  then  foremost 
of  the  remaining  ships,  was  two  leagues 
astern.  He  came  on  sounding,  as  the  others 
had  done.  As  he  advanced,  the  increasing 
darkness  increased  the  difficulty  of  the  navi- 
gation, and  suddenly,  after  having  found 
eleven  fathoms'  water,  before  the  lead  could 
be  hove  again,  he  was  fast  aground  ;  nor 
could  all  his  own  exertions,  joined  to  those 
of  the  Leander  and  the  Mutin6  brig,  which 
came  to  his  assistance,  get  him  off  in  time  to 
bear  a  part  in  the  action.  His  ship,  how- 
ever, served  as  a  beacon  to  the  Alexander 
and  Swiftsure,  which  would  else,  from  the 
course  they  were  holding,  have  gone  con- 
siderably farther  on  the  reef,  and  must  in- 
evitably have  been  lost.  These  ships  entered 
the  bay  and  took  their  stations,  in  the  dark- 
ness, in  a  manner  still  spoken  of  with  admira- 
tion by  all  who  remember  it.  Captain  Hal-. 
lowell,  in  the  Swiftsure,  as  he  was  bearing 
down,  fell  in  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  strange 
sail.  Nelson  had  directed  his  ships  to  hoist 
four  lights  horizontally  at  the  mizz.en  peak  as 
soon  as  it  became  dark,  and  this  vessel  had 
no  such  distinction.  Hallowcll,  however, 
with  great  judgment,  ordered  his  men  not  to 
fire.  "  If  she  was  an  enemy,"  he  said,  "she 
was  in  too  disabled  a  state  to  escape ;  but 
from  her  sails  being  loose,  and  the  way  in 
which  her  head  was,  it  was  probable  she 
might  be  an  English  ship."  It  was  the  Bel- 
lerophon,  overpowered  by  the  huge  Orient. 
Her  lights  had  gone  overboard,  nearly  two 
hundred  of  her  crew  were  killed  or  wounded, 
all  her  masts  and  cables  had  been  shot  away, 
and  she  was  drifting  out  of  the  line  towards 
the  lee  side  of  the  bay.  Her  station  at  this 
important  time  was  occupied  by  the  Swift- 
sure,  which  opened  a  steady  fire  on  the  quar- 
ter of  the  Franklin  and  the  bows  of  the 
French  admiral.  At  the  same  instant  Cap- 
tain Ball,  with  the  Alexander,  passed  under 
his  stern,  and  anchored  within  sight  on  his 
larboard  quarter,  raking  him,  and  keeping  a 
severe  fire  of  musketry  upon  his  decks.  The 
last  ship  which  arrived  to  complete  the  de- 
struction of  the  enemy  was  the  Leander. 
Captain  Thompson,  finding  that  nothing 
could  l)e  done  that  night  to  get  off  the  Cullo- 
den,  advanced  with  the  intention  of  anchor- 
ing ath  wart-hawse  of  the  Orient.  The  Frank- 
lin was  so  near  her  ahead  that  there  was  not 
room  for  him  to  pass  clear  of  the  two :  he 
therefore  took  his  station  athwart-hawse  of 
the  latter,  in  such  a  position  as  to  rake  both. 

The  first  two  ships  of  the  French  line  had 
been  dismasted  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
after  the  commencement  of  the  action  ;  and 
the  others  in  that  time  suffered  so  severely 
that  victory  was  already  certain.  The  third, 
fourth,  and  fifth  were  taken  possession  of  at 
half-past  eight.  Meantime  Nelson  received 


a  severe  wound  on  the  head  from  a  piece  of 
langrage  shot.  Captain  Berry  caught  him 
in  his  arms  as  he  was  falling.  The  great 
effusion  of  blood  occasioned  an  apprehension 
that  the  wound  was  mortal.  Nelson  him- 
self thought  so ;  a  large  flap  of  the  skin  of 
the  forehead,  cut  from  the  bone,  had  fallen 
over  the  eye  5  and  the  other  being  blind,  he 
was  in  total  darkness.  When  he  was  car- 
ried down,  the  surgeon,  in  the  midst  of  a 
scene  scarcely  to  be  conceived  by  those  who 
have  never  seen  a  cockpit  in  time  of  action, 
and  the  heroism  which  is  displayed  amid 
its  horrors,  with  a  natural  but  pardonable 
eagerness,  quitted  the  poor  fellow  then 
under  his  hands,  that  he  might  instantly 
attend  the  admiral.  "No!"  said  Nelson, 
''  I  will  take  my  turn  with  my  brave  fel- 
lows." Nor  would  he  suffer  his  own  wound 
to  be  examined  till  every  man  who  had 
been  previously  wounded  was  properly  at- 
tended to.  Fully  believing  that  the  wound 
was  mortal,  and  that  he  was  about  to  die, 
as  he  had  ever  desired,  in  battle  and  in  vic- 
tory, he  called  the  chaplain,  and  desired  him 
to  deliver  what  he  supposed  to  be  his  dying 
remembrance  to  Lady  Nelson  ;  he  then  sent 
for  Captain  Louis  on  board  from  the  Mino- 
taur, that  he  might  thank  him  personally 
for  the  great  assistance  he  had  rendered  to 
the  Vanguard  ;  and,  ever  mindful  of  those 
who  deserved  to  be  his  friends,  appointed 
Captain  Hardy  from  the  brig  to  the  com- 
mand of  his  own  ship,  Captain  Perry  hav- 
ing to  go  home  with  the  news  of  the  victory. 
When  the  surgeon  came  in  due  time  to  ex- 
amine the  wound  (for  it  was  in  vain  to  en- 
treat him  to  let  it  be  examined  sooner),  the 
most  anxious  silence  prevailed  ;  and  the  joy 
of  the  wounded  men,  and  of  the  whole  crew, 
when  they  heard  that  the  wound  was  super- 
ficial, gave  Nelson  deeper  pleasure  than  the 
unexpected  assurance  that  his  life  was  in  no 
danger.  The  surgeon  requested,  and,  as  far 
as  he  could,  ordered  him  to  remain  quiet ; 
but  Nelson  could  not  rest.  He  called  for 
his  secretary,  Mr.  Campbell,  to  write  the 
despatches.  Campbell  had  himself  been 
wounded,  and  was  so  affected  by  the  blind 
and  suffering  state  of  the  admiral  that  he 
was  unable  to  write.  The  chaplain  was 
sent  for;  but  before  he  came,  Nelson,  with 
his  characteristic  eagerness,  took  the  pen, 
and  contrived  to  trace  a  few  words,  marking 
his  devout  sense  of  the  success  which  had 
already  been  obtained.  lie  was  now  left 
alone;  when  suddenly  a  cry  was  heard  that 
the  Orient  was  on  fire.  In  the  confusion  he 
found  his  way  up,  unassisted  and  unnoticed  ; 
and,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  ap- 
peared on  the  quarter-deck,  where  he  imme- 
diately gave  orders  that  boats  should  be  sent 
to  the  relief  of  the  enemy. 


322 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


It  was  soon  after  nine  that  the  fire  on 
board  the  Orient  broke  out.  Brueys  was 
dead :  he  had  received  three  wounds,  yet 
would  not  leave  his  post.  A  fourth  cut  him 
almost  in  two.  He  desired  not  to  be  carried 
below,  but  to  be  left  to  die  upon  deck.  The 
flames  soon  mastered  his  ship.  Her  sides 
had  just  been  painted,  and  the  oil-jars  and 

Exinting-buckets  were  lying  on  the  poop. 
y  the  prodigious  light  of  this  conflagra- 
tion the  situation  of  the  two  fleets  could 
now  be  perceived,  the  colours  of  both  being 
clearly  distinguishable.  About  ten  o'clock 
the  ship  blew  up,  with  a  shock  which  was 
felt  to  the  very  bottom  of  every  vessel.  Many 
of  her  officers  and  men  jumped  overboard, 
some  clinging  to  the  spars  and  pieces  of 
wreck  with  which  the  sea  was  strewn  ;  others 
swimming  to  escape  from  the  destruction 
which  they  momently  dreaded.  Some  were 
picked  up  hy  our  boats ;  and  some,  even  in  the 
heat  and  fury  of  the  action,  were  dragged  into 
the  lower  ports  of  the  nearest  British  ships 
by  the  British  sailors.  The  greater  part  of 
her  crew,  however,  stood  the  danger  to  the 
last,  and  continued  to  fire  from  the  lower 
deck.  This  tremendous  explosion  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  silence  not  less  awful :  the  firing 
immediately  ceased  on  both  sides;  and  the 
first  sound  which  broke  the  silence  was  the 
dash  of  her  shattered  masts  and  yards  fall- 
ing into  the  water  from  the  vast  height  to 
which  they  had  been  exploded.  It  is  upon 
record  that  a  battle  between  two  armies  was 
once  broken  off  by  an  earthquake  ; — such  an 
event  would  be  felt  like  a  miracle  :  but  no 
incident  in  war.  produced  by  human  means, 
lias  ever  equalled  the  sublimity  of  this  co- 
instantaneous  pause,  and  all  its  circum- 
stances. 

About  seventy  of  the  Orient's  crew  were 
saved  by  the  English  boats.  Among  the 
many  hundreds  who  perished  were  the  com- 
modore. Casa  Bianca,  and  his  son,  a  brave 
boy  only  ten  years  old.  They  were  seen 
floating  on  a  shattered  mast  when  the  boat 
blew  np.  She  had  money  on  board  (the 
plunder  of  Malta)  to  the  amount  of  six  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  sterling.  The  masses 
of  burning  wreck  which  were  scattered  by 
the  explosion  excited  for  some  moments  ap- 
prehensions in  the  English  which  they  had 
never  felt  from  any  other  danger.  Two 
large  pieces  fell  into  the  main  and  foretops 
of  the  Swiftsure,  without  injuring  any  per- 
son. A  port-fire  also  fell  into  the  main-royal 
of  the  Alexander:  the  fire  which  it  occa- 
sioned was  speedily  extinguished.  Captain 
Ball  had  provided,  as  far  as  human  foresight 
could  provide,  against  any  such  danger. 
All  the  shrouds  and  sails  of  his  ship  not 
absolutely  necessary  for  its  immediate  man- 
agement were  thoroughly  wetted,  and  so 


rolled  up  that  they  were  as  hard  and  as 
little  inflammable  as  so  many  solid  cyl- 
inders. 

The  firing  recommenced  with  the  ships  to 
leeward  of  the  centre,  and  continued  till 
about  three.  At  daybreak  the  Gnillaume 
Tell  and  the  Ge'ne'reuse,  the  two  rears  of  the 
enemy,  were  the  only  French  ships  of  the 
line  which  had  their  colors  flying;  they  cut 
their  cables  in  the  forenoon,  not  having  been 
engaged,  and  stood  out  to  sea,  and  two  frig- 
ates with  them.  The  Zealous  pursued  ;  but, 
as  there  was  no  other  ship  in  a  condition  to 
support  Captain  Hood,  he  was  recalled.  It 
was  generally  believed  by  the  officers  that 
if  Nelson  had  not  been  wounded,  not  one  of 
these  ships  could  have  escaped  ;  the  four 
certainly  could  not,  if  the  Culloden  had  got 
into  action  ;  and  if  the  frigates  belonging  to 
the  squadron  had  been  present,  not  one  of 
'the  enemy's  fleet  would  have  left  Aboukir 
Bay.  These  four  vessels,  however,  were  all 
that  escaped  ;  and  the  victory  was  the  most 
complete  and  glorious  in  the  annals  of  naval 
victory.  "Victory,"  said  Nelson,  "is  not  a 
name  strong  enough  for  such  a  scene  ;;' — he 
called  it  a  conquest.  Of  thirteen  sail  of  the 
line,  nine  were  taken  and  two  burnt;  of  the 
four  frigates,  one  was  sunk ;  another,  the 
Artemesie,  was  burnt  in  a  villanous  manner 
by  her  captain,  M.  Estandlet,  who,  having 
fired  a  broadside  at  the  Theseus,  struck  his 
colours,  then  set  fire  to  the  ship,  and  escaped 
with  most  of  his  crew  to  shore.  The  British 
loss,  in  killed  and  wounded,  amounted  to  895. 
Westcott  was  the  only  captain  who  fell :  3105 
of  the  French,  including  the  wounded,  were 
sent  on  shore  by  cartel,  and  5225  perished. 

Tims  ended  this  eventful  battle,  which 
exalted  the  name  of  Nelson  to  a  level  at  least 
with  that  of  the  celebrated  conqueror  whose 
surprising  success  at  the  head  of  the  French 
armies  had  then  begun  to  draw  the  atten- 
tion of  the  civilized  world.  Bonaparte  had 
stained  his  laurels  by  the  unprecedented 
baseness  of  his  private  conduct;  he  had  not 
scrupled  to  turn  Turk,  and  all  his  public 
proclamations  were  disgraced  by  the  absurd 
phrases  of  Mohammedan  superstition  :  Nel- 
son, on  the  other  hand,  had  no  occasion  of 
showing  that  he  was  an  Englishman  .and  a 
Christian:  the  first  words  of  his  despatches 
on  this  memorable  occasion  prove  his  grati- 
tude to  that  Providence  which  had  protected 
him:  "Almighty  God  has  blessed  his  Ma- 
jestfis  arms.1' 

The  Life  of  Nelson. 

THE  BATTLE  OP  TRAFALGAR  AND  DEATH 
OF  NELSON. 

An  incessant  fire  was  kept  up  from  the 
Victory,  from  both  sides ;  her  larboard  guna 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


323 


playing  upon  the  Bucentaure  and  the  huge 
Sautissima  Trinidad. 

It  had  been  part  of  Nelson's  prayer  that 
the  British  fleet  might  be  distinguished  by 
humanity  in  the  victory  which  he  expected. 
Setting  an  example  himself,  he  twice  gave 
orders  to  cease  tiring  upon  the  Redoubtable, 
supposing  that  she  had  struck  because  her 
great  guns  were  silent ;  for  as  she  carried 
no  flag,  there  was  no  means  of  instantly 
ascertaining  the  fact.  From  this  ship,  which 
he  had  thus  twice  spared,  he  received  his 
death.  A  ball  fired  from  her  mizzen-top, 
which,  in  the  then  situation  of  the  two  ves- 
sels, was  not  more  than  fifteen  yards  from 
that  part  of  the  deck  where  he  was  stand- 
ing, struck  the  epaulette  on  his  left  shoulder, 
about  a  quarter  after  one,  just  in  the  heat 
of  action,  lie  fell  upon  his  face,  on  the 
spot  which  was  covered  with  his  poor  sec- 
retary's blood.  Hardy,  who  was  a  few  steps 
from  him,  turning  round  saw  three  men  rais- 
ing him  up.  "  They  have  done  for  me  at  last, 
Hardy !"  said  he.  "  I  hope  not !"  cried  Hardy. 
"  Yes  !"  he  replied  :  "  my  back-bone  is  shot 
through."  Yet  even  now,  not  for  a  moment 
losing  his  presence  of  mind,  he  observed,  as 
they  were  carrying  him  down,  that  the 
tiller-ropes,  which  had  been  shot  away, 
were  not  yet  replaced,  and  ordered  that 
new  ones  should  be  rove  immediately;  then, 
that  he  might  not  be  seen  by  the  crew,  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  covered  his 
face  and  his  stars.  Had  he  but  concealed 
these  badges  of  honour  from  the  enemy, 
England  perhaps  would  not  have  had  cause 
to  receive  with  sorrow  the  news  of  the  bat- 
tle of  Trafalgar.  The  cockpit  was  crowded 
with  wounded  and  dying  men,  over  whose 
bodies  he  was  with  some  difficulty  conveyed, 
and  laid  upon  a  pallet  in  the  midshipmen's 
berth.  It  was  soon  perceived  upon  examina- 
tion that  the  wound  was  mortal.  This,  how- 
ever, was  concealed  from  all  except  Captain 
Hardy,  the  chaplain,  and  the  medical  at- 
tendants. He  himself  being  certain,  from 
the  sensation  in  his  back,  and  the  gush  of 
blood  he  felt  momently  within  his  breast, 
that  no  human  care  could  avail  him,  insisted 
that  the  surgeon  should  leave  him,  arid  at- 
tend to  those  to  whom  he  might  be  useful : 
"For,"  said  he,  "you  can  do  nothing  for 
me." — All  that  could  be  done  was  to  fan 
him  with  paper,  and  frequently  to  give  him 
lemonade  to  alleviate  his  intense  thirst.  lie 
was  in  great  pain,  and  expressed  much  anx- 
iety for  the  event  of  the  action,  which  now 
began  to  declare  itself.  As  often  as  a  ship 
struck  the  crew  of  the  Victory  hurrahed  ; 
and  at  every  hurrah  a  visible  expression  of 
joy  gleamed  in  the  eye  and  marked  the 
countenance  of  the  dying  hero.  But  he  be- 
came impatient  to  see  Captain  Hardy;  and 


as  that  officer,  though  often  sent  for,  could 
not  leave  the  deck,  Nelson  feared  that  some 
fatal  cause  prevented  him,  and  repeatedly 
cried,  "  Will  no  one  bring  Hardy  to  me"? 
He  must  be  killed  1  He  is  surely  dead  !" 
An  hour  and  ten  minutes  elapsed  from  the 
time  when  Nelson  received  his  wound  be- 
fore Hardy  could  come  to  him.  They  shook 
hands  in  silence  :  Hardy  in  vain  struggling 
to  suppress  the  feelings  of  that  most  painful 
and  yet  sublimest  moment.  "  Well,  Hardy," 
said  Nelson,  "how  goes  the  day  with  us?11 
"Very  well,"  replied  Hardy:  "ten  ships 
have  struck,  but  five  of  the  van  have  tacked, 
and  show  an  intention  to  bear  down  upon 
the  Victory.  I  have  called  two  or  three  of 
our  fresh  ships  round,  and  have  no  doubt  of 
giving  them  a  drubbing."  "I  hope,"  said 
Nelson,  "none  of  our  ships  have  struck?" 
Hardy  answered,  "  There  is  no  fear  of  that." 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  Nelson  spoke  of 
himself.  "I  am  a  dead  man,  Hardy,"  said 
he:  "I  am  going  fast: — it  will  all  be  over 
with  me  soon.  Come  nearer  to  me.  Let  my 
dear  Lady  Hamilton  have  my  hair  and  all 
other  things  belonging  to  me."  Hardy  ob- 
served, that  he  hoped  Mr.  Beatty  could  yet 
hold  out  some  prospect  of  life.  "  Oh,  no  !" 
he  replied:  "it  is  impossible:  my  back  is 
shot  through  ;  Beatty  will  tell  you  so."  Cap- 
tain Hardy  then  once  more  shook  hands 
with  him,  and,  with  a  heart  almost  burst- 
ing, hastened  upon  deck. 

By  this  time  all  feeling  below  the  breast 
was  gone ;  and  Nelson,  having  made  the 
surgeon  ascertain  this,  said  to  him,  "You 
know  I  am  gone.  I  know  it.  I  feel  some- 
thing rising  in  my  breast," — putting  his 
hand  on  his  left  side, — "which  tells  me  so." 
And  upon  Beatty's  inquiring  whether  his 
pain  was  very  great,  he  replied,  so  great  that 
he  wished  that  he  was  dead.  "Yet,"  said 
he,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  one  would  like  to 
live  a  little  longer,  too  !"  And  after  a  few 
minutes,  in  the  same  undertone,  he  added, 
"What  would  become  of  poor  Lady  Ham- 
ilton if  she  knew  my  situation?"  Next 
to  his  country  she  occupied  his  thoughts. 
Captain  Hardy,  some  fifty  minutes  after  he 
left  the  cockpit,  returned ;  and,  again  tak- 
ing the  hand  of  his  dying  friend  and  com- 
mander, congratulated  him  on  having  gained 
a  complete  victory.  How  many  of  the  enemy 
were  taken  he  did  not  know,  as  it  was  im- 
possible to  perceive  them  distinctly ;  but 
fourteen  or  fifteen  at  least.  "  That's  well," 
said  Nelson  ;  "  but  I  bargained  for  twenty." 
And  then,  in  a  stronger  voice,  he  said,  "An- 
chor, Hardy, — anchor."  Hardy,  upon  this, 
hinted  that  Admiral  Collingwood  would 
take  upon  himself  the  direction  of  affairs. 
"  Not  while  I  live.  Hardy,"  said  the  dying 
Nelson,  ineffectually  endeavouring  to  raise 


324 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


himself  from  the  bed:  "do  you  anchor." 
His  previous  order  for  preparing  to  anchor 
had  shown  how  clearly  he  foresaw  the  ne- 
cessity of  this.  Presently,  calling  Hardy 
back,  he  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice,  "  Don't 
throw  me  overboard:"  and  desired  that  he 
might  be  buried  by  his  parents,  unless  it 
should  please  the  king  to  order  otherwise. 
Then  reverting  to  private  feelings  :  "  Take 
care  of  my  dear  Lady  Hamilton,  Hardy ; 
take  care  of  poor  Lady  Hamilton. — Kiss 
me,  Hardy,"  said  he.  Hardy  knelt  down 
and  kissed  his  cheek  ;  and  Nelson  said, 
"  Now  I  am  satisfied.  Thank  God !  I  have 
done  my  duty  !"  Hardy  stood  over  him  in 
silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  knelt 
again,  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "Who  is 
that?"  said  Nelson;  and  being  informed, 
he  replied,  "God  bless  you,  Hardy!"  And 
Hardy  then  left  him — forever. 

Nelson  now  desired  to  be  turned  upon  his 
right  side,  and  said,  "  I  wish  I  had  not  left 
the  deck  ;  for  I  shall  soon  be  gone."  Death 
was  indeed  rapidly  approaching.  He  said 
to  the  chaplain,  "  Doctor,  I  have  not  been  a 
great  sinner;"  and  after  a  short  pause, ''  .Re- 
member that  I  leave  Lady  Hamilton  and  my 
daughter  Horatia  as  a  legacy  to  my  country." 
His  articulation  now  became  difficult;  but 
he  was  distinctly  heard  to  say,  "  Thank  God  ! 
I  have  done  my  duty  !"  These  words  he  re- 
peatedly pronounced  ;  and  they  were  the  last 
words  which  he  uttered,  lie  expired  at 
thirty  minutes  after  four, — three  hours  and 
a  quarter  after  he  had  received  his  wound. 

The  Life  of  Nelson. 


CHARLES  LAMB, 

born  in  London,  1775,  and  educated  at  the 
school  of  Christ's  Hospital,  was  a  clerk  in 
the  accountant's  office  of  the  East  India 
Company  from  April,  1792,  until  March, 
1825,  when  he  retired  on  a  pension  of  £450 
per  annum  ;  died  1834.  From  September, 
1796,  until  his  death  he  had  charge  of  an 
elder  sister,  who  at  the  time  above  stated,  in 
a  fit  of  insanity,  stabbed  her  mother  to  death 
with  a  table-knife.  Lamb  broke  off  an  en- 
gagement of  marriage,  and  henceforth  de- 
voted himself  to  what  he  considered  his  first 
duty.  This  unfortunate  girl — Mary  Anne 
Lamb  (died  1847) — was  co-author  with  her 
brother  of  four  juvenile  works,  viz.:  Mrs. 
Leicester's  School,  Lond.,  1808,  12mo  ;  Tales 
from  the  Plays  of  Shakspeare,  Lond.,  1807, 
2  vols.  12mo";  4th  edit.,  with  20  plates  by 
Wm.  Blake,  Lond.,  1822;  new  edit.,  with  20 
wood  engravings  by  Harvey,  Lond.,  Bohn, 
1840,  1843,  1849,  1853,  1857;  The  Adven- 
tures of  Ulysses,  Lond.,  1808,  12mo,  1845, 


med.  8vo,  1857.  12mo;  Poetry  for  Children, 
Lond.,  1809,  2  vols.  12mo. 

Lamb  first  appeared  as  an  author  in  Poems 
by  S.  T.  Coleridge,  to  which  are  added  Poems 
by  Charles  Lamb  and  Charles  Lloyd,  Bris- 
tol, 1797,  12mo,  and  in  the  next  year  Lamb's 
(28  pages)  and  Lloyd's  portions  of  this  vol- 
ume were  republished  as  Blank  Verse  by 
Charles  Lloyd  and  Charles  Lamb,  Lond.. 
1798,  12mo. 

Lamb  subsequently  published  A  Tale  of 
Rosamund  Gray  and  Old  Blind  Margaret, 
Lond.,  1798,  8vo:  John  Woodvil,  a  Tragedy, 

etc.,  Lond.,  1802,  12mo  ;  Mr.  II ,  a  Farce, 

1806:  not  printed  at  the  time;  Specimens 
of  English  Dramatic  Poets  who  Lived  about 
the  Time  of  Shakspeare,  with  Notes,  Lond., 
1808,  cr.  8vo,  and  later,  Lond.,  Bohn,  1854, 
post  8vo:  he  published  a  second  series  (The 
Garrick  Papers)  in  Hone's  Every-Day  Book  : 
Works  in  Prose  and  Verse,  Lond.,  1818.  2 
vols.  18mo;  The  Essays  of  Elia,  Lond.. 
1823,  p.  8vo :  Album  Verses,  with  a  Few 
Others,  Lond.,  1830,  post  8vo ;  The  Last 
Essavs  of  Elin,  Lond.,  1833,  cr.  8vo,  a<rain 
1839^  p.  8vo,  both  series,  1843,  r.  8vo,  1847, 
fp.  8vo,  and  1849.  See  Letters,  with  Sketch 
of  his  Life,  by  T.  N.  Talfourd,  Lond.,  1837, 
2  vols.  p.  8vo ;  Final  Memorials,  by  T.  N. 
Talfourd,  Lond.,  1848,  2  vols.  p.  8vo.  1X49, 
12mo,  1850, 12ino;  Prose  and  Poetical  Works, 
with  his  Life  and  Letters  by  T.  N.  Talfourd, 
Lond.,  1850,  4  vols.  12mo,  revised  an<l  en- 
larged, 1852.  r.  8vo,  1856,  4  vols.  12mo,  1867, 
r.  8vo. 

"  Those  therefore,  err,  in  my  opinion,  who  pre- 
sent Lamb  to  our  notice  amongst  the  poets.  Very 
pretty,  very  elegant,  very  tender,  very  beautiful 
verses  he  has  written  ;  nay,  twice  he  has  written 
verses  of  extraordinary  force, — almost  demoniac 
force, — viz.:  The  Three  Graves  and  The  Gipsy's 
Malison.  But,  speaking  generally,  he  writes 
verses  as  one  to  whom  that  function  was  a  secon- 
dary and  occasional  function  ;  not  his  original  and 
natural  function, — not  an  epvov,  but  a  irvptpyov.  .  .  . 
His  [prose]  works — I  again  utter  my  conviction — 
will  be  received  as  amongst  the  most  elaborately 
finished  gems  of  literature:  as  cabinet  specimens 
which  express  the  utmost  delicacy,  purity,  and 
tenderness  of  the  national  intellect,  together  with 
the  rarest  felicity  of  finish  and  perfection,  although 
it  may  be  the  province  of  other  modes  of  litera- 
ture to  exhibit  the  highest  models  in  the  grander 
and  more  impassioned  forms  of  intellectual  power. 
Such  is  my  very  intimate  conviction." — DE  QUIN- 
CEY  :  Recollections  of  Charles  Lamb. 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG. 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript, 
which  my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough  to 
read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy 
thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or 
biting  it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they 
do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


325 


is  not  obscurely  binted  at  by  their  great  Con- 
fucius in  the  second  chapter  of  his  Mundane 
Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind  of 
olden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the 
Cook's  Holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to 
say,  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  elder  brother),  was 
accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner  follow- 
ing. The  swine-herd,  Ilo-ti,  having  gone  out 
into  the  woods  one  mottling,  as  his  manner 
was.  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his 
cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son,  Bo-bo, 
a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being  fond  of  play- 
ing with  fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  com- 
monly are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a 
bundle  of  straw,  which  kindling  quickly, 
spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part  of 
their  poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to 
ashes.  Together  with  the  cottage  (a  sorry 
antediluvian  make-shift  of  a  building,  you 
may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more  im- 
portance, a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs, 
no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished. 
China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury 
over  all  the  East,  from  the  remotest  periods 
that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost 
consternation,  as  you  may  think,  not  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his  father 
and  he  could  easily  build  up  again  with  a 
few  dry  branches,  and  the  labour  of  an  hour 
or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the 
pigs.  While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should 
say  to  his  father,  and  wringing  his  hands 
over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those 
untimely  sufferers,  an  odour  assailed  his  nos- 
trils, unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before 
experienced.  What  could  it  proceed  from  ? — 
not  from  the  burnt  cottage, — he  had  smelt 
that  smell  before, — indeed  this  was  by  no 
means  the  first  accident  of  the  kind  which 
occurred  through  the  negligence  of  this  un- 
lucky young  fire-brand.  Much  less  did  it 
resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or 
flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the 
same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He 
knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs 
of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to 
cool  them  lie  applied  them  in  his  booby  fash- 
ion to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  of 
the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his 
fingers,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in 
the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before  him  no 
man  had  known  it)  he  tasted — crackling! 
Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It 
did  not  burn  him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked 
his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth 
at  length  broke  into  his  slow  understanding, 
that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and  the  pig 
that  tasted  so  delicious;  and  surrendering 
himself  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell 
to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched 
skin  with  the  flesh  next  to  it,  and  was  cram- 


ming it  down  his  tbroat  in  this  beastly  fash- 
ion, when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking 
rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and 
finding  how  affairs  stood,  began  to  rain 
blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulder  as 
thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not 
any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies.  The 
tickling  pleasure  which  he  experienced  in 
his  lower  regions  had  rendered  him  quite 
callous  to  any  inconvenience  he  might  feel  in 
those  remote  quarters.  His  father  might 
lay  on.  but  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his 
pig,  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it, 
when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his 
situation,  something  like  the  following  dia- 
logue ensued : 

•'  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you 
got  there  devouring?  Is  it  not  enough  that 
you  have  burnt  me  down  three  houses  with 
your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you  ! 
but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not 
what, — what  have  you  got  there,  I  say?"' 

•'  0  father,  the  pig,  the  pig !  do  come  and 
taste  how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He 
cursed  his  son,  and  he  cursed  himself,  that 
ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat 
burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharp- 
ened since  morning,  soon  raked  out  another 
pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust 
the  lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of 
Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out,  "  Eat,  eat,  eat  the 
burnt  pig,  father,  only  taste!"  .  .  .  with 
such-like  barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming 
all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he 
grasped  the  abominable  thing,  wavering 
whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  death 
for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when  the 
crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done 
his  son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to 
them,  he  in  his  turn  tasted  some  of  its  fla- 
vour, which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he 
would  for  a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the 
manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious),  both 
father  and  son  fairly  set  down  to  the  mess, 
and  never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the 
secret  escape,  for  the  neighbours  would  cer- 
tainly have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of 
abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of 
improving  upon  the  good  meat  which  God 
has  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange  stories 
got  about.  It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cot- 
tage was  burnt  down  now  more  frequently 
than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time 
forward.  Some  would  break  out  in  broad 
day,  others  in  the  night-time.  As  often  as 
the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of 
Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze ;  and  Ho-ti  himself, 


326 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of 
chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  in- 
dulgent to  him  than  ever.  At  length  they 
were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discov- 
ered, and  father  and  son  summoned  to  take 
their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable 
assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  ob- 
noxious food  itself  produced  in  court,  and 
verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the 
foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of 
the  burnt  pig  of  which  the  culprits  stood 
accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He 
handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it ;  and 
burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his  father 
had  done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting 
to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against 
the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and  the  clearest 
charge  which  judge  had  ever  given, — to 
the  surprise  of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk, 
strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present,  with- 
out leaving  the  box,  or  any  manner  of  con- 
sultation whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simul- 
taneous verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow, 
winked  at  the  manifest  iniquity  of  the  de- 
cision :  and  when  the  court  was  dismissed, 
went  privily  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that 
could  be  had  for  love  or  money. 

In  a  few  days  his  lordship's  town-house 
was  observed  to  be  on  fire.  The  thing 
took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  tire  in  every  direction.  Fuel  and 
pigs  grew  enormously  dear  all  over  the  dis- 
trict. The  insurance-offices  one  and  all  shut 
up  shop.  People  built  slighter  and  slighter 
every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time 
be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of 
firing  houses  continued,  till,  in  process  of 
time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like 
our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery  that  the 
flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  ani- 
mal, might  be  cooked  (burnt,  as  they  called 
it)  without  the  necessity  of  consuming  a 
whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began 
the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by 
the  string  or  spit  came  in  a  century  or  two 
later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do 
the  most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  ob- 
vious, arts  make  their  way  among  mankind. 

The  Essays  of  Ella. 

POOR  RELATIONS. 

A  POOR  Relation — is  the  most  irrelevant 
thing  in  nature, — a  piece  of  impertinent 
correspondency, — an  odious  approximation, 
— a  haunting  conscience, — a  preposterous 
shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noon-tide  of  our 
prosperity, — an  unwelcome  remembrancer, 
— a  perpetually  recurring  mortification, — a 
drain  on  your  purse,  a  more  intolerable  dun 


upon  your  pride, — a  drawback  upon  success, 
— a  rebuke  to  your  rising, — a  stain  in  your 
blood, — a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon, — a  rent 
in  your  garment, — a  death's  head  at  your 
banquet, — Agothocles's  pot, — a  Mordccai  in 
your  gate,  a  Lazarus  at  your  door, — a  lion 
in  your  path, — a  frog  in  your  chamber, — a 
fly  in  your  ointment, — a  mote  in  your  eye, 
— a  triumph  to  your  enemy,  an  apology  to 
your  friends, — the  one  thing  not  needful, — 
the  hail  in  harvest, — the  ounce  of  sour  in  a 
pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.     Your  heart 

telleth  you,  "  That  is  Mr. ."     A  rap, 

between  familiarity  and  respect;  that  de- 
mands, and  at  the  same  time  seems  to  de- 
spair of,  entertainment.  He  entereth  smiling 
and — embarrassed.  He  holdeth  out  his 
hand  to  you  to  shake,  and — draweth  it  back 
again.  He  casually  looketh  in  about  dinner- 
time— when  the  table  is  full.  He  offereth 
to  go  away,  seeing  you  have  company, — but 
is  induced  to  stay.  He  filleth  a  chair,  and 
your  visitor's  two  children  are  accommodated 
at  a  side-table.  He  never  coineth  upon  open 
days,  when  your  wife  says,  with  some  com- 
placency, "  My  dear,  perhaps  Mr. will 

drop  in  to-day."  He  remembereth  birth- 
days— and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have 
stumbled  upon  one.  He  declareth  against 
fish,  the  turbot  being  small, — yet  sufFereth 
himself  to  be  importuned  into  a  slice  against 
his  first  resolution.  He  sticketh  by  the  port, 
— yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to  empty  the 
remainder  glass  of  claret,  if  a  stranger  press 
it  upon  him.  He  is  a  puzzle  to  the  servants, 
who  are  fearful  of  being  too  obsequious,  or 
not  civil  enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think 
"  they  have  seen  him  before."  Every  one 
speculateth  upon  his  condition:  and  the 
most  part  take  him  to  be — a  tide-waiter. 
He  calleth  you  by  your  Christian  name,  to 
imply  that  his  other  is  the  same  with  your 
own.  He  is  too  familiar  by  half,  yet  you 
wish  he  had  less  diffidence.  With  half  the 
familiarity,  he  might  pass  for  a  casual  de- 
pendant; with  more  boldness,  he  would  be 
in  no  danger  of  being  taken  for  what  he  is. 
He  is  too  humble  for  a  friend;  yet  taketh 
on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client.  He 
is  a  worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inas- 
much as  he  bringeth  up  no  rent, — yet  'tis 
odds,  from  his  garb  and  demeanour,  that 
your  guests  take  him  for  one.  He  is  asked 
to  make  one  at  the  whist-table  ;  refuseth  on 
the  score  of  poverty,  and — resents  being  left 
out.  When  the  company  break  up,  he  prof- 
fereth  to  go  for  a  coach — and  lets  the  servant 
go.  He  recollects  your  grandfather;  and 
will  thrust  in  some  mean  and  quite  unim- 
portant anecdote — of  the  family.  He  knew 
it  when  it  was  not  quite  so  flourishing  as 
"  he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now."  He  reviveth 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


327 


past  situations,  to  institute  what  he  calleth 
— favourable  comparisons.  With  a  reflecting 
sort  of  congratulation,  he  will  inquire  the 
price  of  your  furniture  ;  and  insults  you  with 
a  special  commendation  of  your  window-cur- 
tains, lie  is  of  opinion  that  the  urn  is  the 
more  elegant  shape,  but,  after  all,  there  was 
something  more  comfortable  about  the  old 
tea-kettle — which  you  must  remember,  lie 
dare  say  you  must  find  a  great  convenience 
in  having  a  carriage  of  your  own,  and  ap- 
pealeth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  In- 
quireth  if  you  have  had  your  arms  done  in 
vellum  yet;  and  did  not  know,  till  lately, 
that  such-and-such  had  been  the  crest  of  the 
family.  His  memory  is  unseasonable  ;  his 
compliments  perverse  ;  his  talk  a  trouble;  his 
stay  pertinacious ;  and  when  he  goeth  away, 
you  dismiss  his  chair  into  a  corner,  as  pre- 
cipitately as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid  of 
two  nuisances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and 
that  is — a  female  Poor  Relation.  You  may 
do  something  with  the  other ;  you  may  pass 
him  off  tolerably  well ;  but  your  indigent  she- 
relative  is  hopeless.  4:  He  is  an  old  humour- 
ist," you  may  say,  "  and  affects  to  go  thread- 
bare. His  circumstances  are  better  than 
folks  would  take  them  to  be.  You  are  fond 
of  having  a  Character  at  your  table,  and 
truly  he  is  one."  But  in  the  indications  of 
female  poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.  No 
woman  dresses  below  herself  from  caprice. 
The  truth  must  out  without  shuffling.  "  She 

is  plainly  related  to  the  L s ;  or  what 

does  she  at  their  house  ?"  She  is,  in  all 
probability,  your  wife's  cousin.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case. — Her 
garb  is  something  between  a  gentlewoman 
and  a  beggar,  yet  the  former  evidently  pre- 
dominates. She  is  most  provokingly  hum- 
ble, and  ostentatiously  sensible  to  her  in- 
feriority. He  may  require  to  be  repressed 
sometimes, — aliquando  siifflamtnandus  erat, 
— but  there  is  no  raising  her.  You  send  her 
soup  at  dinner,  and  she  begs  to  be  helped — 

after  the  gentlemen.  Mr.  requests 

the  honour  of  taking  wine  with  her;  she 
hesitates  between  Port  and  Madeira,  and 
chooses  the  former — because  he  does.  She 
calls  the  servant  Sir;  and  insists  on  not 
troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The  house- 
keeper patronizes  her.  The  children's  gov- 
erness takes  upon  her  to  correct  her,  when 
she  has  mistaken  the  piano  for  harpsichord. 

The  Last  Essays  of  Elia. 

DETACHED  THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS  AND 
HEADING. 

To  mind  the  inside  of  a  book  is  to  entertain 
one's  self  with  the  forced  product  of  another  man's 
brain.  Now  I  think  a  man  of  quality  and  breed- 


ing may  be  much  amused  with  the  natural  sprouts 
of  his  own. — LORD  FOPPINGTON,  in  The  Relapse. 

An  ingenious  acquaintance  of  my  own  was 
so  much  struck  with  this  bright  sally  of  hia 
Lordship,  that  he  has  left  off  reading  al- 
together, to  the  great  improvement  of  his 
originality. 

At  the  hazard  of  losing  some  credit  on 
this  head,  I  must  confess  that  I  dedicate  no 
inconsiderable  portion  of  my  time  to  other 
people's  thoughts.  I  dream  away  my  life  in 
other's  speculations.  I  love  to  lose  myself  in 
other  men's  minds.  When  I  am  not  walking. 
I  am  reading  ;  I  cannot  sit  and  think.  Books 
think  for  me. 

I  have  no  repugnances.  Shaftesbury  is 
not  too  genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild 
too  low.  I  can  read  anything  which  I  call 
a  book.  There  are  things  in  that  shape 
which  I  cannot  allow  for  such. 

In  this  catalogue  of  books  which  are  no 
books — biblia  a-biblia — I  reckon  Court  Cal- 
endars, Directories,  Pocket  Books,  Draught 
Boards,  bound  and  lettered  on  the  back, 
Scientific  Treatises,  Almanacs,  Statutes  at 
Large  :  the  works  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Robert- 
son, Beattie,  Soame  Jenyns,  .and  generally, 
all  those  volumes  which  '  no  gentleman's 
library  should  be  without:'  the  Histories  of 
Flavins  Josephus  (that  learned  Jew),  and 
Paley's  Moral  Philosophy.  With  these  ex- 
ceptions, I  can  read  almost  anything.  I 
bless  my  stars  for  a  taste  so  catholic,  so  un- 
excluding. 

I  confess  that  it  moves  my  spleen  to  see 
these  tilings  in  book's  clothing  perched  upon 
shelves,  like  false  saints,  usurpers  of  true 
shrines,  intruders  into  the  sanctuary,  thrust- 
ing out  the  legitimate  occupants.  To  reach 
down  a  well-bound  semblance  of  a  volume, 
and  hope  it  some  kind-hearted  play-book, 
then,  opening  what  "seem  its  leaves,"  to 
come  bolt  upon  a  withering  Population  Es- 
say !  To  expect  a  Steele  or  a  Farquhar,  and 
find, — Adam  Smith  !  To  view  a  well-ar- 
ranged assortment  of  blockheaded  Encyclo- 
paedias (Anglicanas  or  Metropolitanas)  set 
out  in  an  array  of  russia  or  morocco,  when 
a  tithe  of  that  good  leather  would  comfort- 
ably re-clothe  my  shivering  folios — would 
renovate  Paracelsus  himself,  and  enable  old 
Ray  in  u  nd  Lully  to  look  like  himself  again 
in  the  world!  I  never  see  these  impostors 
but  I  long  to  strip  them,  to  warm  my  ragged 
veterans  in  their  spoils. 

To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the 
desideratum  of  a  volume.  Magnificence 
conies  after.  This,  when  it  can  be  afforded, 
is  not  to  be  lavished  upon  all  kinds  of  books 
indiscriminately.  I  would  not  dress  a  set  of 
Magazines,  for  instance,  in  full  suit.  The 
dishabille,  or  half-binding  (with  russia-backs 
ever),  is  our  costume.  A  Shakspeare  or  a 


328 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


Milton  (unless  the  first  editions)  it  were 
mere  foppery  to  trick  out  in  gay  appnrel. 
The  possession  of  them  confers  no  distinc- 
tion. The  exterior  of  them  (the  things 
themselves  being  so  common),  strange  to 
say,  raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  tickling 
sense  of  property  in  the  owner.  Thomson's 
Seasons,  again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  a 
little  torn  and  dog-eared.  How  beautiful  to 
a  genuine  lover  of  reading  are  the  sullied 
leaves  and  worn-out  appearance,  nay,  the 
very  odour  (beyond  russia)  if  we  would  not 
forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidious  men,  of  an 
old  <;  Circulating  Library"  Tom  Jones,  or 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  !  How  they  speak  of  the 
thousand  thumbs  that  have  turned  over  their 
pages  with  delight! — of  the  lone  semptress 
•whom  they  may  have  cheered  (milliner  or 
hard-working  mantua-maker)  after  her  long 
day's  needle-toil,  running  far  into  midnight, 
when  she  has  snatched  an  hour,  ill  spared 
from  sleep,  to  steep  her  cares,  as  in  some 
Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  out  their  enchant- 
ing contents  !  Who  would  have  them  a  whit 
less  soiled?  What  better  condition  could 
we  desire  to  see  them  in  ? 

In  some  respects  the  better  a  book  is,  the 
less  it  demands  from  binding.  Fielding, 
Smollett,  Sterne,  and  all  that  class  of  per- 
petually self-reproductive  volumes, — great 
Nature's  stereotypes, — we  see  them  perish 
with  less  regret,  because  we  know  the  copies 
of  them  to  be  "  eterne."  But  where  a  book 
is  at  once  both  good  and  rare, — where  the 
individual  is  almost  the  species,  and  when 
that  perishes, 

We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  torch 
That  can  its  light  reluiuine, — 

such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle,  by  his  Duchess, — no  cas- 
ket is  rich  enough,  no  casing  sufficiently 
durable,  to  honour  and  keep  safe  such  a 
jewel. 

Not  only  rare  volumes  of  this  description, 
which  seem  hopeless  ever  to  be  reprinted, 
but  old  editions  of  writers,  such  as  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  Bishop  Taylor,  Milton  in  his 
prose  works,  Fuller, — of  whom  we  have  re- 
prints, yet  the  books  themselves,  though 
they  go  about,  and  are  talked  of  here  and 
there,  we  know  have  not  endenizened  them- 
selves (nor  possibly  ever  will)  in  the  na- 
tional heart,  so  as  to  become  stock  books, — 
it  is  good  to  possess  these  in  durable  and 
costly  covers.  I  do  not  care  for  a  First 
Folio  of  Shakspeare.  I  rather  prefer  the 
common  editions  of  Howe  and  Tonson,  with- 
out notes,  and  with  plates,  which,  being  so 
execrably  bad,  serve  as  maps  or  modest  re- 
membrancers to  the  text;  and  without  pre- 
tending to  any  supposable  emulation  with 
it,  are  so  much  better  than  the  Shakspeare 


gallery  engravings,  which  did.  I  have  a 
community  of  feeling  with  my  countrymen 
about  his  Plays,  and  I  like  those  editions 
of  him  best  which  have  been  oftenest  tum- 
bled about  and  handled. — On  the  contrary, 
I  cannot  read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  but 
in  Folio.  The  Octavo  editions  are  painful 
to  look  at.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  them. 
If  they  were  as  much  read  as  the  current 
editions  of  the  other  poet,  I  should  prefer 
them  in  that  shape  to  the  older  one.  I  do 
not  know  a  more  heartless  sight  than  the 
reprint  of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 
What  need  was  there  of  unearthing  the 
bones  of  that  fantastic  old  great  man,  to 
expose  them  in  a  winding-sheet  of  the  new- 
est fashion  to  modern  censure?  What  hap- 
less stationer  could  dream  of  Burton  ever 
becoming  popular? — The  wretched  Malone 
could  not  do  worse  when  he  bribed  the  sex- 
ton of  Stratford  church  to  let  him  white- 
wash the  painted  effigy  of  old  Shakspeare, 
which  stood  there,  in  rude  but  lively  fash- 
ion depicted,  to  the  very  colour  of  the  cheek, 
the  eye,  the  eyebrow,  hair,  the  very  dress 
he  used  to  wear, — the  only  authentic  testi- 
mony we  had,  however  imperfect,  of  these 
curious  parts  and  parcels  of  him.  They 
covered  him  over  with  a  coat  of  white  paint  1 
.  .  .  If  I  had  been  a  justice  of  peace  for 
Warwickshire,  I  would  have  clapt  both  com- 
mentator and  sexton  fast  in  the  stocks  for  a 
pair  of  meddling  sacrilegious  varlets. 

I  think  I  see  them  at  their  work — these 
sapient  trouble-tombs.  Shall  I  be  thought 
fantastical  if  I  confess  that  the  names  of 
some  of  our  poets  sound  sweeter,  and  have 
a  finer  relish  to  the  ear, — to  mine,  at  least, 
— than  that  of  Milton  or  of  Shakspeare? 
It  may  be  that  the  latter  are  more  staled 
and  rung  upon  in  common  discourse.  The 
sweetest  names,  and  which  carry  a  perfume 
in  the  mention,  are,  Kit  Marlowe,  Drayton, 
Drummond  of  Ilawthornden,  and  Cowiey. 

Much  depends  upon  when  and  where  you 
read  a  book.  In  the  five  or  six  impatient 
minutes  before  the  dinner  is  quite  ready, 
who  would  think  of  taking  up  the  Fairy 
Queen  for  a  stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of  Bishop 
Andrewes's  sermons?  Milton  almost  re- 
quires n,  solemn  service  of  music  to  be 
played  before  you  enter  upon  him.  But 
he  brings  his  music,  to  which  who  listens 
had  need  bring  docile  thoughts  and  purged 
ears. 

Winter  evenings, — the  world  shut  out, — 
with  less  of  ceremony  the  gentle  Shakspeare 
enters.  At  such  a  season  the  Tempest,  or 
his  own  Winter's  Tale 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading 
aloud — to  yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some 
single  person  listening.  More  than  one — 
and  it  degenerates  into  an  audience. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


329 


Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for 
incidents,  arc  for  the  eye  to  glide  over  only. 
It  will  not  do  to  read  them  out.  I  could 
never  listen  to  even  the  better  kind  of  mod- 
ern novels  without  extreme  irksomeness.  .  .  . 

I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out-of-doors 
reading.  I  cannot  settle  my  spirits  to  it. 
I  knew  a  Unitarian  minister  who  was  gen- 
erally to  be  seen  upon  Snow-hill  (as  yet 
Skinner' s-street  was  not),  between  the  hours 
of  ten  and  eleven  in  the  morning,  studying 
a  volume  of  Lardner.  I  own  tliis  to  have 
been  a  strain  of  abstraction  beyond  my 
reach.  I  used  to  admire  how  he  sidled  along, 
keeping  clear  of  secular  contacts.  An  illit- 
erate encounter  with  a  porters  knot,  or  a 
bread-basket,  would  have  quickly  put  to 
flight  all  the  theology  I  am  master  of,  and 
have  left  me  worse  than  indifferent  to  the 
five  points. 

There  is  a  class  of  street  readers  whom  I 
can  never  contemplate  without  affection, — 
the  poor  gentry,  who,  not  having  where- 
withal to  buy  or  hire  a  book,  filch  a  little 
learning  at  the  open  stalls, — the  owner,  with 
his  hard  eye,  casting  envious  looks  at  them 
all  the  while,  and  thinking  when  they  will 
have  done.  Venturing  tenderly,  page  after 
page,  expecting  every  moment  when  he  shall 
interpose  liis  verdict,  and  yet  unable  to  deny 
themselves  the  gratification,  they  snatch  a 

fearful  joy.  Martin  B ,  in  this  way,  by 

daily  fragments,  got  through  two  volumes 
of  Clarissa,  when  the  stall-keeper  damped 
his  laudable  ambition  by  asking  him  (it  was 
in  his  younger  days)  whether  he  meant  to 
purchase  the  work.  M.  declares  that,  under 
no  circumstance  in  his  life  did  he  ever  pe- 
ruse a  book  with  half  the  satisfaction  which 
he  took  in  those  uneasy  snatches.  A  quaint 
poetess  of  our  day  has  moralized  upon  this 
subject  in  two  very  touching  but  homely 
stanzas : 

I  saw  a  boy  with  eager  eye 
Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 
And  read  as  he'd  devour  it  all; 
Which  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 
Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 
"You,  Sir,  you  never  buy  a  book, 
Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look." 
The  boy  pass'd  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh 
He  wish'd  he  never  had  been  taught  to  read, — 
Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have  had 
no  need. 

Of  sufferings  the  poor  have  many, 
AVhich  never  can  the  rich  annoy  : 
I  soon  perceived  another  boy, 
Who  looked  as  if  he  had  not  any 
Food,  for  that  day  at  least — enjoy 
The  sight  of  cold  meat  in  a  tavern  larder. 
This  boy's  case,  then  thought  I,  is  surely  harder, 
Thus  hungry,  longing,  thus  without  a  penny, 
Beholding  choice  of  dainty-dressed  meat: 
No  wonder  if  he  wish  he  ne'er  had  learn'd  to  eat. 
The  Last  Essays  of  Ella. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  DRUNKARD. 

The  waters  have  gone  over  me.  But  out 
of  the  black  depths,  could  I  be  heard,  I 
would  cry  out  to  all  those  who  have  but  set 
a  foot  in  the  perilous  flood.  Could  the  youth, 
to  whom  the  flavour  of  his  first  wine  is  de- 
licious as  the  opening  scenes  of  life  or  the 
entering  upon  some  newly  discovered  para- 
dise, look  into  iny  desolation,  and  be  made 
to  understand  what  a  dreary  thing  it  is  when 
a  man  shall  feel  himself  going  down  a  preci- 
pice with  open  eyes  and  a  passive  will, — to 
see  his  destruction  and  have  no  power  to 
stop  it,  and  yet  to  feel  it  all  the  way  emana- 
ting from  himself;  to  perceive  all  goodness 
emptied  out  of  him,  and  yet  not  to  be  able 
to  forget  a  time  when  it  was  otherwise  ;  to 
bear  about  the  piteous  spectacle  of  his  own 
self-ruins: — could  he  see  my  fevered  eye, 
feverish  with  last  night's  drinking,  and 
feverishly  looking  for  this  night's  repetition 
of  the  folly ;  could  he  feel  the  body  of  the 
death  out  of  which  I  cry  hourly  with  feebler 
and  feebler  outcry  to  be  delivered,  it  were 
enough  to  make  him  dash  the  sparkling  bev- 
erage to  the  earth  in  all  the  pride  of  its 
mantling  temptation  ;  to  make  him  clasp  his 
teeth, 

and  not  undo  'em 
To  suffer  WET  DAMNATION  to  run  thro'em. 

Yea,  but  (methinks  I  hear  somebody  ob- 
ject) if  sobriety  be  that  fine  thing  you  would 
have  us  to  understand,  if  the  comforts  of 
a  cool  brain  are  to  be  preferred  to  that  state 
of  heated  excitement  which  you  describe 
and  deplore,  what  hinders  in  your  instance 
that  you  do  not  return  to  those  habits  from 
which  you  would  induce  others  never  to 
swerve?  if  the  blessing  be  worth  preserv- 
ing, is  it  not  worth  recovering? 

Recovering! — 0  if  a  wish  could  transport 
me  back  to  those  days  of  youth  when  a 
draught  from  the  next  clear  spring  could 
slake  any  heats  which  summer  suns  and 
youthful  exercise  had  power  to  stir  up  in  the 
blood,  how  gladly  would  I  return  to  thee, 
pure  element,  the  drink  of  children,  and  of 
child-like  holy  hermit!  In  my  dreams  I 
can  sometimes  fancy  thy  cool  refreshment 
purling  over  my  burning  tongue.  But  my 
waking  stomach  rejects  it.  That  which  re- 
freshes innocence  only  makes  me  sick  and 
faint. 

But  is  there  no  middle  way  betwixt  total 
abstinence  and  the  excess  which  kills  you? 
For  your  sake,  reader,  and  that  you  may  never 
attain  to  my  experience,  with  pain  I  must 
utter  the  dreadful  truth,  that  there  is  none, 
none  that  I  can  find.  In  my  stage  of  habit  (I 
speak  not  of  habits  less  confirmed, — for  some 
of  them  I  believe  the  advice  to  be  most  pru- 


330 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAND  OR. 


dential),  in  the  stage  which  I  have  reached, 
to  stop  short  of  that  measure  which  is  suffi- 
cient to  draw  on  torpor  and  sleep,  the  be- 
numbing apoplectic  sleep  of  the  drunkard, 
is  to  have  taken  none  at  all.  The  pain  of 
the  self-denial  is  all  one.  And  what  that  is, 
I  had  rather  the  reader  should  believe  on 
my  credit  than  know  from  his  own  trial. 
He  will  come  to  know  it  whenever  he  shall 
arrive  in  that  state  in  which,  paradoxical  as 
it  may  appear,  reason  shall  only  visit  him 
through  intoxication:  for  it  is  a  fearful 
truth,  that  the  intellectual  faculties  by  re- 
peated acts  of  intemperance  may  be  driven 
from  their  orderly  sphere  of  action,  their 
clear  daylight  ministeries,  until  they  shall 
be  brought  at  last  to  depend,  for  the  faint 
manifestation  of  their  departing  energies, 
upon  the  returning  periods  of  the  fatal  mad- 
ness to  which  they  owe  their  devastation. 
The  drinking  man  is  never  less  himself  than 
during  his  sober  intervals.  Evil  is  so  far 
his  good. 

[When  poor  M painted  his  last  pic- 
ture, with  a  pencil  in  one  trembling  hand, 
and  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  in  the 
other,  his  fingers  owed  the  comparative 
steadiness  with  which  they  were  enabled  to 
go  through  their  task  in  an  imperfect  man- 
ner, to  a  temporary  firmness  derived  from 
a  repetition  of  practices,  the  general  effect 
of  which  had  shaken  both  them  and  him  so 
terribly.  Foot-note.] 

Behold  me,  then,  in  the  robust  period  of 
life,  reduced  to  imbecility  and  decay.  Hear 
me  count  my  gains,  and  the  profits  which  I 
have  derived  from  the  midnight  cup. 

Twelve  years  ago  I  was  possessed  of  a 
healthy  frame  of  mind  and  body.  I  was 
never  strong,  but  I  think  my  constitution 
(for  a  weak  one)  was  as  happily  exempt 
from  the  tendency  to  any  malady  as  it  was 
possible  to  be.  I  scarce  knew  what  it  was 
to  ail  anything.  Now,  except  when  I  am 
losing  myself  in  a  sea  of  drink,  I  am  never 
free  from  those  uneasy  sensations  in  head 
and  stomach  which  are  so  much  worse  to 
bear  than  any  definite  pains  or  aches. 

At  that  time  I  was  seldom  in  bed  after  six 
in  the  morning,  summer  -and  winter.  I 
awoke  refreshed,  and  seldom  without  some 
merry  thoughts  in  my  head,  or  some  piece 
of  a  song  to  welcome  the  new-born  day. 
Now,  the  first  feeling  which  besets  me,  after 
stretching  out  the  hours  of  recumbence  to 
their  last  possible  extent,  is  a  forecast  of  the 
wearisome  day  that  lies  before  me,  with  a 
secret  wish  that  I  could  have  lain  on  still, 
or  never  awaked. 

Life  itself,  my  waking  life,  has  much  of 
the  confusion,  the  trouble,  and  obscure  per- 
plexity of  an  ill  dream.  In  the  daytime  I 
stumble  upon  dark  mountains. 


Business,  which,  though  never  very  par- 
ticularly adapted  to  my  nature,  yet 'as  some- 
thing of  necessity  to  be  gone  through,  and 
therefore  best  undertaken  with  cheerfulness, 
I  used  to  enter  upon  with  some  degree  of 
alacrity,  now  wearies,  affrights,  perplexes 
me.  I  fancy  all  sorts  of  discouragements, 
and  am  ready  to  give  up  an  occupation 
which  gives  me  bread,  from  a  harassing 
conceit  of  incapacity.  The  slightest  com- 
mission given  me  by  a  friend,  or  any  small 
duty  which  I  have  to  perform  for  myself,  as 
giving  orders  to  a  tradesman,  &c.,  haunts 
me  as  a  labour  impossible  to  be  got  through. 
So  much  the  springs  of  action  are  broken. 

The  same  cowardice  attends  me  in  all  my 
intercourse  with  mankind.  I  dare  not  prom- 
ise that  a  friend's  honour,  or  his  cause, 
would  be  safe  in  my  keeping,  if  I  were  put 
to  the  expense  of  any  manly  resolution  in 
defending  it.  So  much  the  springs  of  moral 
action  are  deadened  within  me. 

My  favourite  occupations  in  times  past 
now  cease  to  entertain.  I  can  do  nothing 
readily.  Application  for  ever  so  short  a 
time  kills  me.  This  poor  abstract  of  my 
condition  was  penned  at  long  intervals, 
with  scarcely  any  attempt  at  connexion  of 
thought,  which  is  now  difficult  to  me. 

The  noble  passages  which  formerly  de- 
lighted me  in  history  or  poetic  fiction,  now 
only  draw  a  few  weak  tears,  allied  to  dotage. 
My  broken  and  dispirited  nature  seems  to 
sink  before  anything  great  and  admirable. 

I  perpetually  catch  myself  in  tears  for 
any  good  cause  or  none.  It  is  inexpressible 
how  much  this  infirmity  adds  to  a  sense  of 
shame,  and  a  general  feeling  of  deteriora- 
tion. 

These  are  some  of  the  instances  concern- 
ing which  I  can  say  with  truth  that  it  was 
not  always  so  with  me. 

Shall  I  lift  up  the  veil  of  my  weakness 
any  further?  or  is  this  disclosure  sufficient? 

I  am  a  poor  nameless  egotist,  who  have 
no  vanity  to  consult  by  these  confessions. 
I  know  not  whether  I  shall  be  laughed  at, 
or  heard  seriously.  Such  as  they  are,  I 
commend  them  to  the  reader's  attention,  if 
he  find  his  own  case  any  way  touched.  I 
have  told  him  what  I  have  come  to.  Let 
him  stop  in  time. 

The  Last  Essays  of  Ella. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR, 

born  at  Ipsley  Court,  Warwickshire,  Jan. 
30,  1775,  educated  at  Rugby  School  and  at 
Trinity  College,  Oxford,  in  1810  joined  the 
ranks  of  the  Spanish  patriots  under  Blake, 
and  received  a  colonel's  commission;  re- 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LAND  OR. 


331 


moved  to  Florence  (where,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  occasional  visits  to  England,  and  a 
residence  of  several  years  at  Bath,  he  spent 
the  most  of  his  future  life)  about  1816,  and 
died  there,  after  about  thirty  years'  sojourn, 
Sept.  17,  1864. 

See  Emerson's  English  Traits,  Harriet  Mar- 
tineau's  Biographical  Sketches,  Last  Days  of 
W.  S.  Landor,  by  Miss  Kate  Field,  in  Atlan- 
tic Monthly,  April,  May,  and  June,  1866. 

Landor' s  publications:  A  Collection  of 
Poems,  Lond.,  1795,  8vo  ;  Gebir,  a  Poem, 
1798,  8vo,  in  Latin,  Gebirus,  Poema,  Oxon., 
1803,  J2mo:  Poems  from  the  Arabic  and 
Persian,  with  Notes  by  the  Author  of  Gebir, 
Warwick,  1800,  4to ;  Simoniaca,  a  Poem. 
Lond.,  1806, 12mo;  Commentary  on  Memoirs 
of  Mr.  Fox,  Lond.,  1812,  8vo :  suppressed; 
Count  Julian,  a  Tragedy,  1812  ;  Idyllia  He- 
roica  decem,  Pisa,  1820,  8vo ;  Latin  Poems, 
Lond.,  24mo;  Imaginary  Conversations  of 
Literary  Men  and  Statesmen  (First  Series), 
Lond.,  '1824-28,  3  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  Lond., 
1826-28,  3  vols.  8vo,  Second  Series,  Lond., 
1829,  2  vols.  8vo ;  Imaginary  Conversations 
of  Greeks  and  Romans,  new  edit.,  1853,  8vo  ; 
Gebir,  Count  Julian,  and  other  Poems,  Lond., 
1831,  8vo,  and  1835,  12mo  ;  Pericles  and  As- 
pasia,  Lond.,  1836,  2  vols.  p.  8vo  ;  Letters  of 
a  Conservative,  1836,  8vo ;  A  Satire  on  Satir- 
ists, and  Admonition  to  Detractors,  Lond., 

1836,  8vo;  The  Pentameron  and  Pentalogia, 

1837,  post   8vo:  Andrea  of   Hungary   and 
Giovanni  of  Naples :  Dramas,  1839,  post  8vo ; 
Poemata  et  Inscriptiones  novis  auxit  (Idyllia, 
Heroica.  Gebirus,  Iambi,  etc.),  Lond.,  1847, 
18mo;  Imaginary    Conversations    of   King 
Carlo  Alberto  and  the   Duchess   Belgioioso 
on  the  Affairs  and  Prospects  of  Italy,  1848  ; 
Popery,  British  and  Foreign,  Lond.,   1851, 
p.  8vo,  1853,  p.  8vo;  Last  Fruit  off  an  Old 
Tree,   Lond.,   1853,  cr.  8vo;    Letters  of  an 
American,  1854,  12mo:  published  under  the 
name  of  Pottingcr;   Antony  an-d   Octaviua 
(Scenes  for  the  Study,  No.  1),  Lond.,  1856, 
12mo;    Dry    Sticks   Fagoted,    Lond.,    1857, 
8vo.     Collected  Works,  Lond.,  1846,  2  vols. 
med.  8vo,  again,  Lond.,  1853,  r.  8vo ;  edited 
by  John  Forster,  Lond.,  1876,  8  vols.  8vo. 

"  Landor  is  strangely  undervalued  in  England, 
usually  ignored,  and  sometimes  savagely  attacked 
in  the  Reviews.  The  criticism  may  be  right  or 
wrong,  and  is  quickly  forgotten  :  but  year  after 
year  the  scholar  must  go  back  to  Landor  for  a  mul- 
titude of  elegant  sentences, — for  wisdom,  wit,  and 
indignation  that  are  unforgettable." — EMERSON  : 
En(jli*h  Trnit*. 

"  Had  Mr.  Landor,  therefore,  been  read  in  any 
extent  answering  to  his  merits,  he  must  have  be- 
come, for  the  English  public,  an  object  of  prodig- 
ious personal  interest.  We  should  have  had  novels 
upon  him,  lampoons  upon  him,  libels  upon  him; 
he  would  have  been  shown  up  dramatically  upon 
the  stage;  he  would,  according  to  the  old  joke, 
have  been  'traduced'  in  French,  and  also  'overset' 


in  Dutch.  Meantime,  he  has  not  been  read.  It 
would  be  an  affectation  to  think  it." — DE  QUIN- 
CEY'S  Notes  on  Landor,  Bost.,  1853,  245. 

IMAGINARY  CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  SIR 
PHILIP  SIDNEY  AND  LORD  BROOKE. 

Jlrooke.  I  come  again  unto  the  woods  and 
unto  the  wilds  of  Penshurst,  whither  my 
heart  and  the  friend  of  my  heart  have  long 
invited  me. 

Sidney.  Welcome,  welcome !  And  now, 
Greville,  seat  yourself  under  this  oak,  since, 
if  you  had  hungered  or  thirsted  from  your 
journey,  you  would  have  renewed  the  alac- 
rity of  your  old  servants  in  the  hall. 

Brooke.  In  truth  I  did  so :  for  no  other- 
wise the  good  household  would  have  it.  The 
birds  met  me  first,  affrighted  by  the  tossing 
up  of  caps,  and  I  knew  by  these  harbingers 
who  were  coming.  When  my  palfrey  eyed 
them  askance  from  their  clamorousness,  and 
shrank  somewhat  back,  they  quarrelled  with 
him  almost  before  they  saluted  me,  and 
asked  him  many  pert  questions.  What  a 
pleasant  spot,  Sidney,  have  you  chosen  here 
for  meditation  !  a  solitude  is  the  audience- 
chamber  of  God.  Few  days,  very  few  in 
our  year  like  this  :  there  is  a  fresh  pleasure 
in  every  fresh  posture  of  the  limbs,  in  every 
turn  the  eye  takes. 

Youth,  credulous  of  happiness,  throw  down 
Upon  this  turf  thy  wallet,  stored  and  swoln 
With  morrow-morns,  bird  eggs,  and  bladders  burst, 
That  tires  thee  with  its  wagging  to  and  fro; 
Thou,  too,  would'st  breathe  more  freely  for  it,  Age, 
Who  lackest  heart  to  lau£h  at  life's  deceit. 

It  sometimes  requires  a  stout  push,  and 
sometimes  a  sudden  resistance  in  the  wisest 
men,  not  to  become  for  a  moment  the  most 
foolish.  What  have  I  done?  I  have  fairly 
challenged  you,  so  much  my  master. 

Sidney.  You  have  warmed  me ;  I  must 
cool  a  little,  and  watch  my  opportunity.  So 
now,  Greville,  return  you  to  your  invita- 
tions, and  I  will  clear  the  ground  for  the 
company;  youth,  age.  and  whatever  comes 
between,  with  all  their  kindred  and  depend- 
encies. Verily  we  need  few  taunts  or  ex- 
postulations, for  in  the  country  we  have  few 
vices,  and  consequently  few  repinings.  I 
take  especial  care  that  my  labourers  and 
farmers  shall  never  be  idle.  In  church  they 
are  taught  to  love  God,  after  church  they  are 
practised  to  love  their  neighbour ;  for  busi- 
ness on  work-days  keeps  them  apart  and 
scattered,  and  on  market-days  they  are  prone 
to  a  rivalry  bordering  on  malice,  as  competi- 
tors for  custom.  Goodness  does  not  more 
certainly  make  men  happy,  than  happiness 
makes  them  good.  We  must  distinguish  be- 
tween felicity  and  prosperity,  for  prosperity 
leads  often  to  ambition,  and  ambition  to  dis- 


332 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LAND  OR. 


appointment;  the  course  is  then  over;  the 
wheel  turns  round  but  once,  while  the  reac- 
tion of  goodness  and  happiness  is  perpetual. 

Brooke.  You  reason  justly,  and  you  act 
rightly.  Piety,  warm,  soft  and  passive  as 
the  aether  round  the  throne  of  Grace,  is 
made  callous  and  inactive  by  kneeling  too 
much  ;  her  vitality  faints  under  rigorous  and 
wearisome  observances. 

Kidney.  Desire  of  lucre,  the  worst  and 
most  general  country  vice,  arises  here  from 
the  necessity  of  looking  to  small  gains.  It 
is  the  tartar  that  encrusts  economy. 

Brooke.  Oh,  that  anything  so  monstrous 
should  exist  in  this  profusion  and  prodigal- 
ity of  blessings !  The  herbs  are  crisp  and 
elastic  with  health  ;  they  are  warm  under 
my  hand,  as  if  their  veins  were  filled  with 
such  a  fluid  as  ours.  What  a  hum  of  satis- 
faction in  God's  creatures !  How  is  it,  Sid- 
ney, the  smallest  do  seem  the  happiest? 

Sidney.  Compensation  for  their  weak- 
nesses and  their  fears;  compensation  for 
the  shortness  of  their  existence.  Their 
spirits  mount  upon  the  sunbeam  above  the 
eagle  ;  they  have  more  enjoyment  in  their 
one  summer  than  the  elephant  in  his  cen- 
tury. 

Brooke.  Are  not  also  the  little  and  lowly 
in  our  species  the  most  happy? 

Sidney.  I  would  not  willingly  try  nor 
over-curiously  examine  it.  We,  Greville, 
are  happy  in  these  parks  and  forests  ;  we 
were  happy  in  my  close  winter-walk  of  box, 
and  laurestinus,  and  mezereon.  In  our 
earlier  days  did  we  not  emboss  our  bosoms 
with  the  crocuses,  and  shake  them  almost 
unto  shedding  with  our  transports?  Ah, 
my  friend,  there  is  a  greater  difference  both 
in  the  stages  of  life  and  in  the  seasons  of  the 
year  than  in  the  conditions  of  men  ;  yet  the 
healthy  pass  through  the  seasons,  from  the 
clement  to  the  inclement,  not  only  unreluc- 
tantly,  but  rejoicingly,  knowing  that  the 
worst  will  soon  finish,  and  the  best  begin 
again  anew :  and  we  are  all  desirous  of 
pushing  forward  into  every  stage  of  life  ex- 
cepting that  alone  which  ought  reasonably 
to  allure  us  most,  as  opening  to  us  the  Via 
Sacra,  along  which  we  move  in  triumph  to 
our  eternal  country.  We  may  in  some  meas- 
ure frame  our  minds  for  the  reception  of 
happiness,  for  more  or  for  less  :  but  we  should 
well  consider  to  what  port  we  are  steering 
in  search  of  it,  and  that  even  in  the  richest 
we  shall  find  but  a  circumscribed  and  very 
exhaustible  quality.  There  is  a  sickliness 
in  the  firmest  of  us,  which  induces  us  to 
change  our  side,  though  reposing  ever  so 
softly;  yet,  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  we 
turn  again  soon  into  our  old  position.  God 
hath  granted  unto  both  of  us  hearts  easily 
contented ;  hearts  fitted  for  every  station, 


because  fitted  for  every  duty.  What  ap- 
pears the  dullest  may  contribute  most  to 
our  genius ;  what  is  most  gloomy  may 
soften  the  seeds  and  relax  the  fibres  of  gai- 
ety. Sometimes  we  are  insensible  to  its 
kindlier  influence,  sometimes  not.  We  en- 
joy the  solemnity  of  the  spreading  oak 
above  us;  perhaps  we  owe  to  it  in  part  the 
mood  of  our  minds  at  this  instant;  perhaps 
an  inanimate  thing  supplies  ine  while  I  am 
speaking  with  all  I  possess  of  animation. 
Do  you  imagine  that  any  contest  of  shep- 
herds can  afford  them  the  same  pleasure 
that  I  receive  from  the  description  of  it ;  or 
that  in  their  loves,  however  innocent  and 
faithful,  they  are  so  free  from  anxiety  as  I 
am  while  I  celebrate  them?  The  exertion 
of  intellectual  power,  of  fancy  and  imagina- 
tion, keeps  from  us  greatly  more  than  their 
wretchedness,  and  affords  us  greatly  more 
than  their  enjoyment.  We  are  motes  in  the 
midst  of  generations  ;  we  have  our  sunbeams 
to  circuit  and  climb.  Look  at  the  summits 
of  all  the  trees  around  us,  how  they  move, 
and  the  loftiest  the  more  so  ;  nothing  is  at 
rest  within  the  compass  of  our  view  except 
the  grey  moss  on  the  pai'k-pales.  Let  it  cat 
away  the  dead  oak,  but  let  it  not  be  com- 
pared to  the  living  one. 
Imaginary  Conversations. 

IMAGINARY  CONVERSATION   BETWEEN  ROGER 
ASCHAM  AND  LADY  JANE  GREY. 

AscJiam.  Thou  art  going,  my  dear  young 
lady,  into  a  most  awful  state;  thou  art 
passing  into  matrimony  and  great  wealth. 
God  hath  willed  it.  Submit  in  thankfulness. 
Thy  affections  are  rightly  placed  and  well 
distributed.  Love  is  a  secondary  passion 
in  those  who  love  most,  a  primary  in  those 
who  love  least.  He  who  is  inspired  by  it 
in  a  high  degree  is  inspired  by  honour  in  n 
higher:  it  never  reaches  its  plenitude  of 
growth  and  perfection  but  in  the  most  ex- 
alted minds.  Alas!  alas! 

Jane.  What  aileth  my  virtuous  Ascham  ? 
What  is  amiss?  Why  do  I  tremble? 

Ascham.  I  remember  a  sort  of  prophecy, 
made  three  years  ago;  it  is  a  prophecy  of 
thy  condition  and  of  my  feelings  on  it. 
Recollectest  thou  who  wrote,  sitting  upon 
the  sea-beach,  the  evening  after  an  excur- 
sion to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  these  verses? 

Invisibly  bright  water!  so  like  air, 
On  looking  down  I  fear'd  thou  couldst  not  bear 
My  little  hark,  of  all  light  harks  most  light, 
And  look'd  again,  and  drew  me  from  the  sight, 
And,  hanging  back,  breathed  each  fresh  gale  aghast, 
And  held  the  bench,  not  to  go  on  so  fast. 

Jane.  I  was  very  childish  when  I  com- 
posed them  ;  and,  if  I  had  thought  any 
more  about  the  matter,  I  should  have  hoped 


RICHARD  MANT. 


333 


you  had  been  too  generous  to  keep  them  in 
your  memory  as  witnesses  against  me. 

Ascliam.  Nay,  they  are  not  much  amiss 
for  so  young  a  girl,  and  there  being  so  few 
of  them,  I  did  not  reprove  thee.  Half  an 
hour,  I  thought,  might  have  been  spent 
more  unprofitably  ;  and  I  now  shall  believe 
it  firmly,  if  thou  wilt  but  be  led  by  them  to 
meditate  a  little  on  the  similarity  of  situa- 
tion in  which  thou  then  wert  to  what  thou 
art  now  in. 

Jane.  I  will  do  it,  and  whatever  else  you 
command;  for  I  am  weak  by  nature  and 
very  timorous,  unless  where  a  strong  sense 
of  duty  holdeth  and  supporteth  me.  There 
God  acteth,  and  not  II is  creature.  Those 
were  with  me  at  sea  who  would  have  been 
attentive  to  me  if  I  had  seemed  to  be  afraid, 
even  though  worshipful  men  and  women 
were  in  the  company;  so  that  something 
more  powerful  threw  my  fear  overboard. 
Yet  I  never  will  go  again  upon  the  water. 

Ascliam.  Exercise  that  beauteous  couple, 
that  mind  and  body,  much  and  variously, 
but  at  home,  at  home,  Jane !  in-doors,  and 
about  things  in-doors  ;  for  God  is  there  too. 
We  have  rocks  and  quicksands  on  the  banks 
of  onr  Thames,  0  lady,  such  as  Ocean  never 
heard  of;  and  many  (who  knows  how  soon  !) 
may  be  ingulfed  in  the  current  under  their 
garden  walls. 

Jane.  Thoroughly  do  I  now  understand 
you.  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  read  evil  things 
of  courts ;  but  I  think  nobody  can  go  out 
bad  who  entereth  good,  if  timely  and  true 
warning  shall  have  been  given. 

Ascliam.  I  see  perils  on  perils  which  thou 
dost  not  see,  albeit  thou  art  wiser  than  thy 
poor  old  master.  And  it  is  not  because  Love 
hath  blinded  thee,  for  that  surpasseth  his 
supposed  omnipotence;  but  it  is  because  thy 
tender  heart,  having  always  lea,nt  affection- 
ately upon  good,  hath  felt  and  known  nothing 
of  evil. 

I  once  persuaded  thee  to  reflect  much  :  let 
me  now  persuade  thee  to  avoid  the  habitude 
of  reflection,  to  hay  aside  books,  and  to  gaze 
carefully  and  steadfastly  on  what  is  under 
and  before  thee. 

Jane.  I  have  well  bethought  me  of  my  du- 
ties :  Oh,  how  extensive  they  are !  what  a 
goodly  and  fair  inheritance!  But  tell  me, 
would  you  command  me  never  more  to  read 
Cicero,  and  Epictetus,  and  Plutarch,  and 
Polybius?  The  others  I  do  resign  :  they  are 
good  for  the  arbour  and  for  the  gravel  walk  : 
yet  leave  unto  me,  I  beseech  you,  my  friend 
and  father,  leave  unto  me  for  my  fireside  and 
my  pillow,  truth,  eloquence,  courage,  con- 
stancy. 

Ascham,  Read  them  on  thy  marriage-bed, 
on  thy  child-bed,  on  thy  death-bed.  Thou 
spotless,  undrooping  lily,  they  have  fenced 


thee  right  well.  These  are  the  men  for  men  : 
these  are  to  fashion  the  bright  and  blessed 
creatures  whom  God  one  day  shall  smile 
upon  in  thy  chaste  bosom.  Mind  thou  thy 
husband. 

Jane.  I  sincerely  love  the  youth  who  hath 
espoused  me;  I  love  him  with  the  fondest, 
the  most  solicitous  affection  ;  I  pray  to  the 
Almighty  for  his  goodness  and  happiness, 
and  do  forget  at  times,  unworthy  supplicant ! 
the  prayers  I  should  have  offered  for  myself. 
Never  fear  that  I  will  disparage  my  kind, 
religious  teacher  by  disobedience  to  my  hus- 
band in  the  most  trying  duties. 

Ascham.  Gentle  is  he,  gentle  and  virtuous; 
but  time  will  harden  him  :  time  must  harden 
even  thee,  sweet  Jane !  Do  thou,  compla- 
cently and  indirectly,  lead  him  from  am- 
bition. 

Jane.  He  is  contented  with  me,  and  with 
home. 

Ascham.  Ah,  Jane !  Jane !  men  of  high 
estate  grow  tired  of  contentedness. 

Jane.  He  told  me  he  never  liked  books 
unless  I  read  them  to  him  :  I  will  read  them 
to  him  every  evening;  I  will  open  new 
worlds  to  him,  richer  than  those  discovered 
by  the  Spaniard :  I  will  conduct  him  to 
treasures — oh,  what  treasures! — on  which 
he  may  sleep  in  innocence  tind  peace. 

Ascliam.  Rather  do  thou  walk  with  him, 
ride  with  him,  play  with  him,  be  his  fairy, 
his  page,  his  everything  that  love  and  poetry 
have  invented :  but  watch  him  well ;  sport 
with  his  fancies,  turn  them  about, — like  the 
ringlets  round  his  cheek ;  and  if  he  ever 
meditate  on  power,  go  toss  up  thy  baby  to 
his  brow,  and  bring  back  his  thoughts  into 
his  heart  by  the  music  of  thy  discourse. 

Teach  him  to  live  unto  God  and  unto  thee ; 
and  he  will  discover  that  women,  like  the 
plants  in  woods,  derive  their  softness  and 
tenderness  from  the  shade. 

Imaginary  Conversations. 


RICHARD   MANT,  D.D., 

born  1776,  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  1798, 
Bishop  of  Killaloe  and  Kilfenora,  1820,  of 
Down  and  Connor,  1823,  and  of  Dromore, 
1842,  died  1848.  lie  is  best  known  as  co- 
editor  with  the  Rev.  Richard  D'Oyly  of  a 
Bible  published  by  the  Society  for  Promoting 
Christian  Knowledge, — the  Bible,  with  Notes 
Explanatory  and  Practical,  taken  from  the 
most  Eminent  Writers  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, Oxford,  1817,  3  vols.  4to;  edited  by 
Bishop  Hobart,  with  additions,  New  York, 
1818-20,  2  vols.  4to.  Mant  also  published 
An  Appeal  to  the  Gospel :  Bampton  Lecture, 
Oxf.  and  Lond.,  1812,  8vo;  The  Book  of 


334 


RICHARD   MANT. 


Common  Prayer,  Selected  with  Notes,  1820, 
4to ;  The  Book  of  Psalms  in  an  English  Met- 
rical Version,  with  Notes,  Oxf.,  1824,  8vo; 
Biographical  Notices  of  the  Apostles,  Evan- 
gelists, and  other  Saints,  Oxt.,  1828,  8vo ; 
The  Clergyman's  Obligations  Considered,  2d 
edit.,  Oxl'.,  1830, 18mo;  The  Gospel  Miracles: 
in  a  Series  of  Poetical  Sketches,  etc.,  1832 ; 
The  British  Months  ;  a  Poem,  1835,  2  vols. 
fp.  8vo ;  History  of  the  Church  of  Ireland, 
1839-41,  2  vols.  8vo ;  also  Poems,  Oxf.,  1806, 
Bin.  8vo,  and  five  volumes  of  Sermons,  1813 
-38. 

NECESSITY  ANTD  BENEFITS  OF  THE  LORD'S 
SUPPER. 

You  know  that  the  Son  of  God  undertook 
to  redeem  and  save  mankind  from  the  sad 
state  [of  sin]  into  which  they  had  fallen  : — 
to  satisfy  the  offended  ju.stice  of  His  Father  ; 
to  suffer  in  His  own  person,  and  thereby  to 
make  atonement,  for  the  sins  of  men  ; — and 
at  the  same  time  to  repair  and  renew  that 
nature,  which  was  so  fatally  polluted  and 
diseased,  by  giving  to  men  a  new  spirit,  and 
by  enabling  them  both  to  will  and  to  do 
things  pleasing  unto  God.  You  know  that 
in  order  to  this,  the  Son  of  God  was  made 
man  ; — that  in  that  form  lie  took  upon  Him- 
self the  nature  and  the  sins  of  men  ; — that 
He  then  submitted  to  a  cruel  and  disgraceful 
death,  for  the  redemption  and  salvation  of 
you  and  all  mankind  ;  whom  He  thus  re- 
stored to  the  favour  of  God,  and  thereby 
made  it  possible  for  you  to  recover  that  hap- 
piness which  had  been  lost  by  the  original 
fall  of  our  first  parents.  Finally,  you  know 
that  God  was  so  pleased  with  the  wonderful 
love  and  goodness  shown  in  this  precious  sac- 
rifice of  His  Son,  that  He  promised  to  par- 
don all  men  who  through  faith  in  His  blood 
should  truly  repent  of  their  sins,  and  should 
prove  their  repentance  by  obeying  the  com- 
mandments of  His  Son.  and  should  thus  fulfil 
the  conditions  which  He  was  pleased  to  ap- 
point for  their  salvation. 

These  things  (I  say)  you  all  know;  and 
knowing  these  things,  must  you  not  think, 
nay,  rather,  must  you  not  know,  it  to  be  a 
duty  which  you  owe  to  Christ,  to  obey  any 
commandment  which  Tie  may  lay  upon  you, 
in  return  for  the  sufferings  which  He  en- 
dured for  your  sakes  and  for  the  blessings 
which  lie  has  purchased  for  you  ?  Must  you 
not  know  it  to  be  a  duty,  which  you  owe  to 
yourselves,  to  obey  His  commandments,  if  on 
your  obedience  to  His  commandments  de- 
pends the  question,  whether  or  not  you  shall 
receive  any  share  in  those  blessings  which 
He  died  to  purchase  ? 

Surely  the  most  inattentive  and  thought- 
less man  amongst  you,  if  he  think  at  all, 


must  know  that  obedience  to  the  command- 
ments of  Christ  is  on  every  account  the  duty 
of  him  who  calls  himself  a  Christian.  Is, 
then,  the  partaking  in  the  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  Supper  one  of  the  commandments  of 
Christ  ?  Hear  and  consider  the  words  of  one 
of  His  Apostles,  and  then  answer  for  your- 
selves. 

"  I  have  received  of  the  Lord"  (saith  St. 
Paul  in  his  first  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians) 
"  that  which  also  I  delivered  unto  you,  That 
the  Lord  Jesus  the  same  night  in  which  he 
was  betrayed  took  bread :  and  when  he  had 
given  thanks,  he  brake  it,  and  said,  Take, 
eat:  this  is  my  body,  which  is  broken  for 
you:  this  do  in  remembrance  of  me.  After 
the  same  manner  also  he  took  the  cup,  when 
he  had  supped,  saying,  This  cup  is  the  new 
testament  in  my  blood  :  this  do  ye,  as  oft  as 
ye  drink  it,  in  remembrance  of  me.  For  as 
often  as  ye  eat  this  bread,  and  drink  this 
cup,  ye  do  shew  the  Lord's  death  till  he 
come."  (1  Cor.  xi.  23-2f>.)  If  you  attend  to 
this  passage,  you  will  find  an  express  com- 
mandment positively  and  clearly  given  by 
our  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ,  in  these  words, 
which  occur  twice  in  the  course  of  the  pas- 
sage :  "  This  do  in  remembrance  of  me." 
Christ,  then,  commanded  something  to  be 
done. 

If  again  you  consider  the  passage,  you 
will  find  what  it  was  that  lie  commanded  to 
be  done.  He  was  blessing  and  giving  bread 
and  wine,  when  He  told  the  persons  to  whom 
He  gave  them,  to  do  the  same  things  in  re- 
membrance of  Him.  To  bless  and  give  bread 
and  wine,  then,  are  the  things  wrhieh  Christ 
commanded  to  be  done. 

If  again  you  consider  the  passage,  and 
compare  it  with  the  accounts  given  of  the 
institution  of  the  Lord's  Supper  by  St.  Mat- 
thew, St.  Mark,  and  St.  Luke,  you  will  per- 
ceive that  the  commandment  of  Christ  to 
bless  and  give  bread  and  wine  in  remem- 
brance of  Him,  was  first  committed  to  His 
Apostles,  at  that  time  the  ministers  of  His 
word  : — and  if  you  further  consider  it,  you 
will  perceive  that  it  was  not  meant  to  be 
confined  to  them  aloner  but  was  also  com- 
mitted to  those  who  should  succeed  the 
Apostles  as  ministers  of  the  Gospel,  because 
St.  Paul  speaks  of  "shewing  the  Lord's  death 
till  he  come."  And  as  the  Lord  will  not 
come  again  before  the  end  of  the  world,  the 
commandment  must  remain  in  force  as  long 
as  the  world  shall  last. 

You  see,  then,  that  the  ministers  of  Christ 
are  commanded  by  Him  to  bless  and  to  give 
bread  and  wine  in  remembrance  of  Him. 
And  to  whom  are  they  to  give  them  ?  Why 
certainly  to  the  people  committed  to  their 
spiritual  charge  ;  who  are  therefore  as  much 
bound  to  attend  and  partake  in  the  Lord's 


HENRY  HALL  AM. 


335 


Supper  as  the  minister  is  bound  to  attend  and 
distribute  it:  for  we  cannot  give  as  we  are 
commanded,  unless  you  are  ready  to  receive. 

Is  it  not,  then,  the  commandment  of  your 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ  that  you  par- 
take in  the  holy  communion  of  His  body  and 
blood?  Is  not  the  partaking  in  it  a  duty 
•which  you  owe  to  Christ  who  died  for  you, 
and  to  whom  you  promised  obedience  at  your 
baptism?  And  is  it  not  a  duty  which  you 
owe  to  yourselves,  if  you  would  receive  any 
benefit  from  His  death  ? 

And  this  I  say,  Christian  brethren,  even 
supposing  this  to  be  no  more  than  an  ordi- 
nary commandment  of  our  Saviour.  But 
there  are  circumstances  which  distinguish 
this  from  all  other  commandments,  and  make 
it  in  an  especial  manner  your  duty. 

It  is  the  last  and,  as  it  were,  the  dying 
commandment  and  request  of  your  Saviour. 
He  who  was  on  the  right  hand  of  God  the 
Father,  in  whom  shone  the  fulness  of  His 
Father's  glory,  and  who  was  the  express  im- 
age of  his  person  :  He  humbled  Himself  for 
you  ;  He  took  your  nature  and  form  upon 
Him  ;  He  became  obedient  unto  death,  even 
the  cruel  and  ignominious  death  of  the  cross  ; 
and  when  He  was  now  upon  the  point  of 
fulfilling  His  surprising  love  towards  you 
by  laying  down  His  life  for  your  sakes,  lie 
gives  you  this  commandment,  that  you  eat 
and  drink  the  bread  and  wine  offered  you  by 
His  ministers  !  Is  not  the  last  request  of  a 
dying  friend  entitled  to  some  regard  ?  And 
of  Him,  too,  who  was  such  a  friend? 

It  is  the  way  by  which  you  are  to  show 
that  you  "  remember"  Christ,  and  have  a 
just  sense  of  His  goodness  towards  you. 
"  This  do"  (said  He)  "  in  remembrance  of 
me."  You  may  indeed  say  that  you  re- 
member Christ,  that  you  have  a  just  sense 
of  His  goodness,  although  you  do  not  par- 
take in  the  communion  of  His  body  and 
blood.  But  if  He  has  appointed  a  particular 
way  by  which  He  would  have  you  remember 
Him,  I  know  not  how  you  can  show  that  you 
do  remember  Him,  except  by  following  that 
one  way  ;  and  I  know  not  how  you  can  stand 
acquitted  of  forgetfulness  and  ingratitude  to 
Him,  unless  you  perform  this  His  command- 
ment. 

The  partaking  in  the  Lord's  Supper  is 
again  the  only  proper  act  of  Christian  wor- 
ship. The  professors  of  other  religions, 
Jews,  Turks,  and  Heathens,  worship  God 
by  praying  too,  by  thanking,  and  by  prais- 
ing Him.  In  addition  to  these  acts  of  wor- 
ship, Christians  perform  that  of  eating  and 
drinking  bread  and  wine,  as  Christ  has  com- 
manded. So  that  however  devoutly  you  may 
worship  God  in  general  when  you  come  to 
Church,  you  do  not  in  so  strict  a  sense  wor- 
ship as  Christians  unless  you  partake  in  the 


bread  and  wine,  which  represents  the  body 
and  blood  of  Christ ;  and  thus  perform  that 
act  which  Christ  has  made  a  mark  of  dis- 
tinction to  His  followers. 

The  partaking  in  the  holy  communion  is 
also  a  duty  which  you  owe  to  yourselves  on 
account  of  the  benefits  which  you  may  re- 
ceive from  it :  not  only  that  benefit  which 
may  be  expected  by  all  who  generally  fulfil 
God's  commandments,  but  those  particular 
benefits  which  follow  upon  a  hearty  and 
conscientious  performance  of  this. 

Sermons,  Vol.  i.,  2^9. 


HENRY  HALLAM,  LL.D., 

born  at  Windsor,  1777,  and  educated  $it 
Eton  and  Oxford,  died  1859,  was  the  author 
of  three  great  works,  "either  of  which,"  as 

1  have  remarked  in   another  place,  "  is  of 
sufficient  merit  to  confer  upon   the  author 
literary  immortality"  :  A  View  of  the  State 
of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages,  Lond., 
1818.    2   vols.    4to    (supplementary    Notes, 
1848,  8vo),  llth  edit.,  1855,  3  vols.  cr.  8vo, 
Popular  edition,  1857,  3  vols.  p.  8vo,  New 
York,  Widdleton,  3  vols.  cr.  8vo,  in  French, 
by  P.  Dudouit  and  A.  R.  Borghers,  Paris, 
1830-32,  4  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1837,  4  vols. 
8vo :     The   Constitutional   History  of  Eng- 
land, from  the  Accession  of  Henry  VII.  to 
the  Death  of  George  II.,  1760,  Lond.,  1827, 

2  vols.  4to,  8th  edit.,   1855,  3  vols.  cr.  8vo, 
Popular  edition,  1857,  3  vols.  post  8vo,  New 
York,  Widdleton,  3  vols.  cr.  8vo,  in  French, 
edited  by  Guizot,  Paris,  1828,  4  vols.  8vo  : 
add    to   it  Constitutional    History   of  Eng- 
land   since  the   Accession   of  George  III., 
1760-1820,  by  Sir  T.  E.  May,  Lond.,  1871, 

3  vols.  8vo;  New  York,  1880,  12mo;  Intro- 
duction  to   the   Literature  of    Europe,   in 
the  15th,  16th,  and  17th  Centuries,  Lond., 
1837-39,  4  vols.  8vo,  5th  edit.,  1856,  4  vols. 
cr.  8vo,  New  York,  4  vols.  cr.  8vo,  in  French, 
by  M.  A.  Borghers,  Paris,  1839,  4  vols.  8vo. 

"  The  cold  academic  style  of  Robertson  may  suit 
the  comparative  calmness  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
but  the  fervour  and  animation  of  its  close  commu- 
nicated itself  to  the  historical  works  of  the  next. 
HALLAM  was  the  first  historian  whose  style  gave 
token  of  the  coming  change  ;  his  works  mark  the 
transition  from  one  age  and  style  of  literature  to 
another.  In  extent  and  variety  of  learning,  and 
a  deep  acquaintance  with  antiquarian  lore,  the 
historian  of  the  Middle  Ages  may  deservedly  take 
a  place  with  the  most  eminent  writers  in  that 
style  that  Europe  has  produced  ;  but  his  style  is 
more  imaginative  than  those  of  his  laborious  pre- 
decessors, and  a  fervent  eloquence  or  poetic  ex- 
pression often  reveals  the  ardour  which  the  heart- 
stirring  events  of  his  time  had  communicated  to 
his  disposition." — SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON  :  Hist,  of 
Europe,  1815-1852,  ch.  v. 


336 


HENRY  HALL  AM. 


DON   QUIXOTE. 

The  first  part  of  Don  Quixote  was  published 
in  1605.  We  have  no  reason,  I  believe,  to 
suppose  it  was  written  long  before.  It  became 
immediately  popular;  and  the  admiration 
of  the  world  raised  up  envious  competitors, 
one  of  whom,  Avellnnadn,  published  a  con- 
tinuation in  a  strain  of  invective  against  the 
author.  Cervantes,  who  cannot  be  imagined 
to  have  ever  designed  the  leaving  his  romance 
in  so  unfinished  a  state,  took  time  about  the 
second  part,  which  did  not  appear  until  1615. 

Don  Quixote  is  the  only  book  in  the 
Spanish  language  which  can  now  be  said 
to  possess  much  of  a  European  reputation. 
It  has,  however,  enjoyed  enough  to  compen- 
sate for  the  neglect  of  all  the  rest.  It  is  to 
Europe  in  general  what  Ariosto  is  to  Italy, 
and  Shakspere  to  England  ;  the  one  book 
to  which  the  slightest  allusions  may  be  made 
without  affectation,  but  not  missed  without 
discredit.  Numerous  translations  and  count- 
less editions  of  them,  in  every  language,  be- 
speak its  adaptation  to  mankind;  no  critic 
has  been  paradoxical  enough  to  withhold 
his  admiration,  no  reader  has  ventured  to 
confess  a  want  of  relish  for  that  in  which 
the  young  and  old,  in  every  climate,  have, 
age  after  age,  taken  delight.  They  have, 
doubtless,  believed  that  they  understood  the 
author's  meaning :  and,  in  giving  the  reins 
to  the  gaiety  that  his  fertile  invention  and 
comio  humour  inspired,  never  thought  of 
any  deeper  meaning  than  he  announces,  or 
delayed  their  enjoyment  for  any  metaphys- 
ical investigation  of  his  plan. 

A  new  school  of  criticism,  however,  has 
of  late  years  arisen  in  Germany,  acute,  in- 
genious, and  sometimes  eminently  successful 
in  philosophical,  or,  as  they  denominate  it, 
aesthetic  analysis  of  works  of  taste,  but  glid- 
ing too  much  into  refinement  and  conjectural 
hypothesis,  and  with  a  tendency  to  mislead 
men  of  inferior  capacities  for  this  kind  of  in- 
vestigation into  mere  paradox  and  absurdity, 
An  instance  is  supplied,  in  my  opinion,  by 
some  remarks  of  Bouterwek,  still  more  ex- 
plicitly developed  by  Sismondi,  on  the  de- 
sign of  Cervantes  in  Don  Quixote,  and  which 
have  been  repeated  in  other  publications. 
According  to  these  writers,  the  primary  idea 
is  that  of  a  "  man  of  elevated  character, 
excited  by  heroic  and  enthusiastic  feelings 
to  the  extravagant  pitch  of  wishing  to  re- 
store the  age  of  chivalry  :  nor  is  it  possible 
to  form  a  more  mistaken  notion  of  this 
work,  than  by  considering  it  merely  as  a 
satire,  intended  by  the  author  to  ridicule  the 
absurd  passion  for  reading  old  romances." 
"  The  fundamental  idea  of  Don  Quixote," 
says  Sismondi.  "  is  the  eternal  contrast  be- 
tween the  spirit  of  poetry  and  that  of  prose. 


Men  of  an  elevated  soul  propose  to  them- 
selves, as  the  object  of  life,  to  be  the  de- 
fenders of  the  weak,  the  support  of  the 
oppressed,  the  champions  of  justice  and 
innocence.  Like  Don  Quixote,  they  find  on 
every  side  the  image  of  the  virtues  they 
worship:  they  believe  that  disinterested- 
ness, nobleness,  courage,  in  short,  knight- 
errantry,  are  still  prevalent,  and,  with  no 
calculation  of  their  own  powers,  they  expose 
themselves  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  laws  and 
rules  of  an  imaginary  state  of  society." 

If  this  were  a  true  representation  of  the 
scheme  of  Don  Quixote,  we  cannot  wonder 
that  some  persons  should,  as  M.  Sismondi 
tells  they  do,  consider  it  as  the  most  melan- 
choly book  that  has  ever  been  written. 
They  consider  it  also,  no  doubt,  one  of  the 
most  immoral,  as  chilling  and  pernicious  in 
its  influence  on  the  social  converse  of  man- 
kind, as  the  "Prince"  of  Machiavel  is  on 
their  political  intercourse.  "  Cervantes,"  he 
proceeds,  "has  shown  us,  in  some  measure, 
the  vanity  of  greatness  of  soul,  and  the 
delusion  of  heroism.  He  has  drawn  in  Don 
Quixote  a  perfect  man  (un  homme  accompli], 
who  is  nevertheless  the  constant  object  of 
ridicule.  Brave  beyond  the  fabled  knights 
he  imitates,  disinterested,  honourable,  gen- 
erous, the  most  faithful  and  respectfuf  of 
lovers,  the  best  of  masters,  the  most  accom- 
plished and  well  educated  of  gentlemen,  all 
his  enterprises  end  in  discomfiture  to  him- 
self, and  in  mischief  to  others."  M.  Sis- 
mondi descants  on  the  perfections  of  the 
Knight  of  La  Mancha  with  a  gravity  which 
is  not  quite  easy  for  his  readers  to  preserve. 

It  might  be  answered  by  a  phlegmatic  ob- 
server, that  a  mere  enthusiasm  for  doing 
good,  if  excited  by  vanity,  and  not  accom- 
panied by  common  sense,  will  seldom  be 
very  serviceable  to  ourselves  or  to  others; 
that  men  who,  in  their  heroism  and  care  for 
the  oppressed,  would  throw  open  the  cages 
of  lions,  and  set  galley-slaves  at  liberty,  not 
forgetting  to  break  the  limbs  of  harmless 
persons  whom  they  mistake  for  wrong-doers, 
are  a  class  of  whom  Don  Quixote  is  the  real 
type ;  and  that  the  world  being  much  the 
worse  for  such  heroes,  it  might  not  be  im- 
moral, notwithstanding  their  benevolent  en- 
thusiasm, to  put  them  out  of  countenance 
by  a  little  ridicule.  This,  however,  is  not, 
as  I  conceive,  the  primary  aim  of  Cer- 
vantes ;  nor  do  I  think  that  the  exhibition 
of  one  great  truth,  as  the  predominant,  but 
concealed  moral  of  a  long  work,  is  in  the 
spirit  of  his  age.  He  possessed  a  very 
thoughtful  mind  and  a  profound  knowledge 
of  humanity  ;  yet  the  generalization  which 
the  hypothesis  of  Bouterwek  and  Sismondi 
requires  for  the  leading  conceptions  of  Don 
Quixote,  besides  its  being  a  little  inconsist- 


HENRY  HALL  AM. 


337 


ent  with  the  valorous  and  romantic  charac- 
ter of  its  author,  belongs  to  a  more  advanced 
period  of  philosophy  than  his  own.  It  will, 
ut  all  events,  I  presume,  be  admitted  that 
we  cannot  reason  tibout  Don  Quixote  except 
from  the  book,  and  I  think  it  may  be  shown 
in  a  few  words  that  these  ingenious  writers 
have  been  chiefly  misled  by  some  want  of 
consistency  which  circumstances  produced 
in  the  author's  delineation  of  his  hero. 

In  the  first  chapter  of  this  romance,  Cer- 
vantes, with  a  few  strokes  of  a  great  master, 
sets  before  us  the  pauper  gentleman,  an  early 
riser  and  keen  sportsman,  who,  "when  he 
was  idle,  which  was  most  part  of  the  year," 
gave  himself  up  to  reading  books  of  chivalry 
till  he  lost  his  wits.  The  events  that  follow 
are  in  every  one's  recollection  :  his  lunacy 
consists,  no  doubt,  only  in  one  idea ;  but 
this  is  so  absorbing  that  it  perverts  the  evi- 
dence of  his  senses,  and  predominates  in  all 
his  language.  It  is  to  be  observed,  there- 
fore, in  relation  to  the  nobleness  of  soul 
ascribed  to  Don  Quixote,  that  every  senti- 
ment he  utters  is  borrowed  with  a  punctil- 
ious rigour  from  the  romances  of  his  library  : 
he  resorts  to  them  on  every  occasion  for  pre- 
cedents. If  he  is  intrepidly  brave,  it  is  be- 
cause his  madness  and  vanity  have  made 
him  believe  himself  unconquerable ;  if  he 
bestows  kingdoms,  it  is  because  Ainadis 
would  have  done  the  same  ;  if  he  is  honour- 
able, courteous,  a  redresser  of  wrongs,  it  is 
in  pursuance  of  these  prototypes,  from 
whom,  except  that  he  seems  rather  more 
scrupulous  in  chastity,  it  is  his  only  boast 
not  to  diverge.  Those  who  talk  of  the  ex- 
alted character  of  Don  Quixote  seem  really 
to  forget,  that,  on  these  subjects,  he  has  no 
character  at  all :  he  is  the  echo  of  romance  ; 
and  to  praise  him  is  merely  to  say,  that  the 
tone  of  chivalry,  which  these  productions 
studied  to  keep  up,  and,  in  the  hands  of 
inferior  artists,  foolishly  exaggerated,  was 
full  of  moral  dignity,  and  has,  in  a  subdued 
degree  of  force,  modelled  the  character  of  a 
man  of  honour  in  the  present  day.  But 
throughout  the  first  two  volumes  of  Don 
Quixote,  though  in  a  few  unimportant  pas- 
sages he  talks  rationally,  I  cannot  find  more 
than  two  in  which  he  displays  any  other 
knowledge  or  strength  of  mind  than  the 
original  delineation  of  the  character  would 
have  led  us  to  expect. 

The  case  is  much  altered  in  the  last  two 
volumes.  Cervantes  had  acquired  an  im- 
mense popularity,  and  perceived  the  oppor- 
tunity, of  which  he  had  already  availed 
himself,  that  this  romance  gave  for  display- 
ing his  own  mind.  He  had  become  attached 
to  a  hero  who  had  made  him  illustrious,  and 
suffered  himself  to  lose  sight  of  the  clear 
outline  he  had  once  traced  for  Quixote's 
22 


personality.  Hence  we  find  in  all  this  sec- 
ond part,  that,  although  the  lunacy  as  to 
knights-errant  remains  unabated,  he  is,  on 
all  other  subjects,  not  only  rational  in  the 
low  sense  of  the  word,  but  clear,  acute,  pro- 
found, sarcastic,  cool-headed.  His  philos- 
ophy is  elevated,  but  not  enthusiastic:  his 
imagination  is  poetical,  but  it  is  restrained 
by  strong  sense.  There  are,  in  fact,  two 
Don  Quixotes:  one  whom  Cervantes  first 
designed  to  draw,  the  foolish  gentleman  of 
La  Mancha,  whose  foolishness  had  made 
him  frantic;  the  other  a  highly-gifted,  ac- 
complished model  of  the  best  chivalry, 
trained  in  all  the  court,  the  camp,  or  the 
college  could  impart,  but  scathed  in  one 
portion  of  his  mind  by  an  inexplicable  visi- 
tation of  monomania.  One  is  inclined  to 
ask  why  this  Don  Quixote,  who  is  Cervan- 
tes, should  have  been  more  likely  to  lose 
his  intellects  by  reading  romances  than 
Cervantes  himself.  As  a  matter  of  bodily 
disease,  such  an  event  is  doubtless  possible; 
but  nothing  can  be  conceived  more  improper 
for  fiction,  nothing  more  incapable  of  afford- 
ing a  moral  lesson  than  the  insanity  which 
arises  wholly  from  disease.  Insanity  is  in 
no  point  of  view  a  theme  for  ridicule ;  and 
this  is  an  inherent  fault  of  the  romance 
(for  those  who  have  imagined  that  Cervan- 
tes has  not  rendered  Quixote  ridiculous, 
have  a  strange  notion  of  the  word)  ;  but 
the  thoughtlessness  of  mankind,  rather  than 
their  insensibility,  for  they  do  not  connect 
madness  with  misery,  furnishes  some  apol- 
ogy for  the  first  two  volumes.  In  propor- 
tion as  we  perceive,  below  the  veil  of  men- 
tal delusion,  a  noble  intellect,  we  feel  a 
painful  sympathy  with  its  humiliation  ;  the 
character  becomes  more  complicated  and 
interesting,  but  has  less  truth  and  natural- 
ness: an  objection  which  might  also  be 
made,  comparatively  speaking,  to  the  inci- 
dent in  the  latter  volumes,  wherein  I  do  not 
find  the  admirable  probability  that  reigns 
through  the  former.  .  .  .  But  this  contrast 
of  wisdom  and  virtue  with  insanity  in  the 
same  subject,  would  have  been  repulsive  in 
the  primary  delineation,  as  I  think  any  one 
may  judge  by  supposing  Cervantes  had,  in 
the  first  chapter,  drawn  such  a  picture  of 
Quixote  as  Bouterwek  and  Sismondi  have 
drawn  for  him. 

I  must,  therefore,  venture  to  think  as,  I 
believe,  the  world  has  generally  thought  for 
two  centuries,  that  Cervantes  had  no  more 
profound  aim  than  he  proposes  to  the  reader. 
If  the  fashion  of  reading  bad  romances  of 
chivalry  perverted  the  taste  of  his  contempo- 
raries, and  rendered  their  language  ridicu- 
lous, it  was  natural  that  a  zealous  lover  of 
good  literature  should  expose  this  folly  to 
the  world  by  exaggerating  its  effects  on  a  fio- 


338 


HENRY  BROUGHAM. 


titious  personage.  It  has  been  said  by  some 
modern  writer,  though  I  cannot  remember 
by  whom,  that  there  was  a  prose  side  in  the 
mind  of  Cervantes.  There  was  indeed  a  side 
of  calm  strong  sense,  which  some  take  for 
unpoetical.  He  thought  the  tone  of  those 
romances  extravagant.  It  might  naturally 
occur  how  absurd  any  one  must  appear  who 
should  attempt  to  realize  in  actual  life  the 
adventures  of  Amadis.  Already  a  novelist, 
he  perceived  the  opportunities  this  idea  sug- 
gested. It  was  a  necess.'iry  consequence 
that  the  hero  must  be  represented  as  liter- 
ally insane,  since  his  condupt  would  have 
been  extravagant  beyond  the  probability  of 
fiction  on  any  other  hypothesis ;  and  from 
this  happy  conception  germinated,  in  a  very 
prolific  mind,  the  whole  history  of  Don 
Quixote.  Its  simplicity  is  perfect ;  no  limit 
could  be  found  save  the  author's  discretion, 
or  sense,  that  he  had  drawn  sufficiently  on 
his  imagination  ;  but  the  death  of  Quixote, 
which  Cervantes  has  been  said  to  have  de- 
termined upon  lest  some  one  else  should  a 
second  time  presume  to  continue  the  story, 
is  in  fact  the  only  possible  termination  that 
could  be  given  after  he  had  elevated  the 
character  to  that  pitch  of  mental  dignity 
which  we  find  in  the  last  two  volumes. 

Few  books  of  moral  philosophy  display 
as  deep  an  insight  into  the  meclianism  of 
mind  as  Don  Quixote.  And  when  we  look 
also  at  the  fertility  of  invention,  the  general 
probability  of  events,  and  the  great  sim- 
plicity of  the  story,  wherein  no  artifices  are 
practised  to  create  suspense  or  complicate 
the  action,  we  shall  think  Cervantes  fully  de- 
serving of  the  glory  that  attends  this  monu- 
ment of  his  genius.  It  is  not  merely  that 
be  is  superior  to  all  his  predecessors  and 
contemporaries.  This,  though  it  might  ac- 
count for  the  European  fame  of  his  romance, 
Avould  be  an  inadequate  testimony  to  its  de- 
sert. Cervantes  stands  on  an  eminence 
below  which  we  must  place  the  best  of  his 
successors.  We  have  only  to  compare  him 
with  Le  Sage  or  Fielding  to  judge  of  his 
vast  superiority.  To  Scott,  indeed,  he  must 
yield  in  the  variety  of  his  power  ;  but  in  the 
line  of  comic  romance,  we  should  hardly 
think  Scott  his  equal. 

Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe. 


HENRY   BROUGHAM,  LORD 
BROUGHAM, 

born  in  Edinburgh,  Sept.  19,  1778.  and  edu- 
cated at  the  High  School  and  the  University 
of  that  city,  after  a  brilliant  career  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  became  Lord  Chancellor 
of  England,  and  was  raised  to  the  peerage 
as  Baron  Brougham  and  Vaux,  Nov.  1830 ; 


died  at  his  seat  at  Cannes,  France,  May  9, 
1868.  Works :  Inquiry  into  the  Colonial 
Policy  of  the  European  Powers,  Lond.,  1803, 
2  vols.  8vo  ;  Discourse  of  Natural  Theology, 
Lond.,  1835,  p.  8vo ;  Dissertations  on  Sub- 
jects of  Science  Connected  with  Natural 
Theology,  Lond.,  1839,  2  vols.  p.  8vo  (the 
two  preceding  works  are  commonly  adjoined 
to  Lord  Brougham  and  Sir  Charles  Bell's 
edition  of  Paley's  Natural  Theology,  Lond., 
1836,  2  vols.  p.  8vo :  in  all  5  vols.,  or 
abridged,  Knight's  shilling  volumes,  1853, 
4  vols.  ISmo)  ;  Speeches,  Edin.,  1838,4  vols. 
8vo ;  Speeches,  Lond.,  1843,  4  vols.  !MO; 
Historical  Sketches  of  Statesmen  who  flour- 
ished in  the  Time  of  George  III.,  Lond., 
1839-43,  3  vols.  8vo ;  Political  Philosophy, 
Lond.,  1840-44,  3  vols.  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1853, 
new  edit.,  1861,  3  vols.  8vo ;  Albert  Lunel  ; 
or,The  Chateau  of  Languedoc,  Lond.,  1844,  3 
vols.  post  8vo:  suppressed,  but  republishrd  ; 
Lives  of  Men  of  Letters  and  Science  of  the 
Time  of  George  III.,  Lond.,  1845-46,  3  vols. 
royal  8vo;  Contributions  to  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  Glasg.,  1856,  3  vols.  8vo  (he  was  co- 
founder  with  Jeffrey,  Murray,  and  Sydney 
Smith  of  the  Edinburgh  lleview) ;  other  pub- 
lications. Works  collected  by  himself,  Edin., 
1855-57,  10  vols.  post  8vo.  His  Autobiog- 
raphy, Lond.,  3  vols.  8vo,  appeared  after  his 
dcntli.  See  also  his  Life  by  J.  McGilchrist, 
Lond.,  fp.  8vo,  Lord  Campbell's  Lives  of 
the  Lord  Chancellors,  and  Selections  from  the 
Correspondence  of  the  Late  Macvey  Napier, 
Esq.,  Edited  by  his  Son,  Macvey  Napier, 
Lond.,  1879,  8vb.  Index,  p.  544. 

Lord  Brougham  gained  distinction  by  his 
proficiency  in  many  departments  :  as  a  nat- 
ural philosopher,  a  political  philosopher,  an 
essayist,  an  orator,  an  historian,  a  biog- 
rapher, a  pleader,  and  a  fair  classical 
scholar.  His  efforts  for  the  Diffusion  of 
Useful  Knowledge  deserve  all  praise. 

SIR  WILLIAM  GRANT. 

We  have  now  named  in  some  respects  the 
most  extraordinary  individual  of  his  time, — 
one  certainly  than  whom  none  ever  better 
sustained  the  judicial  office,  though  its  func- 
tions were  administered  by  him  upon  a  some- 
what contracted  scale, — one  than  whom 
none  ever  descended  from  the  forum  into  the 
senate  with  more  extraordinary  powers  of 
argumentation,  or  flourished  there  with 
greater  renown.  It  happened  to  this  great 
judge  to  have  been  for  many  years  at  the 
bar  with  a  very  moderate  share  of  practice; 
and  although  his  parliamentary  exertions 
never  tore  him  away  from  his  profession,  yet 
his  public  character  rested  entirely  upon 
their  success  until  he  was  raised  to  the 
bench. 


HENR  Y  BRO  UGH  A  J/. 


339 


The  genius  of  the  man  then  shone  forth 
with  extraordinary  lustre.  His  knowledge 
of  law,  which  had  hitherto  been  scanty,  and 
never  enlarged  by  practice,  was  now  ex- 
panded to  whatever  dimensions  might  seem 
required  for  performing  his  high  office  ;  nor 
was  he  ever  remarked  as  at  all  deficient  even 
in  the  branch  most  difficult  to  master  without 
forensic  habits,  the  accomplishments  of  a 
case-lawyer:  while  his  familiarity  with  the 
principles  of  jurisprudence  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  their  foundations  were  ample,  as 
his  application  of  them  was  easy  and  mas- 
terly. The  Rolls  Court,  however,  in  those 
days,  was  one  of  comparatively  contracted 
business ;  and  although  he  gave  the  most 
entire  satisfaction  there,  and  in  presiding  at 
the  Privy  Council  in  Prize  and  Plantation 
Appeals,  a  doubt  was  always  raised  by  the 
admirers  of  Lord  Eldon  whether  Sir  William 
Grant  could  have  as  well  answered  the  larger 
demands  upon  his  judicial  resources,  had  he 
presided  in  the  Court  of  Chancery.  That 
doubt  appears?  altogether  unfounded.  He 
possessed  the  first  great  quality  for  despatch- 
ing business  (the  '''real"'  and  not  "affected 
despatch1'  of  Lord  Bacon),  a  power  of  steadily 
fixing  his  attention  upon  the  matter  before 
him,  and  keeping  it  invariably  directed 
towards  the  successive  arguments  addressed 
to  him.  The  certainty  that  not  a  word  was 
lost  deprived  the  advocate  of  all  excuse  for 
repetition  ;  while  the  respect  which  his  judge 
inspired  checked  needless  prolixity,  and 
deterred  him  from  raising  desperate  points 
merely  to  have  them  frowned  down  by  a 
tribunal  as  severe  as  it  was  patient.  He  had 
not  indeed  to  apprehend  any  interruption  : 
that  was  a  course  never  practised  in  those 
days  at  the  Rolls  or  the  Cockpit;  but  while 
the  judge  sat  passive  and  unmoved  it  was 
plain  that  though  his  powers  of  endurance 
had  no  limits,  his  powers  of  discriminating 
were  ever  active,  as  his  attention  was  ever 
awake  ;  and  as  it  required  an  eminent  hardi- 
hood to  place  base  coin  before  so  scrutinizing 
an  eye,  or  tender  light  money  to  be  weighed 
in  such  accurate  scales  as  Sir  William  Grant's, 
so  few  men  ventured  to  exercise  a.  patience 
which  yet  all  knew  to  be  unbounded.  It 
may,  indeed,  be  fairly  doubted  whether  the 
main  force  of  muscular  exertion,  so  much 
more  clumsily  applied  by  Sir  John  Leach  in 
the  sa?ne  court  to  effect  the  great  object  of 
bis  efforts, — the  close  compression  of  the 
debate, — ever  succeeded  so  well,  or  reduced 
the  mass  to  as  small  a  bulk,  as  the  delicate 
hydraulic  press  of  his  illustrious  predecessor 
did,  without  giving  the  least  pain  to  the  ad- 
vocate, or  in  any  one  instance  obstructing 
the  course  of  calm,  deliberate,  and  unwearied 
justice. 

The  court  in  those  days  presented  a  spec- 


tacle which  afforded  true  delight  to  every 
person  of  sound  judgment  and  pure  taste. 
After  a  long  and  silent  hearing, — a  hearing 
of  all  that  could  be  urged  by  the  counsel  of 
every  party, — unbroken  by  a  single  word, 
and  when  the  spectator  of  Sir  William  Grant 
(for  he  was  not  heard)  might  suppose  that  his 
mind  had  been  absent  from  a  scene  in  which 
he  took  no  apparent  share,  the  debate  was 
closed, — the  .advocate's  hour  was  passed, — 
the  parties  were  in  silent  expectation  of  the 
event, — the  hall  no  longer  resounded  with 
any  voice, — it  seemed  as  if  the  affair  of  the 
day  for  the  present  was  over,  and  the  court 
was  to  adjourn,  or  to  call  for  another  cause. 
No  !  The  judge's  time  had  now  arrived,  and 
another  artist  was  to  fill  the  scene.  The 
great  magistrate  began  to  pronounce  his 
judgment,  and  every  eye  and  every  ear  were 
at  length  fixed  upon  the  bench.  Forth  came 
a  strain  of  clear  unbroken  fluency,  disposing 
alike,  in  most  luminous  order,  of  all  the  facts 
and  of  all  the  arguments  in  the  cause ;  re- 
ducing into  clear  and  simple  arrangement 
the  most  entangled  masses  of  broken  and 
conflicting  statement;  weighing  each  matter, 
and  disposing  of  each  in  succession  ;  settling 
one  doubt  by  a  parenthetical  remark;  pass- 
ing over  another  difficulty  by  a  reason  only 
more  decisive  that  it  was  condensed ;  and 
giving  out  the  whole  impression  of  the  case, 
in  every  material  view,  upon  the  judge's 
mind,  with  argument  enough  to  show  why 
he  so  thought,  and  to  prove  him  right,  and 
without  so  much  reasoning  as  to  make  you 
forget  that  it  was  a  judgment  you  were  hear- 
ing, by  overstepping  the  bounds  which  dis- 
tinguish a  judgment  from  a  speech.  This  is 
the  perfection  of  judicial  eloquence :  not 
.avoiding  argument,  but  confining  it  to  such 
reasoning  as  beseems  him  who  has  rather  to 
explain  the  grounds  of  his  own  conviction, 
than  to  labour  at  convincing  others ;  not . 
rejecting  reference  to  authority,  but  never 
betokening  a  disposition  to  seek  shelter 
behind  other  men's  names  for  what  he  might 
fear  to  pronounce  in  his  own  person  ;  not 
disdaining  even  ornaments,  but  those  of  the 
more  chastened  graces  that  accord  with  the 
severe  standard  of  a  judge's  oratory.  This 
perfection  of  judicial  eloquence  Sir  William 
Grant  attained,  nnd  its  effect  upon  all  lis- 
teners was  as  certain  and  as  powerful  as  its 
merits  were  incontestable  and  exalted. 

In  parliament  he  is  unquestionably  to  be 
classed  with  speakers  of  the  first  order.  His 
style  was  peculiar:  it  was  that  of  the  closest 
and  severest  reasoning  ever  heard  in  any 
popular  assembly  ;  reasoning  which  would 
nave  been  reckoned  close  in  the  argumenta- 
tion of  the  bar  or  the  dialectics  of  the 
schools.  It  was,  from  the  first  to  the  last, 
throughout,  pure  reason,  and  the  triumph 


HENRY  BROUGHAM. 


of  pure  reason.  All  was  sterling,  all  per- 
fectly plain ;  there  was  no  point  in  the 
diction,  no  illustration  in  the  topics,  no  or- 
nament of  fancy  in  the  accompaniments. 
The  language  was  choice, — perfectly  clear, 
abundantly  correct,  quite  concise,  admira- 
bly suited  to  the  matter  which  the  words 
clothed  and  conveyed.  In  so  far  it  was  fe- 
licitous, no  farther ;  nor  did  it  ever  leave 
behind  it  any  impression  of  the  diction,  but 
only  of  the  things  said :  the  words  were 
forgotten,  for  they  had  never  drawn  ofl'  the 
attention  for  a  moment  from  the  things; 
those  things  were  alone  remembered.  No 
speaker  was  more  easily  listened  to ;  none 
so  difficult  to  answer.  Once  Mr.  Fox,  when 
he  was  hearing  him  with  a  view  to  making 
that  attempt,  was  irritated  in  a  way  very  un- 
wonted to  his  sweet  temper  by  the  conversa- 
tion of  some  near  him,  even  to  the  show  of 
some  crossness,  and  (after  an  exclamation) 
sharply  said,  "  Do  you  think  it  so  very 
pleasant  a  thing  to  have  to  answer  a  speech 
like  that?"  The  two  remarkable  occasions 
on  which  this  great  reasoner  was  observed 
to  be  most  injured  by  a  reply,  were  in  that 
of  Mr.  "Wilberforce  quoting  Clarendon's  re- 
marks on  the  conduct  of  the  judges  in  the 
Ship  Money  case,  when  Sir  William  Grant 
bad  undertaken  to  defend  his  friend  Lord 
Melville;  and  in  that  of  Lord  Lansdowne 
(then  Lord  Henry  Petty),  three  years  later, 
when  the  legality  of  the  famous  Orders  in 
Council  was  debated.  Here,  however,  the 
speech  was  made  on  the  one  day,  and  the 
answer,  able  and  triumphant  as  it  was,  fol- 
lowed on  the  next. 

It  may  safely  be  said  that  a  long  time  will 
elapse  before  there  shall  arise  such  a  light 
to  illuminate  either  the  senate  or  the  bench, 
as  the  eminent  person  whose  rare  excellence 
we  have  just  been  pausing  to  contemplate. 
That  excellence  Avas  no  doubt  limited  in  its 
sphere  :  there  was  no  imagination,  no  vehe- 
mence, no  declamation,  no  wit;  but  the 
sphere  was  the  highest,  and  in  that  highest 
sphere  its  place  was  lofty.  The  understand- 
ing alone  was  addressed  by  the  understand- 
ing. The  faculties  that  distinguish  our 
nature  were  those  over  which  the  oratory  of 
Sir  William  Grant  asserted  its  control.  His 
sway  over  the  rational  and  intellectual  por- 
tion of  mankind  was  that  of  a  more  power- 
ful reason,  a  more  vigorous  intellect,  than 
theirs  ;  a  sway  which  no  man  had  cause  for 
being  ashamed  of  admitting,  because  the 
victory  was  won  by  superior  force  of  argu- 
ment ;  a  sway  which  the  most  dignified  and 
exalted  genius  might  hold  without  stooping 
from  its  highest  pinnacle,  and  which  some 
Avho  might  not  deign  to  use  inferior  arts  of 
persuasion  could  find  no  objection  whatever 
to  exercise. 


Yet  in  this  purely  intellectual  picture  there 
remains  to  be  noted  a  discrepancy,  a  want 
of  keeping,  something  more  than  a  shade. 
The  commanding  intellect,  the  close  reasoner, 
who  could  overpower  other  men's  under- 
standing by  the  superior  force  of  his  own, 
was  the  slave  of  his  own  prejudices  to  such 
an  extent,  that  he  could  see  only  the  perils 
of  revolution  in  any  reformation  of  our  in- 
stitutions, and  never  conceived  it  possible 
that  the  monarchy  could  be  safe,  or  that 
anarchy  could  be  warded  off,  unless  all 
things  were  maintained  upon  the  same  foot- 
ing on  which  they  stood  in  early,  unen- 
lightened, and  inexperienced  ages  of  the 
world.  The  signal  blunder,  which  Bacon 
long  ago  exposed,  of  confounding  the  youth 
with  the  age  of  the  species,  was  never  com- 
mitted by  any  one  more  glaringly  than  by  this 
great  reasoner.  He  it  was  who  first  em- 
ployed the  well-known  phrase  of  the  "  wis- 
dom of  our  ancestors  ;"  and  the  menaced 
innovation,  to  stop  which  he  applied  it,  was 
the  proposal  of  Sir  Samuel  Romilly  to  take 
the  step  of  reform,  almost  imperceptibly 
small,  of  subjecting  men's  real  property  to 
the  payment  of  all  their  debts. 

Historical  Sketches  of  Statesmen,  etc. 

CONDITION  OF  THE  CHINESE. 

The  universal  respect  in  which  learning 
is  held,  and  the  privileges  allowed  to  it, 
have  not,  however,  made  the  Chinese  carry 
far  their  cultivation  of  it.  They  afford,  on 
the  contrary,  a  singular  instance  of  a  nation 
early  making  some  progress,  and  then  stop- 
ping short  for  ages  ;  of  a  people,  all  of  whom 
possess  the  instruments  of  education,  the 
means  of  acquiring  knowledge, — a  people 
most  of  whom  have  actually  acquired  some 
knowledge, — and  yet  none  of  whom  have 
ever  gone  beyond  the  most  elementary 
studies.  This  can  only  be  ascribed  to  the 
absolute  form  of  their  government,  and  the 
manifest  intention  which  the  sovereigns 
have  always  had  to  limit  the  literary  acqui- 
sitions of  their  subjects.  The  advantages 
of  keeping  quiet  and  indolent  a  people  so 
numerous  as  to  be  able  to  crush  .almost  any 
ruler,  and  the  means  of  tranquillity  which 
elementary  lessons  like  those  of  Confucius 
and  his  school  bestowed,  if  they  were 
thoroughly  learnt,  and  became,  as  it  were, 
mixed  up  with  the  nature  of  the  people, 
could  not  escape  the  Chinese  monarchs. 
They  had  a  people  to  deal  with  whom  they 
found  it  easy  to  occupy  with  such  pursuits, 
and  with  the  innumerable  customs  and  cere- 
monies which  the  sacred  writings  inculcate 
together  with  far  better  things.  The  occu- 
pation was  more  than  harmless, — it  was  most 
useful  in  extinguishing  fierce  and  turbulent 


HENRY  BROUGHAM. 


341 


spirits  ;  and  the  lessons  taught  were  those 
of  absolute  submission  to  the  magistrates, 
though  seasoned  with  so  much  other  doctrine 
as  prevented  them  from  wearing  the  appear- 
ance of  a  mere  design  to  secure  subordina- 
tion. Beyond  the  learning  of  those  books, 
therefore,  the  government  had  no  desire 
that  Chinese  education  should  be  carried. 
Accordingly,  true  orthodoxy  is  closely  con- 
fined to  the  books  of  Confucius  and  Mencius, 
and  one  or  two  commentators  on  them  ;  and 
the  government  discountenances  by  every 
means  the  acquisition  of  any  other  learning. 
This  is  the  main  cause  of  the  stationary 
knowledge  of  the  Chinese;  and  one  of  the 
most  powerful  means  used  by  the  govern- 
ment to  keep  it  thus  stationary  is  the  pre- 
ventingof  almost  all  intercourse  with  foreign 
nations. 

The  amount  of  the  learning  contained  in 
those  writings  is  very  moderate.  Many  of 
the  maxims  are  admirable;  some  indeed 
closely  resembling  those  of  our  own  religion. 
Thus  Confucius  distinctly  enjoins  the  duty 
of  doing  unto  others  as  we  would  be  done  to 
by  them;  nor  can  anything  be  more  urgent 
than  his  injunction  to  watch  the  secret 
thoughts  of  the  heart  as  the  fountains  of 
evil.  It  is  also  an  admirable  precept  of  his 
to  judge  ourselves  with  the  severity  we 
apply  to  others;  and  to  judge  others  as  we 
do  ourselves.  But  there  are  wicked  "doc- 
trines mixed  with  this  pure  wisdom,  as  when 
men  are  commanded  not  to  live  under  the 
same  sky  with  a  father's  assassin,  and  be- 
sides, the  merit  of  all  moral  maxims  is  much 
more  in  the  acting  upon  them  than  the  laying 
them  down.  Wisdom  is,  properly  speaking, 
the  doing  what  wise  sayings  recommend  ; 
and  he  has  made  but  a  small  progress  in 
philosophy — even  in  the  philosophy  of 
morals — who  has  only  stored  his  memory 
with  all  the  proverbs  of  Franklin  and  all 
the  morals  of  .ZEsop.  There  are  few  men 
so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  the  substance  of 
these  aphorisms,  though  they  may  never 
have  seen  them  put  in  terse  language,  or 
illustrated  by  apt  comparisons.  The  diffi- 
culty really  lies  in  acting  up  to  them. 
Therefore  the  learning  to  which  the  Chinese 
almost  entirely  devote  themselves  is  of  a 
very  trifling  nature  at  best.  Some  of  it  in- 
deed is  positively  useless.  The  Li-ki,  or 
book  of  rites  and  customs,  contains  three 
thousand  of  these,  all  of  which  are  to  be 
learnt  and  to  be  scrupulously  observed  ;  and 
there  is  a  council  of  state  with  the  exclusive 
office  of  seeing  that  this  observance  is  com- 
plete,— a  manifest  contrivance  of  the  gov- 
ernment to  occupy  the  people  with  frivolous 
and  harmless  studies. 

It  thus  happens  that  the  Chinese,  after 
having,  long  before  any  other  of  the  nations 


now  deemed  most  refined,  made  a  consider- 
able progress  in  knowledge,  and  still  more 
in  the  arts,  have  stopped  short  as  it  were  on 
the  threshold,  and  never  attempted  the  rank 
of  a  learned  or  even  a  very  polished  nation. 
Acquainted  with  paper-making  for  above 
seventeen  centuries,  with  printing  for  more 
than  nine,  they  have  hardly  produced  a  book 
which  could  fix  the  attention  of  a  European 
reader  in  the  present  day;  and  yet  learning 
is  the  passport  to  political  honours,  and  even 
to  power  among  them  ;  and  books  are  so 
highly  valued  that  it  is  part  of  their  religious 
observances  never  to  suffer  the  treading  on,  or 
irreverent  treatment  of,  a  scrap  of  printed 
or  written  paper  how  worthless  soever. 
Possessed  of  the  mariner's  compass  twelve 
hundred  years  before  it  was  known  in  Eu- 
rope, they  have  scarcely  ever  put  it  to  the 
use  which  it  really  can  best  serve,  but  creep 
along  their  coasts,  from  headland  to  head- 
land, like  the  most  ignorant  of  the  South 
Sea  Islanders,  and  rather  employ  it  on  shore, 
where  other  marks  might  better  serve  to 
guide  them.  With  a  kind  of  glass,  or  some- 
thing as  near  good  glass  as  possible,  for 
ages,  they  never  have  yet  succeeded  in 
making  that  most  useful  and  beautiful  pro- 
duct of  the  arts  in  its  transparent  state  and 
plastic  fabric.  Capable  of  copying  the  works 
of  the  pencil  with  a  minuteness  which  seems 
preternatural,  both  as  to  colour  and  form, 
they  are  wholly  without  invention,  and,  left 
to  themselves,  can  make  nothing  like  an  imi- 
tation of  nature.  Nor  in  the  severer  sci- 
ences have  they  made  any  progress  beyond 
the  very  first  elements,  although  they  have 
known  one  or  two  of  the  fundamental  truths 
in  geometry  for  hundreds  of  years,  by  induc- 
tion rather  than  demonstration,  and  could 
calculate  eclipses  of  the  heavenly  bodies 
long  before  any  other  nation  had  emerged 
from  barbarism.  It  is  equally  certain,  how- 
ever, that  the  amount  of  knowledge  which 
they  have  so  long  attained,  the  repute  in 
which  they  have  been  taught  to  hold  the 
quiet  and  sedulous  pursuit  of  it,  and  the  de- 
votion of  their  attention  to  it  within  certain 
limits,  joined  to  the  being  debarred  from  all 
foreign  intercourse,  have  produced  all  the  ef- 
fect that  could  be  desired  by  their  rulers :  it 
has  so  far  reclaimed  them  from  the  turbu- 
lent state  of  uncivilized  tribes  as  to  make 
them  easily  ruled,  by  keeping  them  quiet, 
sedentary,  inactive,  even  pusillanimous,  with- 
out unfolding  their  faculties  or  increasing 
their  knowledge  in  any  degree  likely  to  en- 
danger the  security  of  a  system  founded 
mainly  upon  the  permanent  position  of  all 
and  each  of  its  parts. 

Political  Phuotophy,  Vol.  i.  Ch.  vL,  Gov- 
ernment of  China. 


342 


HUMPHRY  DAVY. 


SIR    HUMPHRY    DAVY, 

baronet,  born  at  Penzance,  Cornwall,  1778,  in 
1803  became  a  Fellow,  in  1800  Secretary,  and 
in  1820  President,  of  the  Royal  Society  ;  died 
at  Geneva,  1829.  He  was  the  author  of 
more  than  fifty  Treatises  and  Lectures  ex- 
plaining his  brilliant  chemical  discoveries, 
etc.,  of  Six  Discourses  delivered  before  the 
Royal  Society  at  their  Anniversary  Meetings, 
Lond.,  1827,  4to,  and  of  the  following  among 
other  works  :  Salmonia,  or,  Days  of  Fly-fish- 
ing, with  Some  Account  of  the  Habits  of 
Fishes  belonging  to  the  Genus  Salmo.  Lond., 
1828,  12mo,  2d"edit.,  1829,  12mo,  3d  edit., 
3832,  12mo,  4th  edit.,  with  Additions  by  his 
Brother,  Dr.  John  Davy,  1851,  fp.  8vo  ;  Con- 
solations in  Travel,  or,  The  Last  Days  of  a 
Philosopher,  Lond.,  1830,  12mo.  5th  edit., 
1851,  fp.  8vo.  Collected  Works,  Edited, 
•with  Life,  by  his  Brother,  John  Davy,  M.D. 
The  Life  appeared  separately,  Lond.,  1H36, 
2  vols.  8vo,  and  a  Life  by  Dr.  J.  A.  Paris, 
Lond.,  1831,  2  vols.  8vo. 

"  Mr.  Davy,  not  yet  thirty-two  years  of  age,  oc- 
cupied, in  the  opinion  of  all  that  could  judge  of 
such  labours,  the  first  rank  among  the  chemists  of 
this  or  of  any  other  age;  it  remained  for  him,  by 
direct  service  rendered  to  society,  to  acquire  a 
similar  degree  of  reputation  in  the  minds  of  the 
general  public." — CUVIER:  Eloge  of  Sir  H.  Dacy. 

Ox  THE  CONSCIOUSNESS  OP  IMMORTALITY. 

If  there  be  (which  I  think  cannot  be 
doubted)  a  consciousness  of  good  or  evil 
constantly  belonging  to  the  sentient  principle 
in  man,  then  rewards  and  punishments  nat- 
urally belong  to  acts  of  this  consciousness, 
to  obedience  or  disobedience ;  and  the  inde- 
structibility of  the  sentient  being  is  neces- 
sary to  the  decrees  of  eternal  justice.  On 
your  view,  even  in  this  life,  just  punishments 
for  crimes  would  be  almost  impossible  ;  for 
the  materials  of  which  human  beings  are 
composed  change  rapidly,  and  in  a  few  years 
probably  not  an  atom  of  the  primitive  struc- 
ture remains;  yet  even  the  materialist  is 
obliged,  in  old  age,  to  do  penance  for  the 
sins  of  his  youth,  and  does  not  complain  of 
the  injustice  of  his  decrepit  body,  entirely 
changed  and  made  stiff  by  time,  and  suffer- 
ing for  the  intemperance  of  his  youthful, 
flexible  frame.  On  my  idea,  the  conscience 
is  the  frame  of  the  mind,  fitted  for  its  proba- 
tion in  mortality.  And  this  is  exact  accord- 
ance with  the  foundations  of  our  religion, 
the  divine  origin  of  which  is  marked  no  less 
by  its  history  than  its  harmony  with  the 
principles  of  our  nature.  Obedience  to  its 
precepts  not  only  prepares  for  a  better  state 
of  existence  in  another  world,  but  is  likewise 
calculated  to  make  us  happy  here.  We  are 
constantly  taught  to  renounce  sensual  pleas- 


ure and  selfish  gratifications,  to  forget  our 
body  and  sensible  organs,  to  associate  our 
pleasures  with  mind,  to  fix  our  affections 
upon  the  great  ideal  generalization  of  intel- 
ligence in  the  One  Supreme  Being:  and 
that  we  are  capable  of  forming  to  ourselves 
an  imperfect  idea  of  the  eternal  mind  is, 
I  think,  n.  strong  presumption  of  our  own 
immortality,  and  of  the  distinct  relation 
which  our  finite  knowledge  bears  to  eternal 
wisdom.  .  .  . 

The  doctrine  of  the  materialists  was 
always,  even  in  my  youth,  a  cold,  heavy, 
dull,  and  insupportable  doctrine  to  me.  and 
necessarily  tending  to  atheism.  When  I  had 
heard,  with  disgust,  in  the  dissecting-rooms, 
the  plan  of  the  physiologist,  of  the  gradual 
accretion  of  matter,  and  its  becoming  en- 
dowed with  irritability,  ripening  into  sensi- 
bility, and  acquiring  such  organs  as  were 
necessary  by  its  own  inherent  forces,  and  at 
last  issuing  into  intellectual  existence,  a 
walk  into  the  green  fields  or  woods,  by  the 
banks  of  rivers,  brought  back  my  feelings 
from  Nature  to  God.  I  saw  in  all  the  powers 
of  matter  the  instruments  of  the  Deity.  The 
sunbeams,  the  breath  of  the  zephyr,  awaken- 
ing animation  in  forms  prepared  by  divine 
intelligence  to  receive  it,  the  insensate  seed, 
the  slumbering  eggs  which  were  to  be  vivi- 
fied, appeared,  like  the  new-born  animal, 
works  of  a  divine  mind  ;  I  saw  love  as  the 
creative  principle  in  the  material  world,  and 
this  love  only  as  a  divine  attribute.  Then 
my  own  mind  I  felt  connected  with  new  sen- 
sations and  indefinite  hopes — a  thirst  for  im- 
mortality ;  the  great  names  of  other  ages 
and  of  distant  nations  appeared  to  me  to  be 
still  living  around  me,  and  even  in  the  fan- 
cied movements  of  the  heroic  and  the  great 
I  saw,  as  it  were,  the  decrees  of  the  in- 
destructibility of  mind.  These  feelings, 
though  generally  considered  as  poetical,  yet, 
I  think,  offer  a  sound  philosophical  argument 
in  favour  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  In 
all  the  habits  and  instincts  of  young  animals, 
their  feelings  and  movements,  may  be  traced 
an  intimate  relation  to  their  improved  per- 
fect state  ;  their  sports  have  always  aflinities 
to  their  modes  of  hunting  or  catching  their 
food  ;  and  young  birds,  even  in  the  nests, 
show  marks  of  fondness,  which,  when  their 
frames  are  developed,  become  signs  of  actions 
necessary  to  the  reproduction  and  preserva- 
tion of  the  species.  The  desire  of  glory,  of 
honour,  of  immortal  fame,  and  of  constant 
knowledge,  so  usual  in  young  persons  of 
well-constituted  minds,  cannot,  I  think,  be 
other  than  symptoms  of  the  infinite  and 
progressive  nature  of  the  intellect, — hopes 
which,  as  they  cannot  be  gratified  here,  be- 
long to  a  frame  of  mind  suited  to  a  nobler 
state  of  existence. 


THOMAS  BROWN. 


343 


Religion,  whether  natural  or  revealed,  has 
always  the  same  beneficial  influence  on  the 
mind.  In  youth,  in  health,  and  prosperity, 
it  awakens  feelings  of  gratitude  and  sub- 
lime love,  and  purifies  at  the  same  time  that 
it  exalts  :  but  it  is  in  misfortune,  in  sickness, 
in  age,  that  its  effects  are  most  truly  and 
beneficially  felt:  when  submission  in  faith, 
and  humble  trust  in  the  Divine  will,  from 
duties  become  pleasures,  underlying  sources 
of  consolation  :  then  it  creates  powers  which 
were  believed  to  be  extinct,  and  gives  a  fresh- 
ness to  the  mind  which  was  supposed  to  have 
passed  away  for  ever,  but  which  is  now  ren- 
ovated as  an  immortal  hope.  Then  it  is  the 
Pharos,  guiding  the  wave-tost  mariner  to 
his  home  ;  as  the  calm  and  beautiful  still 
basins  or  fiords,  surrounded  by  tranquil 
groves  and  pastoral  meadows  to  the  Norwe- 
gian pilot  escaping  from  a  heavy  storm  in 
the  North  Sea;  or  as  the  green  and  dewy 
spot,  gushing  with  fountains,  to  the  ex- 
hausted and  thirsty  traveller  in  the  midst 
of  the  desert.  Its  influence  outlives  all 
earthly  enjoyments,  and  becomes  stronger 
as  the  organs  decay  and  the  frame  dissolves. 
It  appears  as  that  evening  star  of  light  in 
the  horizon  of  life,  which  we  are  sure  is  to 
become  in  another  season  a  morning  star  ; 
and  it  throws  its  radiance  through  the  gloom 
and  shadow  of  death. 

Consolations  in  Travel ;  or.  The  Last  Days 
of  a  Philosopher:  The  Proteus;  or,  Im- 
mortality; Fourth  Dialogue. 


THOMAS    BROWN,    M.D., 

born  at  Kirkmabreck,  near  Dumfries, 
Scotland,  1778,  graduated  M.D.  1803,  and 
read  lectures  for  Dugald  Stewart  in  the 
Moral  Philosophy  Class  of  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  1808-9,  and  in  1810  became 
colleague  to  Stewart  in  the  Chair  of  Moral 
Philosophy,  in  which  capacity  he  gained 
high  distinction;  died  1820.  lie  was  the 
author  of  Observations  on  the  Zoonomia  of 
Erasmus  Darwin,  M.D.,  Edin.,  1798,  8vo  ; 
Observations  on  the  Nature  and  Tendency 
of  Mr.  Hume's  Doctrine  Concerning  the  Re- 
lation of  Cause  and  Effect,  Edin.,  1804,  8vo, 
2d  edit.,  1806,  8vo,  3d  edit.,  Edin.,  1818,  8vo, 
4th  edit.,  Lond.,  1835,  8vo ;  Poems,  Edin., 
1804,  2  vols.  12mo;  A  Criticism  on  Charges 
against  Mr.  Leslie,  180G,  8vo;  The  Paradise 
of  Coquettes,  Lond.,  1814,  crown  8vo  ;  The 
Bower  of  Spring,  1816;  The  War  Fiend, 
1816  ;  The  Wanderer  in  Norway,  a  Poem, 
1816,  8vo  ;  Emily  and  other  Poems,  2d  edit., 
1818,  8vo  ;  Agnes,  a  Poem,  1818,  8vo ;  Lec- 
tures on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Human 
Mind,  Edin.,  1820,4  vols.  8vo  (posthumous), 
with  a  Memoir  and  Index  by  Welsh,  1828, 


8vo,  1844,  8vo,  new  edition  of  Lectures, 
1846,  4  vols.  8vo.  See  Account  of  his  Life 
and  Writings,  by  Rev.  I).  Welsh,  Edin.,  1825, 
8vo.  See  also  Selections  from  the  Corre- 
spondence of  the  Late  Macvey  Napier,  Esq., 
Edited  by  his  Son,  Macvey  Napier,  London, 
1879,  8vo.  Index,  p.  545. 

"The  prose  of  Dr.  Brown  is  brilliant  to  excess? 
it  must  not  be  denied  that  its  beauty  is  sometimes 
womanly ;  that  it  too  often  melts  down  precision 
into  elegance;  that  it  buries  the  main  idea  under 
a  load  of  illustration.  ...  It  is  darkened  by  ex- 
cessive brightness;  it  loses  ease  and  liveliness  by 
over-dress;  and,  in  the  midst  of  its  luscious  sweet- 
ness, we  wish  for  the  striking  and  homely  illustra- 
tions of  Tucker,  and  for  the  pithy  and  sinewy  sense 
of  Paley,  either  of  whom,  by  a  single  short  meta- 
phor from  a  familiar,  perhaps  a  low,  object,  could 
at  one  blow  set  the  two  worlds  of  Reason  and 
Fancy  in  movement." — Sm  J.  MACKINTOSH  :  Dis- 
sert, un  Progress  nf  Ethicnl  Philosophy, prefixed  to 
Eiicyc.  Brit.,  and  in  his  Miscell.  Works,  edit.  1851, 
110. 

"  The  style  is  so  captivating,  the  views  so  com- 
prehensive, the  arguments  so  acute,  the  whole 
thing  so  complete,  that  I  was  almost  insensibly 
borne  along  upon  the  stream  of  his  reasoning  and 
his  eloquence.  In  the  power  of  analysis  he  greatly 
transcends  all  philosophers  of  the  Scottish  school 
who  preceded  him." — MOKELL  :  Hist,  of  Modern 
Philosophy. 

DESIRE  OF  THE  HAPPINESS  OF  OTHERS. 

It  is  this  desire  of  the  happiness  of  those 
whom  we  love  which  gives  to  the  emotion 
of  love  itself  its  principal  delight,  by  afford- 
ing to  us  constant  means  of  its  gratification. 
He  who  truly  wishes  the  happiness  of  any 
one  cannot  be  long  without  discovering  some 
mode  of  contributing  to  it.  Reason  itself, 
with  all  its  light,  is  not  so  rapid  in  discov- 
eries of  this  sort  as  simple  affection,  which 
sees  means  of  happiness,  and  of  important 
happiness,  where  reason  scarcely  could  think 
that  any  happiness  was  to  be  found,  and  has 
already  by  many  kind  offices  produced  the 
happiness  of  hours  before  reason  could  have 
suspected  that  means  so  slight  could  have 
given  even  a  moment's  pleasure.  It  is  this, 
indeed,  which  contributes  in  no  inconsider- 
able degree  to  the  perpetuity  of  affection. 
Love,  the  mere  feeling  of  tender  admiration, 
would  in  many  cases  have  soon  lost  its  power 
over  the  fickle  heart,  and  in  many  other 
cases  would  have  had  its  power  greatly  les- 
sened, if  the  desire  of  giving  happiness,  and 
the  innumerable  little  courtesies  and  cares 
to  which  this  desire  gives  birth,  had  not  thus 
in  a  great  measure  diffused  over  a  single 
passion  the  variety  of  many  emotions.  The 
love  itself  seems  new  at  every  moment,  be- 
cause there  is  every  moment  some  new  wish 
of  love  that  admits  of  being  gratified  ;  or 
rather  it  is  at  once,  by  the  most  delightful 
of  all  combinations,  new,  in  the  tender 
wishes  and  cares  with  which  it  occupies  us, 


344 


THOMAS  BROWN. 


and  makes  familiar  to  us,  and  endeared  the 
more  by  the  remembrance  of  hours  and 
years  of  well-known  happiness. 

The  desire  of  the  happiness  of  others, 
though  a  desire  always  attendant  on  love, 
does  not,  however,  necessarily  suppose  the 
previous  existence  of  some  one  of  those  emo- 
tions which  may  strictly  be  termed  love. 
This  feeling  is  so  far  from  arising  neces- 
sarily from  regard  for  the  sufferer  that  it  is 
impossible  for  us  not  to  feel  it  when  the  suf- 
fering is  extreme,  and  before  our  very  eyes, 
though  we  may  at  the  same  time  have  the 
utmost  abhorrence  of  him  who  is  agonizing 
in  our  sight,  and  whose  very  look,  even  in 
its  agony,  still  seems  to  speak  only  that 
atrocious  spirit  which  could  again  gladly 
perpetrate  the  very  horrors  for  which  public 
indignation  as  much  as  public  justice  had 
doomed  it  to  its  dreadful  fate.  It  is  suffi- 
cient that  extreme  anguish  is  before  us  ;  we 
wish  it  relief  before  we  have  paused  to  love, 
or  without  reflecting  on  our  causes  of  hatred ; 
the  wish  is  the  direct  and  instant  emotion 
of  our  soul  in  these  circumstances, — an  emo- 
tion which,  in  such  peculiar  circumstances, 
it  is  impossible  for  hatred  to  suppress,  and 
which  love  may  strengthen  indeed,  but  is 
not  necessary  for  producing.  It  is  the  same 
with  our  general  desire  of  happiness  to 
others.  We  desire,  in  a  particular  degree,, 
the  happiness  of  those  whom  we  love,  be- 
cause we  cannot  think  of  them  without  ten- 
der admiration.  But  though  we  had  known 
them  for  the  first  time  simply  as  human 
beings,  we  should  still  have  desired  their 
happiness;  that  is  to  say,  if  no  opposite  in- 
terests had  arisen,  we  should  have  wished 
them  to  be  happy  .rather  than  to  have  any 
distress ;  yet  there  is  nothing  in  this  case 
which  corresponds  with  the  tender  esteem 
that  is  felt  in  love.  There  is  the  mere  wish 
of  happiness  to  them, — a  wish  which  itself, 
indeed,  is  usually  denominated  love,  and 
which  may  without  any  inconvenience  be 
so  denominated  in  that  general  humanity 
which  we  call  a  love  of  mankind,  but  which 
we  must  always  remember  does  not  afford 
on  analysis  the  same  results  as  other  affec- 
tions of  more  cordial  regard  to  which  we 
give  the  same  name.  To  love  a  friend  is  to 
wish  his  happiness  indeed,  but  it  is  to  have 
other  emotions  at  the  same  instant,  emotions 
without  which  this  mere  wish  would  be  poor 
to  constant  friendship.  To  love  the  natives 
of  Asia  or  Africa,  of  whose  individual  virtues 
or  vices,  talents  or  imbecility,  wisdom  or  ig- 
norance, we  know  nothing,  is  to  wish  their 
happiness ;  but  this  wish  is  all  which  con- 
stitutes the  faint  and  feeble  love.  It  is  a 
wish,  however,  which,  unless  when  the 
heart  is  absolutely  corrupted,  renders  it  im- 
possible for  man  to  be  wholly  indifferent  to 


man  ;  and  this  great  object  is  that  which 
nature  had  in  view.  She  has  by  a  provident 
arrangement,  which  we  cannot  but  admire 
the  more  the  more  attentively  we  examine 
it,  accommodated  our  emotions  to  our  means, 
making  our  love  most  ardent  where  our 
wish  of  giving  happiness  might  be  most 
effectual,  and  less  gradually  and  less  in  pro- 
portion to  our  diminished  means.  From  the 
affection  of  the  mother  for  her  new-born  in- 
fant which  has  been  rendered  the  strongest 
of  all  affections,  because  it  was  to  arise 
in  circumstances  where  affection  would  be 
most  needed,  to  that  general  philanthropy 
which  extends  itself  to  the  remotest  stranger 
on  spots  of  the  earth  which  we  never  are  to 
visit,  and  which  we  as  little  think  of  ever 
visiting  as  of  exploring  any  of  the  distant 
planets  of  our  system,  there  is  a  scale  of 
benevolent  desire  which  corresponds  with 
the  necessities  to  be  relieved,  and  our  power 
of  relieving  them,  or  with  the  happiness  to 
be  afforded,  and  our  power  of  affording  hap- 
piness. How  many  opportunities  have  we 
of  giving  delight  to  those  who  live  in  our 
domestic  circle  which  would  be  lost  before 
we  could  diffuse  it  to  those  who  are  distant 
from  us !  Our  love,  therefore,  our  desire  of 
giving  happiness,  our  pleasure  in  having 
given  it,  are  stronger  within  the  limits  of 
this  sphere  of  daily  and  hourly  intercourse 
than  beyond  it.  Of  those  who  are  beyond 
this  sphere,  the  individuals  most  familiar  to 
us  are  those  whose  happiness  we  must  al- 
ways know  better  how  to  promote  than  the 
happiness  of  strangers,  with  whose  particu- 
lar habits  and  inclinations  we  are  little  if  at 
all  acquainted.  Our  love  and  the  desire  of 
general  happiness  which  attends  it  are  there- 
fore, by  the  concurrence  of  many  constitu- 
tional tendencies  of  our  nature  in  fostering 
the  generous  wish,  stronger  as  felt  for  an 
intimate  friend  than  for  one  who  is  scarcely 
known  to  us.  If  there  be  an  exception  to 
this  gradual  scale  of  importance  according 
to  intimacy,  it  must  be  in  the  case  of  one 
who  is  absolutely  a  stranger, — a  foreigner 
who  comes  among  a  people  with  whose  gen- 
eral manners  he  is  perhaps  unacquainted, 
and  who  has  no  friend  to  whose  attention  he 
can  lay  claim  from  any  prior  intimacy.  In 
this  case,  indeed,  it  is  evident  that  our  benevo- 
lence might  be  more  usefully  directed  to  one 
who  is  absolutely  unknown  than  to  many 
who  are  better  known  by  us,  that  live  in  our 
very  neighbourhood  in  the  enjoyment  of 
domestic  loves  and  friendships  of  their  own. 
Accordingly,  we  find  that  by  a  provision  which 
might  be  termed  singular,  if  we  did  not  think 
of  the  universal  bounty  and  wisdom  of  God,  a 
modification  of  our  general  regard  has  been 
prepared  in  the  sympathetic  tendencies  of 
our  nature  for  this  case  also.  There  is  a 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


345 


species  of  affection  to  which  the  stranger 
gives  birth  merely  as  being  a  stranger.  He 
is  received  and  sheltered  by  our  hospitality 
almost  with  the  zeal  with  which  our  friendship 
delights  to  receive  one  with  whom  we  have 
lived  in  cordial  union,  whose  virtues  we  know 
and  revere,  and  whose  kindness  has  been  to 
us  no  small  part  of  the  happiness  of  our  life. 

Is  it  possible  to  perceive  this  general  pro- 
portion of  our  desire  of  giving  happiness,  in 
its  various  degrees,  to  the  means  which  we 
possess,  in  various  circumstances  of  afford- 
ing it,  without  admiration  of  an  arrange- 
ment so  simple  in  the  principles  from  which 
it  flows,  and  at  the  same  time  so  effectual, — 
an  arrangement  which  exhibits  proofs  of 
goodness  in  our  very  wants,  of  wisdom  in 
our  very  weaknesses,  by  the  adaptation  of 
these  to  each  other,  and  by  the  ready  re- 
sources which  want  and  weakness  find  in 
these  affections  which  everywhere  surround 
them,  like  the  presence  and  protection  of 
God  himself? 

Lectures  on  the  Philosophy  of  the  Humcin 
Mind. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT, 

the  son  of  a  Unitarian  minister  of  Shrop- 
shire, born  1778,  and  educated  at  the  Uni- 
tarian College  at  Ilackley.  began  life  as  an 
artist,  but  soon  abandoned  the  pencil  and 
palette  for  the  pen,  and,  after  a  laborious 
literary  career,  died  in  1830.  lie  was  the 
author  of  the  following  among  other  works: 
Essays  on  the  Principles  of  Human  Action, 
Lond.,  1805,  crown  8vo,  1834,  12mo.  1835, 
12mo;  The  Eloquence  of  the  British  Senate, 
Lond.,  1807,  2  vols.  8vo ;  The  Hound  Table 
(in  conjunction  with  Leigh  Hunt),  Edin. 
and  Lond.,  1817,  2  vols.  12mo,  3d  edit., 
Lond.,  1841,  12mo;  Characters  of  Shake- 
speare's Plavs,  Lond.,  1817,  8vo,  2d  edit., 
1818,  8vo,  3d  edit,,  1838,  12mo,  4th  edit., 
1848,  12mo;  The  Dramatic  Scorpion,  a 
Satire,  1818,  8vo;  A  View  of  the  English 
Stage,  Lond.,  1818,  8vo,  1821.  8vo,  1851, 
12mo  ;  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  Lond., 
1818,  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1819,  8vo,  3d  edit,  1841, 
12mo;  Lectures  on  the  English  Comic 
Writers,  Lond.,  1819,  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1840; 
Political  Essays,  with  Sketches  of  Public 
Characters,  Lond.,  1819,  8vo,  1822,  8vo ; 
Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the 
Age  of  Elizabeth,  Lond.,  1821, 8vo,  3d  edit., 
1841,  12mo ;  Table  Talk,  or,  Original  Es- 
says, Lond.,  1821-22,  2  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit., 
1824,  3d  edit.,  1845-46,  2  vols.  8vo,  New 
York,  1S45,  2  vols.  post  8vo;  Liber  Amoris, 
or,  The  New  Pygmalion,  Lond.,  1823,  12mo  ; 
Selection  of  Speeches,  Lond.,  1823,  8vo ; 
Characteristics,  Lond.,  1823,  sm.  8vo,  3d 


edit,,  1837,  royal  18mo:  Sketches  of  the 
Principal  Picture  Galleries  of  England,  with 
a  Criticism  on  Marriage  a  la  Mode,  Lond., 
1824,  12mo  ;  Criticisms  on  Art,  and  Sketches 
of  the  Picture  Galleries  of  England,  Edited 
by  his  Son,  Lond.,  1843-44,  2  vols.  12mo; 
Spirit  of  the  Age,  or  Contemporary  Por- 
traits. Lond.,  1825,  8vo,  3d  edit.,  Edited  by 
his  Son,  Lond.,  1858,  12mo;  Select  Poets 
of  Great  Britain,  to  which  .are  prefixed  Crit- 
ical Notices  of  each  Author,  Lond.,  1825, 
8vo  :  Notes  of  a  Journey  through  France 
and  Italy,  including  Observations  on  the 
Fine  Arts,  Lond.,  1826,  8vo  ;  Plain  Speaker: 
Opinions  on  Books,  Men,  and  Things,  Two 
Series,  Lond.,  1826.  2  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit, 
1851-52,  2  vols.  12rno;  Life  of  Napoleon 
Buonaparte,  Lond.,  1828,  4  vols.  8vo,  with 
new  title,  1830,  New  York,  1847,  3  vols. 
12mo,  Phila..  3  vols.  large  12mo,  revised  by 
his  Son,  Lond.,  1852,  4  vols.  crown  8vo ; 
Conversations  of  James  Northcote,  Lond., 
1830,  sm.  8vo  ;  Literary  Remains,  with  No- 
tice of  his  Life  by  his  Son,  and  Thoughts 
on  his  Genius  arid  Writings  by  Sir  E.  L. 
Bulwer  and  Sir  T.  N.  Talfourd,  Lond.,  1836, 
8vo,  1839,  2  vols.  8vo;  Winterslow:  Essays 
and  Characters  Written  there,  Collected  by 
his  Son,  Lond.,  1850,  12mo;  Miscellaneous 
Works,  Phila.,  5  vols.  12mo,  and  Napoleon, 
8vo. 

"  He  seems  pretty  generally,  indeed,  in  a  state 
of  happy  intoxication, — and  has  borrowed  from 
his  great  original  [Shakspeare],  not  indeed  the 
force  and  brilliancy  of  his  fancy,  but  something 
of  its  playfulness,  and  a  large  share  of  his  ap- 
parent joyousness  and  self-indulgence  in  its  exer- 
cise. It  is  evidently  a  great  pleasure  to  him  to 
he  fully  possessed  with  the  beauties  of  his  author, 
and  to  follow  the  impulse  of  his  unrestrained 
eagerness  to  impress  them  upon  his  readers." — 
LORD  JEFFREY:  Etliii.  Itevieic,  28:  472. 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  page  of  Hazlitt  which  does 
not  betray  the  influence  of  strong  prejudice,  a  love 
of  paradoxical  views,  and  a  tendency  to  sacrifice 
the  exact  truth  of  a  question  to  an  effective  turn  of 
expression." — H.  T.  TUCKEKM AN  :  Charac.  of  Lit., 
Second  Series  :  The  Critic  :  William  Hazlitt. 

THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  AGE  OP  ELIZABETH. 

The  age  of  Elizabeth  was  distinguished 
beyond,  perhaps,  any  other  in  our  history, 
by  a  number  of  great  men,  famous  in  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  whose  names  have  come 
down  to  us  with  unblemished  honours, — • 
statesmen,  warriors,  divines,  scholars,  poets, 
and  philosophers :  Raleigh,  Drake,  Coke, 
Hooker,  and  higher  and  more  sounding  still, 
and  still  more  frequent  in  our  mouths,  Shak- 
speare, Spenser,  Sydney,  Bacon,  Jonson, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher, — men  whom  fame 
has  eternized  in  her  long  and  lasting  scroll, 
and  who,  by  their  words  and  acts,  were 
benefactors  of  their  country,  and  ornaments 


346 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


of  human  nature.  Their  attainments  of  dif- 
ferent kinds  bore  the  same  general  stamp, 
and  it  was  sterling :  what  they  did  had  the 
mark  of  their  age  and  country  upon  it.  Per- 
haps the  genius  of  Great  Britain  (if  I  may 
so  speak  without  offence  or  flattery)  never 
shone  out  fuller  or  brighter,  or  looked  more 
like  itself,  than  at  this  period.  .  .  . 

For  such  an  extraordinary  combination 
and  development  of  fancy  and  genius  many 
causes  may  be  assigned  ;  and  we  may  seek 
for  the  chief  of  them  in  religion,  in  politics, 
in  the  circumstances  of  the  time,  the  recent 
diffusion  of  letters,  in  local  situation,  and  in 
the  character  of  the  men  who  adorned  that 
period,  and  availed  themselves  so  nobly  of 
the  advantages  placed  within  their  reach. 

I  shall  here  attempt  to  give  a  general 
sketch  of  these  causes,  a,nd  of  the  manner  in 
which  they  operated  to  mould  and  stamp  the 

foetry  of  the  country  at  the  period  of  which 
have  to  treat;  independently  of  incidental 
and  fortuitous  causes,  for  which  there  is  no 
accounting,  hut  which,  after  all,  have  often 
the  greatest  share  in  determining  the  most 
important  results. 

The  first  cause  I  shall  mention,  as  con- 
tributing to  this  general  effect,  was  the  Refor- 
mation, which  had  just  then  taken  place. 
This  event  gave  a  mighty  impulse  and  in- 
creased activity  to  thought  and  inquiry,  and 
agitated  the  inert  mass  of  accumulated  prej- 
udices throughout  Europe.  The  effect  of  the 
concussion  was  general ;  but  the  shock  was 
greatest  in  this  country.  It  toppled  down 
the  full-grown  intolerable  abuses  of  centu- 
ries at  a  blow;  heaved  the  ground  from 
under  the  feet  of  bigoted  faith  and  slavish 
obedience  ;  and  the  roar  and  dashing  of 
opinions,  loosened  from  their  accustomed 
hold,  might  be  heard  like  the  noise  of  an 
angry  sea,  and  has  never  yet  subsided.  Ger- 
many first  broke  the  spell  of  misbegotten 
fear,  and  gave  the  watchword  ;  but  England 
joined  the  shout,  and  echoed  it  back,  with 
her  island  voice,  from  her  thousand  cliffs  and 
craggy  shores,  in  a  longer  and  a  louder 
strain.  With  that  cry,  the  genius  of  Great 
Britain  rose,  and  threw  down  the  gauntlet 
to  the  nations.  There  was  a  mighty  fermen- 
tation :  the  waters  were  out ;  public  opinion 
was  in  a  state  of  projection.  Liberty  was 
held  out  to  all  to  think  and  speak  the  truth. 
Men's  brains  were  busy  ;  their  spirits  stir- 
ring; their  hearts  full  ;  and  their  hands  not 
idle.  Their  eyes  were  opened  to  expect  the 
greatest  things,  and  their  ears  burned  with 
curiosity  and  zeal  to  know  the  truth,  that 
the  truth  might  make  them  free.  The  death- 
blow which  had  been  struck  at  scarlet  vice 
and  bloated  hypocrisy  loosened  their  tongues, 
and  made  the  talismans  and  love-tokens  of 
Popish  superstition,  with  which  she  had  be- 


guiled her  followers  and  committed  abomi- 
nations with  the  people,  fall  harmless  from 
their  necks. 

The  translation  of  the  Bible  was  the  chief 
engine  in  the  great  work.  It  threw  open, 
by  a  secret  spring,  the  rich  treasures  of  re- 
ligion and  morality  which  had  there  been 
locked  up  as  in  a  shrine.  It  revealed  the 
visions  of  the  prophets,  and  conveyed  the 
lessons  of  inspired  teachers,  to  the  meanest 
of  the  people.  It  gave  them  a  common  in- 
terest in  a  common  cause.  Their  hearts 
burnt  within  them  as  they  read.  It  gave  a 
mind  to  the  people  by  giving  them  common 
subjects  of  thought  and  feeling.  It  ce- 
mented their  union  of  character  and  senti- 
ment; it  created  endless  diversity  and  col- 
lision of  opinion.  They  found  objects  to 
employ  their  faculties,  and  a  motive  in  the 
magnitude  of  the  consequences  attached  to 
them,  to  exert  the  utmost  eagerness  in  the 
pursuit  of  truth,  and  the  most  daring  intre- 
pidity in  maintaining  it.  Religious  contro- 
versy sharpens  the  understanding  by  the 
subtlety  and  remoteness  of  the  topics  it  dis- 
cusses, and  embraces  the  will  by  their  infi- 
nite importance.  We  perceive  in  the  history 
of  this  period  a  nervous  masculine  intellect. 
No  levity,  no  feebleness,  no  indifference  ;  or, 
if  there  were,  it  is  a  relaxation  from  the 
intense  activity  which  gives  a  tone  to  its  gen- 
eral character.  But  there  is  a  gravity  ap- 
proaching to  piety  ;  a  seriousness  of  impres- 
sion, a  conscientious  severity  of  argument, 
an  habitual  fervour  and  enthusiasm,  in  their 
method  of  handling  almost  every  subject. 
The  debates  of  the  schoolmen  were  sharp 
and  subtle  enough  ;  but  they  wanted  interest 
and  grandeur,  and  were  besides  confined  to 
a  few  :  they  did  not  affect  the  general  mass 
of  the  community.  But  the  Bible  was  thrown 
open  to  all  ranks  and  conditions  "  to  run  and 
read,"  with  its  wonderful  table  of  contents 
from  Genesis  to  the  Revelations.  Every  vil- 
lage in  England  would  present  the  scene  so 
well  described  in  Burns's  "Cotter's  Saturday 
Night."  I  cannot  think  that  all  this  variety 
and  weight  of  knowledge  could  be  thrown  in 
all  at  once  upon  the  mind  of  the  people  and 
not  make  some  impression  upon  it  the  traces 
of  which  might  be  discerned  in  the  manners 
and  literature  of  the  age.  For,  to  leave  more 
disputable  points,  and  take  only  the  histori- 
cal parts  of  the  Old  Testament,  or  the  moral 
parts  of  the  New,  there  is  nothing  like  them 
in  the  power  of  exciting  awe  and  admira- 
tion, or  of  riveting  sympathy.  We  see  what 
Milton  has  made  of  the  account  of  the  Crea- 
tion, from  the  manner  in  which  he  has 
treated  it,  imbued  and  impregnated  with  the 
spirit  of  the  time  of  which  we  speak.  Or 
what  is  there  equal  (in  that  romantic  interest 
and  patriarchal  simplicity  which  goes  to  the 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


347 


heart  of  a  country,  and  rouses  it,  as  it  were, 
from  its  lair  in  wastes  and  wildernesses)  to 
the  story  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  of 
Rachel  and  Laban,  of  Jacob's  Dream,  of 
lluth  and  Boaz,  the  descriptions  in  the  book 
of  Job,  the  deliverance  of  the  Jews  out  of 
Egypt,  or  the  account  of  their  captivity  and 
return  from  Babylon?  There  is,  in  all  these 
parts  of  the  Scripture,  and  numberless  more 
of  the  same  kind, — to  pass  over  the  Orphic 
hymns  cf  David,  the  prophetic  denunciations 
of  Isaiah,  or  the  gorgeous  visions  of  Ezekiel, 
— an  originality,  a  vastness  of  conception,  a 
depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  a  touch- 
ing simplicity  in  the  mode  of  narration, 
which  he  who  does  not  feel  need  be  made  of 
no  "penetrable  stuff." 

There  is  something  in  the  character  of 
Christ  too  (leaving  the  religious  faith  quite 
out  of  the  question)  of  more  sweetness  and 
majesty,  and  more  likely  to  work  a  change 
in  the  mind  of  man,  by  the  contemplation 
of  its  idea  alone,  than  any  to  be  found  in 
history,  whether  actual  or  feigned.  This 
character  is  that  of  a  sublime  humanity, 
such  as  was  never  seen  on  earth  before  nor 
since.  This  shone  manifestly  both  in  his 
words  and  actions.  We  see  it  in  his  washing 
the  disciples'  feet  the  night  before  his  death, 
that  unspeakable  instance  of  humility  and 
love,  above  all  art.  all  meanness,  and  all 
pride  ;  and  in  the  leave  he  took  of  them  on 
that  occasion  :  "  My  peace  I  give  unto  you, 
that  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,  give 
I  unto  you  ;"  and  in  his  last  commandment, 
that  "  they  should  love  another."  AVho  can 
read  the  account  of  his  behaviour  on  the 
cro-s,  when  turning  to  his  mother  he  said, 
"Woman,  behold  thy  son,"  and  to  the  dis- 
ciple John,  "  Behold  thy  mother,"  and  "  from 
that  hour  that  disciple  took  her  to  his  own 
home,"  without  having  his  heart  smote 
within  !  We  see  it  in  his  treatment  of  the 
woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  in  his  excuse 
for  the  woman  who  poured  precious  ointment 
on  his  garment  as  an  offering  of  devotion  and 
love  which  is  here  all  in  all.  His  religion 
was  the  religion  of  the  heart.  We  see  it  in  his 
discourse  with  the  disciples  as  they  walked 
together  towards  Emmaus,  when  their  hearts 
burned  within  them  ;  in  his  sermon  from  the 
Mount,  in  his  parable  of  the  Good  Samaritan, 
and  in  that  of  the  Prodigal  Son, — in  every 
act  and  word  of  his  life,  a  grace,  a  mildness, 
a  dignity  and  love,  a  patience  and  wisdom, 
worthy  of  the  Son  of  God.  His  whole  life 
and  being  were  imbued,  steeped,  in  this 
word,  charity ;  it  was  the  spring,  the  well- 
head from  which  every  thought  and  feeling 
gushed  into  act ;  and  it  was  thin  that  breathed 
a  mild  glory  from  his  face  in  that  last  agony 
upon  the  cross,  "when  the  meek 'Saviour 
bowed  his  head  and  died,"  praying  for  his 


enemies.  He  was  the  first  true  teacher  of 
morality  :  for  he  alone  conceived  the  idea  of 
a  pure  humanity.  He  redeemed  man  from 
the  worship  of  that  idol,  self,  and  instructed 
him  by  precept  and  example  to  love  his 
neighbour  as  himself,  to  forgive  our  enemies, 
to  do  good  to  those  that  curse  us  and  despite- 
fully  use  us.  He  taught  the  love  of  good 
for  the  sake  of  good,  without  regard  to  per- 
sonal or  sinister  views,  and  made  the  affec- 
tions of  the  heart  the  sole  seat  of  morality, 
instead  of  the  pride  of  the  understanding  or 
the  sternness  of  the  will.  In  answering  the 
question,  "Who  is  our  neighbour?"  as  one 
who  stands  in  need  of  our  assistance,  and 
whose  wounds  we  can  bind  up,  he  has  done 
more  to  humanize  the  thoughts,  and  tame 
the  unruly  passions,  than  all  who  have  tried 
to  reform  and  benefit  mankind.  The  very 
idea  of  abstract  benevolence,  of  the  desire  to 
do  good  because  another  wants  our  services, 
and  of  regarding  the  human  race  as  one 
family,  the  offspring  of  one  common  parent, 
is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  other  code  or 
system.  It  was  "to  the  Jews  a  stumbling 
block,  and  to  the  Greeks  foolishness."  The 
Greeks  and  Romans  never  thought  of  con- 
sidering others,  but  as  they  were  Greeks  or 
Romans,  as  they  were  bound  to  them  by  cer- 
tain positive  ties,  or,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
separated  from  them  by  fiercer  antipathies. 
Their  virtues  were  the  virtues  of  political 
machines,  their  vices  were  the  vices  of 
demons,  ready  to  inflict  or  to  endure  pain 
with  obdurate  and  remorseless  inflexibility 
of  purpose.  But  in  the  Christian  religion 
"  wo  perceive  a  softness  coming  over  the 
heart  of  a  nation,  and  the  iron  scales  that 
fence  and  harden  it  melt  and  drop  off."  It 
becomes  malleable,  capable  of  pity,  of  for- 
giveness, of  relaxing  in  its  claims,  and 
remitting  its  power.  We  strike  it  and  it 
does  not  hurt  us :  it  is  not  steel  or  marble, 
but  flesh  and  blood,  clay  tempered  with 
tears,  and  "  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born 
babe."  .  .  . 

Nor  can  I  help  thinking  that  we  may  dis- 
cern the  traces  of  the  influence  exerted  by 
religious  faith  in  the  spirit  of  the  poetry  of 
the  age  of  Elizabeth,  in  the  means  of  excit- 
ing terror  and  pity,  in  the  delineations  of 
the  passions  of  grief,  remorse,  love,  sympathy, 
the  sense  of  shame,  in  the  fond  desires,  the 
longings  after  immortality,  in  the  heaven  of 
hope  and  the  abyss  of  despair  it  lays  open 
to  us. 

The  literature  of  this  age,  then,  I  would 
say,  was  strongly  influenced  (among  other 
causes),  first,  by  the  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  secondly,  by  the  spirit  of  Protestantism. 

The  effects  of  the  Reformation  on  politics 
and  philosophy  may  be  seen  in  the  writings 
and  history  of  the  next  and  of  following  ages. 


348 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


They  are  still  tit  work,  and  will  continue  to 
be  so.  The  effects  on  the  poetry  of  the  time 
were  chiefly  confined  to  the  moulding  of  the 
characters,  and  giving  a  powerful  impulse  to 
the  intellect  of  the  country.  The  immediate 
use  or  application  that  was  made  of  religion 
to  subjects  of  imagination  and  fiction  was  not 
(from  an  obvious  ground  of  separation)  so 
direct  or  frequent  as  that  which  was  made 
of  the  classical  and  romantic  literature. 

For,  much  about  the  same  time,  the  rich 
and  fascinating  stores  of  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man mythology,  and  those  of  the  romantic 
poetry  of  Spain  and  Italy,  were  eagerly  ex- 
plored by  the  curious,  and  thrown  open  in 
translations  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  the  vul- 
gar. This  last  circumstance  could  hardly 
have  afforded  so  much  advantage  to  the  poets 
of  that  day,  who  were  themselves,  in  fact, 
the  translators,  as  it  shows  the  general  curi- 
osity and  increasing  interest  in  such  subjects 
as  a  prevailing  feature  of  the  times.  There 
were  translations  of  Tasso  by  Fairfax,  and 
of  Ariosto  by  Harrington,  of  Homer  and 
Ilesiod  by  Chapman,  and  of  Virgil  long  be- 
fore, and  of  Ovid  soon  after ;  there  was  Sir 
Thomas  North's  translation  of  Plutarch,  of 
which  Shakspeare  has  made  such  admirable 
use  in  his  Coriolanus  and  Julius  Caesar  ;  and 
Ben  Jonson's  tragedies  of  Catiline  and  Se- 
janus  may  themselves  be  considered  as  al- 
most literal  translations  into  verse  of  Tacitus, 
Sallust,  and  Cicero's  Orations  in  his  consul- 
ship. Petrarch,  Dante,  the  satirist  Aretine, 
Machieval,  Castiglion,  and  others,  were  fa- 
miliar to  our  writers,  and  they  make  occa- 
sional mention  of  some  few  French  authors, 
as  Ronsard  and  Du  Bartas  ;  for  the  French 
literature  had  not  at  this  stage  arrived  at  its 
Augustan  period,  and  it  was  the  imitation 
of  their  literature  a  century  afterwards,  when 
it  had  arrived  at  its  greatest  height  (itself 
copied  from  the  Greek  and  Latin),  that  en- 
feebled and  impoverished  our  own.  But  of 
the  time  that  we  are  considering  it  might  be 
said,  without  much  extravagance,  that  every 
breath  that  blew,  that  every  wave  that  rolled 
to  our  shores,  brought  with  it  some  acces- 
sion to  our  knowledge,  which  was  engrafted 
on  the  national  genius.  .  .  . 

What 'gave  also  an  unusual  impetus  to  the 
mind  of  men  at  this  period  was  the  discovery 
of  the  New  World,  and  the  reading  of  voy- 
ages and  travels.  Green  islands  and  golden 
sands  seemed  to  arise,  as  if  by  enchantment, 
out  of  the  bosom  of  the  watery  waste,  and 
invite  the  cupidity,  or  wing  the  imagination, 
of  the  dreaming  speculator.  Fairy-land  was 
realised  in  new  and  unknown  worlds.  "  For- 
tunate fields,  and  groves,  and  flowery  vales, 
thrice  happy  isles,"  were  found  floating, 
"  like  those  Hesperian  gardens  famed  of 
old,"  beyond  Atlantic  seas,  as  dropt  from 


the  zenith.  The  people,  the  soil,  the  clime, 
everything  gave  unlimited  scope  to  the  curi- 
osity of  the  traveller  and  reader.  Other 
manners  might  be  said  to  enlarge  the  bounds 
of  knowledge,  and  new  mines  of  wealth 
were  tumbled  at  our  feet.  It  is  from  a  voy- 
age to  the  Straits  of  Magellan  that  Shak- 
speare has  taken  the  hint  of  Prospero's  En- 
chanted Island,  and  of  the  savage  Caliban 
with  his  god  Setebos.  Spenser  seems  to 
have  had  the  same  feeling  in  his  mind  in  the 
production  of  his  Faery  Queen. 

Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the 
Age  of  Elizabeth. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  HAMLET. 

It  is  the  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays  that 
we  think  of  the  oftenest,  because  it  abounds 
most  in  striking  reflections  on  human  life, 
and  because  the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are 
transferred,  by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the 
general  account  of  humanity.  Whatever 
happens  to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves,  be- 
cause he  applies  it  to  himself  as  a  means  of 
general  reasoning.  He  is  a  great  moraliser ; 
and  what  makes  him  worth  attending  to  is, 
that  he  moralises  on  his  own  feelings  and 
experience.  He  is  not  a  commonplace  ped- 
ant. If  Lear  is  distinguished  by  the  greatest 
depth  of  passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remark- 
able for  the  ingenuity,  originality,  and  un- 
studied development  of  character.  Shak- 
speare had  more  magnanimity  than  any  other 
poet,  and  he  has  shown  more  of  it  in  this 
play  than  in  any  other.  There  is  no  attempt 
to  force  an  interest:  everything  is  left  for 
time  and  circumstances  to  unfold.  The  at- 
tention is  excited  without  effort;  the  inci- 
dents succeed  each  other  as  matters  of 
course;  the  characters  think,  and  speak, 
and  act,  just  as  they  might  do  if  left  entirely 
to  themselves.  There  is  no  set  purpose,  no 
straining  at  a  point.  The  observations  are 
suggested  by  the  passing  scene, — the  gusts 
of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music 
borne  on  the  wind.  The  whole  play  is  an 
exact  transcript  of  what  might  be  supposed 
to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark 
at  the  remote  period  of  time  fixed  upon,  be- 
fore the  modern  refinements  in  morals  and 
manners  were  heard  of.  It  would  have  been 
interesting  enough  to  have  been  admitted  as 
a  bystander  in  such  a  scene,  at  such  a  time, 
to  have  heard  and  witnessed  something  of 
what  was  going  on.  But  here  we  are  more 
than  spectators.  We  have  not  only  the  out- 
ward pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief,  but 
"we  have  that  within  which  passes  show." 
We  read  the  thoughts  of  the  heart,  we  catch 
the  passions  living  as  they  rise.  Other  dra- 
matic writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and 
paraphrases  of  nature ;  but  Shakspeare,  to- 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT. 


349 


gether  with  his  own  comments,  gives  the 
original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for  our- 
selves. This  is  a  very  great  advantage. 

The  character  of  Hamlet  stands  quite  by 
itself.  It  is  not  a  character  marked  by 
strength  of  will  or  even  of  passion,  but  by 
refinement  of  thought  and  sentiment.  Ham- 
let is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  a  man  can  well 
be  ;  but  he  is  a  young  and  princely  novice, 
full  of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick  sensibility, 
— the  sport  of  circumstances,  questioning 
with  fortune,  arid  refining  on  his  own  feel- 
ings, and  forced  from  the  natural  bias  of  his 
disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situa- 
tion. He  seems  incapable  of  deliberate  ac- 
tion, and  is  only  hurried  into  extremities  on 
the  spur  of  the  occasion,  when  he  has  no 
time  to  reflect, — as  in  the  scene  where  he 
kills  Polonius  ;  and,  again,  where  he  alters 
the  letters  which  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern  are  taking  with  them  to  England,  pur- 
porting his  death.  At  other  times,  when  he 
is  most  bound  to  act,  he  remains  puzzled, 
undecided,  and  sceptical :  dallies  with  his 
purposes  till  the  occasion  is  lost,  and  finds 
out  some  pretence  to  relapse  into  indolence 
and  though  tfulneaa  again.  For  this  reason 
he  refuses  to  kill  the  king  when  he  is  at  his 
prayers ;  and,  by  a  refinement  in  malice, 
Avhich  is  in  truth  only  an  excuse  for  his  own 
want  of  resolution,  defers  his  revenge  to  a 
more  fatal  opportunity.  .  .  .  The  moral  per- 
fection of  this  character  has  been  called  in 
question,  we  think  by  those  who  did  not  un- 
derstand it.  It  is  more  interesting  than  ac- 
cording to  rules ;  amiable,  though  not  fault- 
less. The  ethical  delineations  of  "that  noble 
and  liberal  casuist''  (as  Shakspeare  has  been 
well  called)  do  not  exhibit  the  drab-coloured 
quakerism  of  morality.  His  plays  are  not 
copied  cither  from  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man, 
or  from  The  Academy  of  Compliments! 
We  confess  we  are  a  little  shocked  at  the 
want  of  refinement  in  those  who  are  shocked 
at  the  want  of  refinement  in  Hamlet.  The 
neglect  of  punctilious  exactness  in  his  be- 
haviour either  partakes  of  the  "  license  of 
the  time,"  or  else  belongs  to  the  very  excess 
of  intellectual  refinement  in  the  character, 
which  makes  the  common  rules  of  life,  as 
well  as  his  own  purposes,  sit  loose  upon  him. 
He  may  be  said  to  be  amenable  only  to  the 
tribunal  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  is  too 
much  taken  up  with  the  airy  world  of  con- 
templation to  lay  as  much  stress  as  he  ought 
on  the  practical  consequences  of  things. 
His  habitual  principles  of  action  are  un- 
hinged and  out  of  joint  with  the  time.  His 
conduct  to  Ophelia  is  quite  natural  in  his 
circumstances.  It  is  that  of  assumed  severity 
only.  It  is  the  effect  of  disappointed  hope, 
of  bitter  regrets,  of  affection  suspended,  not 
obliterated,  by  the  distractions  of  the  scene 


around  him  !  Amidst  the  natural  .and  pre- 
ternatural horrors  of  his  situation,  he  might 
be  excused  in  delicacy  from  carrying  on  a 
regular  courtship.  When  u  his  father's  spirit 
was  in  arms,1'  it  was  not  a  time  for  his  son 
to  make  love  in.  He  could  neither  marry 
Ophelia,  nor  wound  her  mind  by  explaining 
the  cause  of  his  alienation,  which  he  durst 
hardly  trust  himself  to  think  of.  It  would 
have  taken  him  years  to  have  come  to  a  di- 
rect explanation  on  the  point.  In  the  har- 
assed state  of  his  mind  he  could  not  have 
done  much  otherwise  than  he  did.  His  con- 
duct does  not  contradict  what  he  says  when 
he  sees  her  funeral : — 

"I  loved  Ophelia;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum." 

Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. 

RICHARD  THE  THIRD  AND  MACBETH. 

The  leading  features  in  the  character  of 
Macbeth  are  striking  enough,  and  they  form 
what  may  be  thought  at  first  only  a  bold, 
rude,  Gothic  outline.  By  comparing  it  with 
other  characters  of  the  same  author,  we 
shall  perceive  the  absolute  truth  and  iden- 
tity which  is  observed  in  the  midst  of  the 
giddy  whirl  and  rapid  career  of  events. 
With  powerful  and  masterly  strokes,  for  in- 
stance, he  has  marked  the  different  effects 
of  ambition  and  cruelty,  operating  on  dif- 
ferent dispositions  and  in  different  circum- 
stances, in  his  Macbeth  and  Richard  III. 
Both  are  tyrants,  usurpers,  murderers  ;  both 
violent  and  ambitious;  both  courageous, 
cruel,  treacherous.  But  Richard  is  cruel 
from  nature  and  constitution.  Macbeth  be- 
comes so  from  accidental  circumstances. 
Richard  is  from  his  birth  deformed  in  body 
and  mind,  and  naturally  incapable  of  good. 
Macbeth  is  full  of  "  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness," is  frank,  sociable,  generous.  He  is 
urged  to  the  commission  of  guilt  by  golden 
opportunity,  by  the  instigations  of  his  wife, 
and  by  prophetic  warnings.  "  Fate  and 
metaphysical  aid"  conspire  against  his  vir- 
tue and  his  loyalty.  Richard,  on  the  con- 
trary, needs  no  prompter,  but  wades  through 
a  series  of  crimes  to  the  height  of  his  ambi- 
tion, from  the  ungovernable  violence  of  his 
passions  and  a  restless  love  of  mischief. 
He  is  never  gay  but  in  the  prospect  or  in 
the  success  of  his  villanies;  Macbeth  is  full 
of  horror  at  the  thoughts  of  the  murder  of 
Duncan,  which  he  is  with  difficulty  prevailed 
on  to  commit,  and  of  remorse  after  its  per- 
petration. Richard  has  no  mixture  of  com- 
mon humanity  in  his  composition,  no  regard 
to  kindred  or  posterity  ;  he  owns  no  fellow- 
ship with  others,  but  is  "  himself  alone." 
Macbeth  endeavours  to  escape  from  reflec- 


350 


JAMES  KIRKE  PAULDING. 


tion  on  his  crimes  by  repelling  their  conse- 
quences, and  banishes  remorse  for  the  past 
by  the  meditation  of  future  mischief.  This 
is  not  the  principle  of  Richard's  cruelty, 
which  resembles  the  cold  malignity,  the 
wanton  malice,  of  a  fiend,  rather  than  the 
frailty  of  human  nature.  Macbeth  is  goaded 
on  to  acts  of  violence  and  retaliation  by 
necessity ;  to  Richard,  blood  is  a  pastime. 
There  are  other  essential  differences.  Rich- 
ard is  a  man  of  the  world  ;  a  vulgar,  plot- 
ting, hardened  villain,  wholly  regardless  of 
everything  but  his  own  ends,  and  the  means 
to  accomplish  them.  Not  so  Macbeth.  The 
superstitions  of  the  age,  the  rude  state  of 
society,  the  local  scenery  and  customs,  all 
give  a  wildness  and  imaginary  grandeur  to 
his  character.  From  the  strangeness  of 
the  events  that  surround  him,  he  is  full  of 
amazement  and  fear,  and  stands  in  doubt 
between  the  world  of  reality  and  the  world 
of  fancy.  He  sees  sights  not  shown  to 
mortal  eye,  and  hears  unearthly  music.  All 
is  tumult  and  disorder  within  and  without 
his  mind  ;  his  purposes  recoil  upon  himself, 
are  broken  and  disjointed  ;  he  is  the  double 
thrall  of  his  passions  and  his  evil  destiny. 
lie  treads  upon  the  brink  of  fate,  and  grows 
dizzv  with  his  situation.  Richard  is  not  a 
character  either  of  imagination  or  pathos, 
but  of  pure  will.  There  is  no  conflict  of 
opposite  feelings  in  his  breast.  The  appari- 
tions which  he  sees  only  haunt  him  in  his 
sleep;  nor  does  he  live,  like  Macbeth,  in  a 
waking  dream.  There  is  nothing  tight  or 
compact  in  Macbeth,  no  tenseness  of  fibre 
nor  pointed  decision  of  manner.  He  has 
indeed  considerable  energy  and  manliness 
of  soul ;  but  then  he  is  "  subject  to  all  the 
skyey  influences."  He  is  sure  of  nothing. 
All  is  left  at  issue.  He  runs  a  tilt  with 
fortune,  and  is  baffled  with  preternatural 
riddles.  The  agitation  of  his  mind  resem- 
bles the  rolling  of  the  sea  in  a  storm,  or  he 
is  like  a  lion  in  the  toils, — fierce,  impetuous, 
and  ungovernable.  Richard,  in  the  busy 
turbulence  of  his  projects,  never  loses  his 
self-possession,  and  makes  use  of  every  cir- 
cumstance that  occurs  as  an  instrument  of 
his  long-reaching  designs.  In  his  last  ex- 
tremity we  can  only  regard  him  as  a  cap- 
tured wild-beast ;  but  we  never  entirely  lose 
our  concern  for  Macbeth,  and  he  calls  back  all 
our  sympathy  by  that  fine  close  of  thought- 
ful melancholy, — 

"My  May  of  life 

Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf: 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have  ;  but  in  their  stead, 
Curses,  not  loud,  but  deep,  mouth- honour,  breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  but  dare 

not." 
Characters  of  Shakspeare*  s  Plays. 


JAMES    KIRKE  PAULDING, 

born  at  Pawling,  New  York.  1788,  Navy 
Agent  for  the  port  of  New  York  for  twelve 
years,  until  1837,  and  Secretary  of  the  Navy, 
1837-1841 ;  died  I860.  lie  was  the  author 
of  the  following  among  other  works  :  The 
Diverting  History  of  John  Bull  and  Brother 
Jonathan,  N.  York,  1813,  18mo,  new  edit., 
1835,  12mo  ;  Letters  from  the  South,  etc., 
N.  York.  1817,  2  vols.  12mo,  new  edit.,  1835, 
2  vols.  12mo;  A  Sketch  of  Old  England,  by 
a  New  England  Man,  N.  York,  1822,  2  vols. 
12mo;  Koningsmarke,  The  Long  Finne,  N. 
York,  1823,  2  vols.  12mo,  2d  edit.,  entitled 
Old  Times  in  the  New  World,  1835,  2  vols. 
12mo,  Lond.,  1843,  2  vols.  12mo;  John  Bull 
in  America  :  or,  The  New  Munchausen,  N. 
York,  1824,  12mo  ;  Merry  Tales  of  the  Three 
Wise  Men  of  Gotham,  1820,  12mo;  The 
Book  of  St.  Nicholas,  1827,  8vo  ;  The  Now 
Mirror  for  Travellers  and  Guide  to  the 
Springs,  1828,  12mo;  Tales  of  the  Good 
Woman,  by  a  Doubtful  Gentleman,  1829, 
8vo;  Chronicles  of  the  City  of  Gotham,  1830, 
12mo  ;  The  Dutchman's  Fireside,  a  Tale,  N. 
York,  1831,  12ino,  Lond.,  1831,  etc.,  12mo, 
also  in  French  and  Dutch  ;  Westward  Ho  ! 
a  Tale,  N.  York,  1832,  2  vols.  12mo;  The 
Life  of  George  Washington,  N.  York,  1835, 
2  vols.  18mo,  Aberdeen,  Scotland,  1836, 
18mo  (5000  copies  purchased  for  public 
schools  in  the  United  States) ;  Affairs  and 
Men  of  New  Amsterdam  in  the  Times  of 
Governor  Peter  Stuyvesandt,  N.  York,  1843, 
12mo;  The  Old  Continental;  or,  The  Price 
of  Liberty,  N.  York,  1846,  12rno:  American 
Comedies,  by  J.  K.  Paulding  and  [his  son] 
William  Irving  Paulding,  Phila.,  1847,  Svo  ; 
The  Puritan  and  his  Daughter,  N.  York, 
1849,  12mo.  His  son,  W.  I.  Paulding,  pub- 
lished an  account  of  his  father's  life  in  1867, 
and  four  volumes  of  his  works  were  repub- 
lished,  N.  York,  1867-68.  He  was  co-author 
with  Washington  Irving  and  William  Irving 
(who  married  his  sister)  of  Salmagundi, 
first  series,  1807,  and  sole  author  of  the 
second  series,  1819. 

"  There  is  no  better  literary  manner  than  the 
manner  of  Mr.  Paulding.  Certainly  no  American, 
and  possibly  no  living  writer  of  England,  has 
more  of  those  numerous  peculiarities  which  go  to 
the  formation  of  a  happy  style.  It  is  questionable, 
we  think,  whether  any  writer  of  any  country  com- 
bines as  many  of  these  peculiarities  with  as  much 
of  that  essential  negative  virtue,  the  absence  of 
affectation." — EDGAR  A.  POE  :  Liternti,  1850,  574. 

"  Hi*  works  are  exclusively  and  eminently  na- 
tional, and  his  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  nro 
often  singularly  beautiful." — Lon.  Athenseum  :  Lit. 
of  the  Nineteenth  Century  :  America. 

THE  QUARREL  OF  SQUIRE  BULL  AND  HIS 

SON. 
John  Bull  was  a  choleric  old  fellow,  who 


JAMES  KIRKE  PAUL  DING. 


351 


held  a  good  manor  in  the  middle  of  a  great 
mill-pond,  and  which,  by  reason  of  its  being 
quite  surrounded  by  water,  was  generally 
called  Bullock  Island.  Bull  was  an  ingeni- 
ous man,  an  exceedingly  good  blacksmith,  a 
dexterous  cutler,  and  a  notable  weaver  and 
pot-baker  besides.  He  also  brewed  capital 
porter,  ale,  and  small  beer,  and  was  in  fact 
a  sort  of  Jack  of  all  trades,  and  good  at  each. 
In  addition  to  these,  he  was  a  hearty  fellow 
and  excellent  bottle  companion,  and  passably 
honest  as  times  go. 

But  what  tarnished  all  these  qualities  was 
a  devilish  quarrelsome,  overbearing  dispo- 
sition, which  was  always  getting  him  into 
some  scrape  or  other.  The  truth  is,  he  never 
heard  of  a  quarrel  going  on  among  his  neigh- 
bours but  his  fingers  itched  to  be  in  the 
thickest  of  them  ;  so  that  he  was  hardly 
ever  seen  without  a  broken  head,  a  black 
eye,  or  a  bloody  nose.  Such  was  Squire 
Bull,  as  he  was  commonly  called  by  the 
country  people  his  neighbours, — one  of  those 
odd,  testy,  grumbling,  boasting  old  codgers, 
that  never  get  credit  for  what  they  are,  be- 
cause they  are  always  pretending  to  be  what 
they  are  not. 

The  squire  was  as  tight  a  hand  to  deal 
with  in  doors  as  out;  sometimes  treating  his 
family  as  if  they  were  not  the  same  flesh 
and  blood,  when  they  happened  to  differ  with 
him  in  certain  matters.  One  day  he  got  into 
a  dispute  with  his  youngest  son  Jonathan, 
who  was  familiarly  called  BROTHER  JONA- 
THAN, about  whether  churches  ought  to  be 
called  churches  or  meeting-houses;  and 
whether  steeples  were  not  an  abomination. 
The  squire,  either  having  the  worst  of  the 
argument,  or  being  naturally  impatient  of 
contradiction  (I  can't  tell  which),  fell  into  a 
great  passion,  and  swore  he  would  physic 
such  notions  out  of  the  boy's  noddle.  So 
he  went  to  some  of  his  doctors  and  got  them 
to  draw  up  a  prescription,  made  up  of  thirty- 
nine  different  articles,  many  of  them  bitter 
enougli  to  some  palates.  This  he  tried  to 
make  Jonathan  swallow ;  and  finding  he 
made  villanous  wry  faces,  and  would  not  do 
it,  fell  upon  him  and  beat  him  like  furv. 
After  this  he  made  the  house  so  disagreeable 
to  him,  that  Jonathan,  though  as  hard  as  a 
pine  knot  and  as  tough  as  leather,  could  bear 
it  no  longer.  Taking  his  gun  and  his  axe, 
he  put  himself  in  a  boat  and  paddled  over 
the  mill-pond  to  some  new  lands  to  which 
the  squire  pretended  some  sort  of  claim,  in- 
tending to  settle  them,  and  build  a  meeting- 
house without  a  steeple  as  soon  as  he  grew 
rich  enough. 

When  he  got  over,  Jonathan  found  that 
the  land  was  quite  in  a  state  of  nature,  cov- 
ered with  wood,  and  inhabited  by  nobody 
but  wild  beasts.  But  being  a  lad  of  mettle, 


he  took  his  axe  on  one  shoulder  and  his  gun 
on  the  other,  inarched  into  the  thickest  of 
the  wood,  and  clearing  a  place,  built  a  log 
hut.  Pursuing  his  labours,  and  handling  his 
axe  like  a  notable  woodman,  he  in  a  few 
years  cleared  the  land,  which  he  laid  out 
into  thirteen  good  farms  :  and  building  him- 
self a  fine  frame  house,  about  half-finished, 
began  to  be  quite  snug  and  comfortable. 

But  Squire  Bull,  who  was  getting  old  and 
stingy,  and,  besides,  was  in  great  want  of 
money,  on  account  of  his  having  been  made 
to  pay  swinging  damages  for  assaulting  his 
neighbours  and  breaking  their  heads, — the 
squire,  I  say,  finding  Jonathan  was  getting 
well  to  do  in  the  world,  began  to  be  very 
much  troubled  about  his  welfare;  so  he  de- 
manded that  Jonathan  should  pay  him  a 
good  rent  for  the  land  which  he  had  cleared 
and  made  good  for  something.  He  trumped 
up  I  know  not  what  claim  against  him,  and 
under  different  pretences  managed  to  pocket 
all  Jonathan's  honest  gains.  In  fact,  the 
poor  lad  had  not  a  shilling  left  for  holyday 
occasions ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  filial 
respect  he  felt  for  the  old  man,  he  would 
certainly  have  refused  to  submit  to  such 
imposition. 

But  for  all  this,  in  a  little  time,  Jonathan 
grew  up  to  be  very  large  of  his  age,  and  be- 
came a  tall,  stout,  double-jointed,  broad- 
footed  cub  of  a  fellow,  awkward  in  his  gait 
and  simple  in  his  appearance  ;  but  show- 
ing a  lively,  shrewd  look,  and  having  the 
promise  of  great  strength  when  he  should 
get  his  full  growth.  lie  was  rather  an  odd- 
looking  chap,  in  truth,  and  had  many  queer 
wavs ;  but  every  body  that  had  seen  John 
Bull  saw  a  great  likeness  between  them,  and 
swore  he  was  John's  own  boy,  and  a  true 
chip  of  the  old  block.  Like  the  old  squire, 
he  was  apt  to  be  blustering  and  saucy,  but 
in  the  main  was  a  peaceable  sort  of  care- 
less fellow,  that  would  quarrel  with  nobody 
if  you  only  let  him  alone.  He  used  to  dress 
in  homespun  trousers  with  a  huge  bagging 
seat,  which  seemed  to  have  nothing  in  it. 
This  made  people  to  say  he  had  no  bottom  ; 
but  whoever  said  so  lied,  as  they  f.mnd  to 
their  cost  whenever  they  put  Jonathan  in 
a  passion.  He  always  wore  a  linsey-wool- 
sey coat  that  did  not  above  half  cover  his 
breech,  and  the  sleeves  of  which  were  so 
short  that  his  hand  and  wrist  came  out  be- 
yond them,  looking  like  a  shoulder  of  mut- 
ton. All  which  was  in  consequence  of  his 
growing  so  fast  that  he  outgrew  his  clothes. 

While  Jonathan  was  outgrowing  his 
strength  in  this  way,  Bull  kept  on  picking 
his  pockets  of  every  penny  he  could  scrape 
together ;  till  at  last  one  day  when  the 
squire  was  even  more  than  usually  press- 
ing in  his  demands,  which  he  accompanied 


352 


WILLIAM  ELLERT  CHANNING. 


with  threats,  Jonathan  started  up  in  a  furious 
passion,  and  threw  the  TEA-KETTLE  at  the  old 
man's  head.  The  choleric  Bull  was  hereupon 
exceedingly  enraged  ;  and  after  calling  the 
poor  lad  an  undutiful,  ungrateful,  rebellious 
rascal,  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  forth- 
with a  furious  scuffle  ensued.  This  lasted  a 
long  time  ;  for  the  squire,  though  in  years, 
was  a  capital  boxer,  and  of  most  excellent 
bottom.  At  last,  however,  Jonathan  got  him 
under,  and  before  he  would  let  him  up,  made 
him  sign  a  paper  giving  up  .ill  claim  to  the 
farms,  and  acknowledging  the  fee-simple  to 
be  in  Jonathan  forever. 

The  Diverting  Histoi-y  of  John  Bull  and 
Brother  Jonathan. 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHAN- 
NING,    D.D., 

an  eminent  Unitarian  preacher  and  excellent 
writer,  was  born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island, 
1780,  died  at  Bennington,  Vermont,  1842. 

SELF-CULTURE. 

It  is  chiefly  through  books  that  we  enjoy 
intercourse  with  superior  minds,  and  these 
invaluable  means  of  communication  are  in 
the  reach  of  all.  In  the  best  books  great 
men  talk  to  us,  give  us  their  most  precious 
thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls  into  ours. 
God  be  thanked  for  books  !  They  .are  the 
voices  of  the  distant  and  the  dead,  and  make 
us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of  past  ages. 
Books  are  the  true  levellers.  They  give  to 
all  who  will  faithfully  use  them,  the  society, 
the  spiritual  presence,  of  the  best  and  great- 
est of  our  race.  No  matter  how  poor  I  am. 
No  matter  though  the  prosperous  of  my 
own  time  will  not  enter  my  obscure  dwell- 
ing. If  the  Sacred  Writers  will  enter  and 
take  up  their  abode  under  my  roof,  if  Mil- 
ton will  cross  my  threshold  to  sing  to  me  of 
Paradise,  and  Shakspeare  to  open  to  me  the 
worlds  of  imagination  and  the  workings  of 
the  human  heart,  and  Franklin  to  enrich 
me  with  his  practical  wisdom,  I  shall  not 
pine  for  want  of  intellectual  companionship, 
and  I  may  become  a  cultivated  man,  though 
excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best  society 
in  the  place  where  I  live. 

To  make  this  means  of  culture  effectual, 
a  man  must  select  good  books,  such  as  have 
been  written  by  right-minded  and  strong- 
minded  men,  real  thinkers,  who,  instead  of 
diluting  by  repetition  what  others  say,  have 
something  to  say  for  themselves,  and  write 
to  give  relief  to  full,  earnest  souls;  and 
these  works  must  not  be  skimmed  over  for 
amusement,  but  read  with  fixed  attention 


and  a  reverential  love  of  truth.  In  select- 
ing books  we  may  be  aided  much  by  those 
who  have  studied  more  than  ourselves.  But, 
after  all,  it  is  best  to  be  determined  in  this 
particular  a  good  deal  by  our  own  tastes.  The 
best  books  for  a  man  are  not  always  those 
which  the  wise  recommend,  but  oftener 
those  which  meet  the  peculiar  wants,  the 
natural  thirst  of  his  mind,  and  therefore 
awaken  interest  and  rivet  thought.  And 
here  it  may  be  well  to  observe,  not  only  in 
regard  to  books,  but  in  other  respects,  that 
self-culture  must  vary  with  the  individual. 
All  means  do  not  equally  suit  us  all.  A 
man  must  unfold  himself  freely,  and  should 
respect  the  peculiar  gifts  or  biases  by  which 
nature  has  distinguished  him  from  others. 
Self-culture  does  not  demand  the  sacrifice 
of  individuality.  It  does  not  regularly  apply 
an  established  machinery,  for  the  sake  of 
torturing  every  man  into  one  rigid  shape, 
called  perfection.  As  the  human  counte- 
nance, with  the  same  features  in  us  all,  is 
diversified  without  end  in  the  race,  and  is 
never  the  same  in  any  two  individuals,  so 
the  human  soul,  with  the  same  grand  powers 
and  laws,  expands  into  an  infinite  variety 
of  forms,  and  would  be  wofully  stinted  by 
modes  of  culture  requiring  all  men  to  learn 
the  same  lesson,  or  to  bend  to  the  same 
rules. 

I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  some  men,  espe- 
cially to  those  who  spend  much  time  in  man- 
ual labour,  to  fix  attention  on  books.  Let 
them  strive  to  overcome  the  difficulty  by 
choosing  subjects  of  deep  interest,  or  by 
reading  in  company  with  those  whom  they 
love.  Nothing  can  supply  the  place  of 
books.  They  are  cheering  or  soothing  com- 
panions in  solitude,  illness,  affliction.  The 
wealth  of  both  continents  would  not  com- 
pensate for  the  good  they  impart.  Let  every 
man,  if  possible,  gather  some  good  books 
under  his  roof,  and  obtain  access  for  him- 
self and  family  to  some  social  library. 
Almost  any  luxury  should  be  sacrificed  to 
this. 

One  of  the  very  interesting  features  of 
our  times  is  the  multiplication  of  books, 
and  their  distribution  through  all  condi- 
tions of  society.  At  a  small  expense,  a  man 
can  now  possess  himself  of  the  most  pre- 
cious treasures  of  English  literature.  Books, 
once  confined  to  a  few  by  their  costliness, 
are  now  accessible  to  the  multitude  ;  and 
in  this  way  a  change  of  habits  is  going  on 
in  society,  highly  favourable  to  the  culture 
of  the  people.  Instead  of  depending  on 
casual  rumour  and  loose  conversation  for 
most  of  their  knowledge  and  objects  of 
thought;  instead  of  forming  their  judg- 
ments in  crowds,  and  receiving  their  chief 
excitement  from  the  voice  of  neighbours  ; 


WILLIAM  ELLERY  CHANNING. 


353 


men  are  now  learning  to  study  and  reflect 
alone,  to  follow  out  subjects  continuously,  to 
determine  for  themselves  what  shall  engage 
their  minds,  and  to  call  to  their  aid  the 
knowledge,  original  views,  and  reasoning 
of  men  of  all  countries  and  ages  ;  and  the 
results  must  be  a  deliberation  and  indepen- 
dence of  judgment,  and  a  thoroughness  and 
extent  of  information  unknown  in  former 
times.  The  diffusion  of  these  silent  teach- 
ers— books — through  the  whole  community 
is  to  work  greater  effects  than  artillery,  ma- 
chinery, and  legislation.  Its  peaceful  agency 
is  to  supersede  stormy  revolutions.  The  cul- 
ture, which  is  to  spread,  whilst  an  unspeak- 
able good  to  the  individual,  is  also  to  become 
the  stability  of  nations. 

Another  means  of  self-culture  is  to  free 
ourselves  from  the  power  of  human  opinion 
and  example,  except  as  this  is  sanctioned 
by  our  own  deliberate  judgment.  We  are 
all  prone  to  keep  the  level  of  those  we  live 
with,  to  repeat  their  words,  and  dress  our 
minds  as  well  as  bodies  after  their  fashion  ; 
and  hence  the  spiritless  tameness  of  our 
characters  and  lives.  Our  greatest  danger 
is  not  from  the  grossly  wicked  around  us, 
but  from  the  worldly,  unreflecting  multi- 
tude, who  are  borne  along  as  a  stream  by 
foreign  impulse,  and  bear  us  along  with 
them.  Even  the  influence  of  superior  minds 
may  harm  us,  by  bowing  us  to  servile  ac- 
quiescence and  damping  our  spiritual  activ- 
ity. The  great  use  of  intercourse  with  other 
minds  is  to  stir  up  our  own,  to  whet  our  ap- 
petite for  truth,  to  carry  our  thoughts  be- 
yond their  old  tracks.  We  need  connections 
with  great  thinkers  to  make  us  thinkers  too. 
One  of  the  chief  arts  of  self-culture  is  to 
unite  the  childlike  teachableness,  which 
gratefully  welcomes  light  from  every  human 
being  who  can  give  it,  with  manly  resistance 
of  opinions,  however  current,  of  influences 
however  generally  revered,  which  do  not 
approve  themselves  to  our  deliberate  judg- 
ment. 

On  Self-Culture:  Channinq 's  Complete 
Works. 

Ox  NATIONAL  LITERATURE. 

We  maintain  that  a  people  which  has  any 
serious  purpose  of  taking  a  place  among 
improved  communities,  should  sedulously 
promote  within  itself  every  variety  of  intel- 
lectual exertion.  It  should  resolve  stren- 
uously to  be  surpassed  by  none.  It  should 
feel  that  mind  is  the  creative  power  through 
which  all  the  resources  of  nature  are  to  be 
turned  to  account,  and  by  which  a  people  is 
to  spread  its  influence,  and  establish  the 
noblest  form  of  empire.  It  should  train 
within  itself  men  able  to  understand  and  to 
23 


use  whatever  is  thought  and  discovered  over 
the  whole  earth.  The  whole  mass  of  human 
knowledge  should  exist  among  a  people,  not 
in  neglected  libraries,  but  in  its  higher 
minds.  Among  its  most  cherished  institu- 
tions should  be  those  which  will  ensure  to  it 
ripe  scholars,  explorers  of  ancient  learning, 
profound  historians  and  mathematicians,  in- 
tellectual labourers  devoted  to  physical  and 
moral  science,  and  to  the  creation  of  a  re- 
fined and  beautiful  literature. 

Let  us  not  be  misunderstood.  We  have 
no  desire  to  rear  in  our  country  a  race  of 
pedants,  of  solemn  triflers,  of  laborious  com- 
mentators on  the  mysteries  of  a  Greek  ac- 
cent or  a  rusty  coin.  We  would  have  men 
explore  antiquity,  not  to  bury  themselves  in 
its  dust,  but  to  learn  its  spirit,  and  so  to 
commune  with  its  superior  minds  as  to  accu- 
mulate on  the  present  age  the  influence  of 
whatever  was  great  and  wise  in  former  times. 
What  we  want  is,  that  those  among  us  whom 
God  has  gifted  to  comprehend  whatever  is 
now  known,  and  to  rise  to  new  truths,  may 
find  aids  and  institutions  to  tit  them  for  their 
high  calling,  and  may  become  at  once  springs 
of  a  higher  intellectual  life  to  their  own 
country,  and  joint  workers  with  the  great 
of  all  nations  and  times  in  carrying  forward 
their  race. 

We  know  that  it  will  be  said  that  foreign 
scholars,  born  under  institutions  which  this 
country  cannot  support,  may  do  our  intellec- 
tual work,  and  send  us  books  and  learning 
to  meet  our  wants.  To  this  we  have  much 
to  answer.  In  the  first  place,  we  reply  that, 
to  avail  ourselves  of  the  higher  literature  of 
other  nations,  we  must  place  ourselves  on  a 
level  with  them.  The  products  of  foreign 
machinery  we  can  use,  without  any  portion 
of  the  skill  that  produced  them.  But  works 
of  taste  and  genius,  and  profound  investiga- 
tions of  philosophy,  can  only  be  estimated 
and  enjoyed  through  a  culture  and  power 
corresponding  to  that  from  which  they 
sprung. 

In  the  next  place,  we  maintain  that  it  is 
an  immense  gain  to  a  people  to  have  in  its 
own  bosom,  among  its  own  sons,  men  of  dis- 
tinguished intellect.  Such  men  give  a  spring 
and  life  to  a  community  by  their  presence, 
their  society,  their  fame  ;  and,  what  deserves 
remark,  such  men  are  nowhere  so  felt  as  in 
a  republic  like  our  own  ;  for  here  the  differ- 
ent classes  of  society  flow  together  and  act 
powerfully  on  each  other,  and  a  free  com- 
munication, elsewhere  unknown,  is  estab- 
lished between  the  gifted  few  and  the  many. 
It  is  one  of  the  many  good  fruits  of  liberty 
that  it  increases  the  diffusiveness  of  intel- 
lect; and  accordingly  a  free  country  is, 
above  all  others,  false  to  itself  in  withhold- 
ing from  its  superior  minds  the  means  of 


354 


THOMAS   CHALMERS. 


enlargement.  We  next  observe — and  we 
think  the  observation  important — that  the 
facility  with  which  we  receive  the  literature 
of  foreign  countries,  instead  of  being  a  rea- 
son for  neglecting  our  own,  is  a  strong  motive 
for  its  cultivation.  We  mean  not  to  be  para- 
doxical, but  we  believe  that  it  would  be 
better  to  admit  no  books  from  abroad  than 
to  make  them  substitutes  for  our  own  intel- 
lectual activity.  The  more  we  receive  from 
other  countries,  the  greater  the  need  of  an 
original  literature.  A  people  into  whose 
minds  the  thoughts  of  foreigners  are  poured 
perpetually,  needs  an  energy  within  itself  to 
resist,  to  modify,  this  mighty  influence,  and, 
without  it,  will  inevitably  sink  under  the 
worst  bondage,  will  become  intellectually 
tame  and  enslaved.  We  have  certainly  no 
desire  to  complete  our  restrictive  system  by 
adding  to  it  a  literary  non-intercourse  law. 
We  rejoice  in  the  increasing  literary  connec- 
tion between  this  country  and  the  old  world  ; 
but  sooner  would  we  rupture  it  than  see  our 
country  sitting  passively  at  the  feet  of  for- 
eign teachers.  It  were  better  to  have  no 
literature  than  form  ourselves  unresistingly 
on  a  foreign  one.  The  true  sovereigns  of  a 
country  are  those  who  determine  its  mind, 
its  modes  of  thinking,  its  tastes,  its  princi- 
ples ;  and  we  cannot  consent  to  lodge  this 
sovereignty  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  A 
country,  like  an  individual,  has  dignity  and 
power  only  in  proportion  as  it  is  self-formed. 
There  is  a  great  stir  to  secure  to  ourselves 
the  manufacturing  of  our  own  clothing.  We 
say,  let  others  spin  and  weave  for  us,  but  let 
them  not  think  for  us.  A  people  whose  gov- 
ernment and  laws  are  nothing  but  the  em- 
bodying of  public  opinion,  should  jealously 
guard  this  opinion  against  foreign  dictation. 
We  need  a  literature  to  counteract,  and  to 
use  wisely,  the  literature  which  we  import. 
We  need  an  inward  power  proportionate  to 
that  which  is  exerted  on  us,  as  the  means  of 
self-subsistence.  It  is  particularly  true  of  a 
people  whose  institutions  demand  for  their 
support  a  free  and  bold  spirit,  that  they 
should  be  .able  to  subject  to  a  manly  and  in- 
dependent criticism  whatever  comes  from 
abroad.  These  views  seem  to  us  to  deserve 
serious  attention.  We  are  more  and  more  a 
reading  people.  Books  are  already  among 
the  most  powerful  influences  here.  The 
question  is,  shall  Europe,  through  these, 
fashion  us  after  its  pleasure?  Shall  America 
be  only  an  echo  of  what  is  thought  and 
written  under  the  aristocracies  beyond  the 
ocean  ? 

On  National  Literature :  Charming'1  s  Com- 
plete Works. 


THOMAS   CHALMERS,  D.D.. 
LL.D., 

born  at  Anstruther,  Fifeshire,  1780,  after 
officiating  as  a  minister  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland  at  Cavers,  Kilmany,  and  Glasgow, 
in  1824  became  Professor  of  Moral  Philoso- 
phy in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews ;  in 
1828  Professor  of  Theology  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh  ;  and  resigning  this  post  in 
1843,  became  Principal  of,  and  Primarius 
Professor  of  Theology  in,  the  institution  of 
the  Seceders  from  the  Church  of  Scotland, 
of  whom  he  was  the  leader;  found  dead  in 
his  bed,  1847.  He  was  the  authorof  The  Evi- 
dence and  Authority  of  the  Christian  Reve- 
lation, Edin.,  1814,  12mo;  A  Series  of  Dis- 
courses on  the  Christian  Religion  viewed  in 
Connexion  with  Modern  Astronomy,  1817, 
8vo ;  The  Christian  and  Civil  Economy  of 
Large  Towns,  Glasg.,  1821-26,  3  vols.  8vo ; 
Bridgewater  Treatise  on  the  Power,  Wisdom, 
and  Goodness  of  God,  as  Manifested  in  the 
Adaptation  of  External  Nature  to  the  Moral 
and  Intellectual  Constitution  of  Man,  Lond., 
1833,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  and  of  treatises  on  Polit- 
ical Economy,  etc.  Works,  Glasg.,  1836-42, 
25  vols.  12mo,and  Posthumous  Works,  edited 
by  his  Son-in-law,  Rev.  W.  Ilanna,  LL.D., 
Edin.,  1848-52,  9  vols.  8vo.  See  also  Dr. 
Ilanna's  Memoirs  of  Chalmers's  Life  and 
Writings,  Edin.,  1849-52,  4  vols.  8vo;  Me- 
moirs of  the  Christian  Labours  of  Dr.  Chal- 
mers, by  Francis  Wayland,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  and 
Burning  and  Shining  Lights,  by  Rev.  Robert 
Steel. 

"  As  specimens  of  sacred  eloquence,  sound  phi- 
losophy, and  as  impressive  exhibitions  of  evangeli- 
cal truth  and  duty,  his  works  will  doubtless  be  read 
ns  long  as  the  English  language  is  understood." — 
DR.  E.  WILLIAMS. 

INEFFICACY  OF  MERE  MORAL  PREACHING. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  record  the  effect 
of  an  actual  though  undesigned  experiment 
which  I  prosecuted  for  upwards  of  twelve 
years  amongst  you.  For  the  greater  part  of 
that  time  I  could  expatiate  on  the  meanness 
of  dishonesty,  on  the  villany  of  falsehood,  on 
the  despicable  arts  of  calumny, — in  a  word, 
upon  all  those  deformities  of  character  which 
awaken  the  natural  indignation  of  the  human 
heart  against  the  pests  and  the  disturbers 
of  human  society.  Now,  could  I,  upon  the 
strength  of  these  warm  expostulations,  have 
got  the  thief  to  give  up  his  stealing  and  the 
evil  speaker  his  censoriousness,  and  the  liar 
his  deviations  from  truth,  I  should  have  felt 
all  the  repose  of  one  who  has  gotten  his 
ultimate  object.  It  never  occurred  to  me 
that  all  this  might  have  been  done,  and  yet 
every  soul  of  every  hearer  have  remained  in 
full  alienation  from  God;  and  that  even 


THOMAS    CHALMERS. 


355 


could  I  have  established  in  the  bosom  of  one 
who  stole  such  a  principle  of  abhorrence  at 
the  meanness  of  dishonesty  that  he  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  steal  no  more,  he  might  still 
have  retained  a  heart  as  completely  un- 
turned to  God,  and  as  totally  unpossessed  by 
a  principle  of  love  to  him,  as  before.  In  a 
word,  though  1  might  have  made  him  a  more 
upright  and  honourable  man,  I  might  have 
left  him  as  destitute  of  the  essence  of  re- 
ligious principle  as  ever.  But  the  interest- 
ing fact  is,  that  during  the  whole  of  that 
period  in  which  I  made  no  attempt  against 
the  natural  enmity  of  the  mind  to  God, 
while  I  was  inattentive  to  the  way  in  which 
this  enmity  is  dissolved,  even  by  the  free 
offer  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  believing 
acceptance  on  the  other,  of  the  gospel  salva- 
tion ;  while  Christ,  through  whose  blood  the 
sinner,  who  by  nature  stands  afar  off,  is 
brought  near  to  the  heavenly  Lawgiver 
whom  he  has  offended,  was  scarcely  ever 
spoken  of,  or  spoken  of  in  such  a  way  as 
stripped  him  of  all  the  importance  of  his 
character  and  his  offices,  even  at  this  time 
I  certainly  did  press  the  reformations  of 
honour,  and  truth,  and  integrity  among  my 
people  ;  but  I  never  once  heard  of  any  such 
reformations  having  been  effected  amongst 
them.  If  there  was  anything  at  all  brought 
about  in  this  way,  it  was  more  than  ever  I  got 
any  account  of.  I  am  not  sensible  that  all 
the  vehemence  with  which  I  urged  the  vir- 
tues and  the  proprieties  of  social  life  had  the 
weight  of  a  feather  on  the  moral  habits  of 
my  parishioners.  And  it  was  not  till  I  got 
impressed  by  the  utter  alienation  of  the 
heart  in  all  its  desires  and  affections  from 
God ;  it  was  not  till  reconciliation  to  him 
became  the  distinct  and  the  prominent  ob- 
ject of  my  ministerial  exertions;  it  was  not 
till  I  took  the  Scriptural  way  of  laying  the 
method  of  reconciliation  before  them  ;  it  was 
not  till  the  free  offer  of  forgiveness  through 
the  blood  of  Christ  was  urged  upon  their  ac- 
ceptance, and  the  Holy  Spirit  given  through 
the  channel  of  Christ's  mediatorship  to  all 
who  ask  him,  was  set  before  them  as  the 
unceasing  object  of  their  dependence  and 
their  prayers ;  it  was  not,  in  one  word,  till 
the  contemplations  of  my  people  were  turned 
to  these  great  and  essential  elements  in  the 
business  of  a  soul  providing  for  its  interest 
with  God  and  the  concerns  of  its  eternity, 
that  I  ever  heard  of  any  of  those  subordi- 
nate reformations  which  I  aforetime  made 
the  earnest  and  the  zealous,  but,  I  am  afraid, 
at  the  same  time,  the  ultimate  object  of  my 
earlier  ministrations.  .  .  .-You  have  at  least 
taught  me  that  to  preach  Christ  is  the  only 
effective  way  of  preaching  morality  in  all  its 
branches  ;  and  out  of  your  humble  cottages 
have  I  gathered  a  lesson,  which  I  pray  God 


I  may  be  enabled  to  carry  with  all  its  sim- 
plicity into  a  wider  theatre,  and  to  bring 
with  all  the  power  of  its  subduing  efficacy 
upon  the  vices  of  a  more  crowded  popula- 
tion. 

Address  to  the  Inhabitants  of  Kilmany,  in 
his  Tracts. 

THE  INSIGNIFICANCE  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Though  the  earth  were  to  be  burned  up, 
though  the  trumpet  of  its  dissolution  were 
sounded,  though  yon  sky  were  to  pass  away 
as  a  scroll,  and  every  visible  glory  which 
the  finger  of  the  Divinity  has  inscribed  on 
it  were  extinguished  for  ever, — an  event  so 
awful  to  us,  and  to  every  world  in  our  vicin- 
ity, by  which  so  many  suns  would  be  extin- 
guished, and  so  many  varied  scenes  of  life 
and  population  would  rush  into  forgetful- 
ness, — what  is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the 
Almighty's  workmanship?  a  mere  shred, 
which,  though  scattered  into  nothing,  would 
leave  the  universe  of  God  one  entire  scene 
of  greatness  and  of  majesty.  Though  the 
earth  and  the  heavens  were  to  disappear, 
there  are  other  worlds  which  roll  afar  ;  the 
light  of  other  suns  shines  upon  them  ;  and 
the  sky  which  mantles  them  is  garnished 
with  other  stars.  Is  it  presumption  to  say 
that  the  moral  world  extends  to  these  dis- 
tant and  unknown  regions?  that  they  are 
occupied  with  people?  that  the  charities  of 
home  and  of  neighbourhood  flourish  there  ? 
that  the  praises  of  God  are  there  lifted  up, 
and  his  goodness  rejoiced  in?  that  there 
piety  has  its  temples  and  its  offerings?  and 
the  richness  of  the  divine  attributes  is  there 
felt  and  admired  by  intelligent  worshippers? 

And  what  is  this  world  in  the  immensity 
which  teems  with  them  ;  and  what  are  they 
who  occupy  it?  The  universe  at  large  would 
suffer  as  little  in  its  splendour  and  variety 
by  the  destruction  of  our  planet,  as  the 
verdure  and  sublime  magnitude  of  a  forest 
would  suffer  by  the  fall  of  a  single  leaf. 
The  leaf  quivers  on  the  branch  which  sup- 
ports it.  It  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  slightest 
accident.  A  breath  of  wind  tears  it  from  its 
stem,  and  it  lights  on  the  stream  of  water 
which  passes  underneath.  In  a  moment  of 
time  the  life,  which  we  know  by  the  micro- 
scope it  teems  with,  is  extinguished  ;  and 
an  occurrence  so  insignificant  in  the  eye  of 
man,  and  on  the  scale  of  his  observation, 
carries  in  it  to  the  myriads  which  people 
this  little  leaf  an  event  as  terrible  and  as 
decisive  as  the  destruction  of  a  world.  Now, 
on  the  grand  scale  of  the  universe,  we,  the 
occupiers  of  this  ball,  which  performs  its 
little  round  among  the  suns  and  the  systems 
that  astronomy  has  unfolded, — we  may  feel 
the  same  littleness  and  the  same  insecurity. 


356 


THOMAS   CHALMERS. 


We  differ  from  the  leaf  only  in  this  circum- 
stance, that  it  would  require  the  operation 
of  greater  elements  to  destroy  us.  But 
these  elements  exist.  The  fire  which  ranges 
Avithin  may  lift  its  devouring  energy  to  the 
surface  of  our  planet,  and  transform  it  into 
one  wide  and  wasting  volcano.  The  sudden 
formation  of  elastic  matter  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth — and  it  lies  within  the  agency  of 
known  substances  to  accomplish  this — may 
explode  it  into  fragments.  The  exhalation 
of  noxious  air  from  below  may  impart  a 
virulence  to  the  air  that  is  around  us;  it 
may  affect  the  delicate  proportion  of  its  in- 
gredients ;  and  the  whole  of  animated  nature 
may  wither  and  die  under  the  malignity  of 
a  tainted  atmosphere.  A.  blazing  comet 
may  cross  this  fated  planet  in  its  orbit,  and 
realise  all  the  terrors  which  superstition  has 
conceived  of  it.  We  cannot  anticipate  with 
precision  the  consequences  of  an  event  which 
every  astronomer  must  know  to  lie  within 
the  limits  of  chance  and  probability.  It 
may  hurry  our  globe  towards  the  sun,  or 
drag  it  to  the  outer  regions  of  the  planetary 
system,  or  give  a  new  axis  of  revolution, — 
and  the  effect,  which  I  shall  simply  announce 
without  explaining  it,  would  be  to  change 
the  place  of  the  ocejin,  and  bring  another 
mighty  flood  upon  our  islands  and  continents. 

These  are  changes  which  mav  happen  in 
a  single  instant  of  time,  and  against  which 
nothing  known  in  the  present  system  of 
things  provides  us  with  any  security.  They 
might  not  annihilate  the  earth,  but  they 
would  unpeople  it,  and  we,  who  tread  its 
surface  with  such  firm  and  assured  footsteps, 
are  at  the  mercy  of  devouring  elements, 
which,  if  let  loose  upon  us  by  the  hand  of 
the  Almighty,  would  spread  solitude,  and 
silence,  and  death  over  the  dominions  of  the 
world. 

Now,  it  is  this  littleness  and  insecurity 
which  make  the  protection  of  the  Almighty 
so  dear  to  us,  and  bring  with  such  emphasis 
to  every  pious  bosom  the  holy  lessons  of  hu- 
mility and  gratitude.  The  God  who  sitteth 
above,  and  presides  in  high  authority  over 
all  worlds,  is  mindful  of  man  ;  and  though 
at  this  moment  his  energy  is  felt  in  the  re- 
motest provinces  of  creation,  we  may  feel 
the  same  security  in  his  providence  as  if  we 
were  the  objects  of  his  undivided  care. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  bring  our  minds  up  to 
this  mysterious  agency.  But  such  is  the 
incomprehensible  fact,  that  the  same  Being 
wlipse  eye  is  abroad  over  the  whole  universe, 
gives  vegetation  to  every  blade  of  grass,  and 
motion  to  every  particle  of  blood  which  cir- 
culates through  the  veins  of  the  minutest 
animal ;  that  though  his  mind  takes  into  his 
comprehensive  grasp  immensity  and  .all  its 
wonders,  I  am  as  much  known  to  him  as  if 


I  were  the  single  object  of  his  attention  ; 
that  he  marks  all  my  thoughts ;  that  he 
gives  birth  to  every  feeling  and  every  move- 
ment within  me ;  and  that,  with  an  exercise 
of  power  which  I  can  neither  describe  nor 
comprehend,  the  same  God  who  sits  in  the 
highest  heaven,  and  reigns  over  the  glories 
of  the  firmament,  is  at  my  right  hand  to 
give  me  every  breath  which  I  draw,  and 
every  comfort  which  I  enjoy. 

CRUELTY  TO  ANIMALS. 

Man  is  the  direct  agent  of  a  wide  and  con- 
tinual distress  to  the  lower  animals,  and  the 
question  is.  Can  any  method  be  devised  for 
its  alleviation  ?  On  this  subject  that  Scrip- 
tural image  is  strikingly  realized,  "  The 
Avhole  inferior  creation  groaning  and  travail- 
ing together  in  pain,"  because  of  him.  It 
signifies  not  to  the  substantive  amount  of 
the  suffering  whether  this  be  prompted  by 
the  hardness  of  his  heart,  or  only  permitted 
through  the  heedlessness  of  his  mind.  In 
either  way  it  holds  true,  not  only  that  the 
arch-devourer  man  stands  pre-eminent  over 
the  fiercest  children  of  the  wilderness  as  an 
animal  of  prey,  but  that  for  his  lordly 
and  luxurious  appetite,  as  well  as  for  his 
service  or  merest  curiosity  and  amusement, 
Nature  must  be  ransacked  throughout  all 
her  elements.  Rather  than  forego  the  ver- 
iest gratifications  of  vanity,  he  will  wring 
them  from  the  anguish  of  wretched  and  ill- 
fated  creatures;  and  whether  for  the  indul- 
gence of  his  barbaric  sensuality  or  barbaric 
splendour,  can  stalk  paramount  over  the 
sufferings  of  that  prostrate  creation  which 
has  been  placed  beneath  his  feet.  That 
beauteous  domain  whereof  he  has  been  con- 
stituted the  terrestrial  sovereign  gives  out 
so  many  blissful  and  benignant  aspects; 
and  whether  we  look  to  its  peaceful  lakes, 
or  to  its  flowery  landscapes, .or  its  evening 
skies,  or  to  all  that  soft  attire  which  over- 
spreads the  hills  and  the  valleys,  lighted  up 
by  smiles  of  sweetest  sunshine,  and  where 
animals  disport  themselves  in  all  the  exu- 
berance of  gaiety, — this  surely  were  a  more 
befitting  scene  for  the  rule  of  clemency  than 
for  the  iron  rod  of  a  murderous  and  remorse- 
less tyrant. 

But  the  present  is  a  mysterious  world 
wherein  we  dwell.  It  still  bears  much  upon 
its  materialism  of  the  impress  of  Paradise. 
But  a  breath  from  the  air  of  Pandemonium 
has  gone  over  its  living  generations ;  and 
so  "  the  fear  of  man  and  the  dread  of  man 
is  now  upon  every  beast  of  the  earth,  and 
upon  every  fowl  of  the  air,  and  upon  all  that 
moveth  upon  the  earth,  and  upon  all  the 
fishes  of  the  sea  ;  into  man's  hands  are  they 
delivered  :  every  moving  thing  that  liveth  ia 


HORACE  BIN  NET. 


357 


meat  for  him  ;  yea,  even  as  the  green  herbs, 
there  have  been  given  to  him  all  things." 
Such  is  the  extent  of  his  jurisdiction,  and 
with  most  full  and  wanton  license  has  he 
revelled  among  its  privileges.  The  whole 
earth  labours  and  is  in  violence  because  of 
his  cruelties;  and  from  the  amphitheatre  of 
sentient  Nature  there  sounds  in  fancy's  e<ir 
the  bleat  of  one  wide  and  universal  suffer- 
ing,— a  dreadful  homage  to  the  power  of 
Nature's  constituted  lord. 

These  sufferings  are  really  felt.  The 
Leasts  of  the  field  are  not  so  many  automata 
without  sensation,  and  just  so  constructed 
as  to  give  forth  all  the  natural  signs  and  ex- 
pressions of  it.  Nature  hath  not  practised 
this  universal  deception  upon  our  species. 
These  poor  animals  just  look,  and  tremble, 
and  give  forth  the  very  indications  of  suffer- 
ing that  we  do.  Theirs  is  the  distinct  cry 
of  pain.  Theirs  is  the  unequivocal  physi- 
ognomy of  pain.  They  put  on  the  same  as- 
pect of  terror  on  the  demonstrations  of  a 
menaced  blow.  They  exhibit  the  same  dis- 
tortions of  agony  after  the  infliction  of  it. 
The  bruise,  or  the  burn,  or  the  fracture,  or 
the  deep  incision,  or  the  fierce  encounter 
with  one  of  equal  or  superior  strength,  just 
affects  them  similarly  to  ourselves.  Their 
Llood  circulates  as  ours.  They  have  pulsa- 
tions in  various  parts  of  the  body  as  ours. 
They  sicken,  and  they  grow  feeble  with  age, 
and,  finally,  they  die,  just  as  we  do.  They 
possess  the  same  feelings  ;  and,  what  exposes 
them  to  like  suffering  from  another  quarter, 
they  possess  the  same  instincts  with  our  own 
species.  The  lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps 
causes  the  wilderness  to  ring  aloud  with  the 
proclamation  of  her  wrongs ;  or  the  bird 
whose  little  household  has  been  stolen  fills 
and  saddens  all  the  grove  with  melodies  of 
deepest  pathos.  All  this  is  palpable  even  to 
the  general  and  unlearned  eye  :  and  when 
the  physiologist  lays  open  the  recesses  of 
their  system  by  means  of  that  scalpel  under 
whose  operation  they  just  shrink  and  are 
convulsed  as  any  living  subject  of  our  own 
species,  there  stands  forth  to  view  the  same 
sentient  apparatus,  and  furnished  with  the 
same  conductors  for  the  transmission  of 
feeling  to  every  minutest  pore  upon  the  sur- 
face. Theirs  is  unmixed  and  unmitigated 
pain,  the  agonies  of  martyrdom  without  the 
alleviation  of  the  hopes  and  the  sentiments 
whereof  they  are  incapable.  When  they 
lay  them  down  to  die,  their  only  fellowship 
is  with  suffering:  for  in  the  prison-house 
of  their  beset  and  bounded  faculties  there 
can  no  relief  be  afforded  by  communion  with 
other  interests  or  other  things.  The  atten- 
tion does  not  lighten  their  distress  as  it  does 
that  of  man,  by  carrying  off  his  spirit  from 
that  existing  pungency  and  pressure  which 


might  else  be  overwhelming.  There  is  but 
room  in  their  mysterious  economy  for  one 
inmate,  and  that  is  the  absorbing  sense  of 
their  own  single  and  concentrated  anguish. 
And  so  in  that  bed  of  torment  whereon  the 
wounded  animal  lingers  and  expires,  there 
is  an  unexplored  depth  and  intensity  of  suf- 
fering which  the  poor  dumb  animal  itself 
cannot  tell,  and  against  which  it  can  offer 
no  remonstrance, — an  untold  and  unknown 
amount  of  wretchedness  of  which  no  articu- 
late voice  gives  utterance.  But  there  is  an 
eloquence  in  its  silence;  and  the  very  shroud 
which  disguises  it  only  serves  to  aggravate 
its  horrors. 


HORACE    BINNEY,    LL.D., 

born  in  Philadelphia,  January_4,  1780,  grad- 
uated at  Harvard  University,  1797,  died 
August  12,  1875,  was  long  distinguished  as 
one  of  the  most  eminent  lawyers  of  the 
United  States.  Publications:  Reports  of 
Cases  Argued  and  Determined  in  the  Su- 
preme Court  of  Pennsylvania  from  1790  to 
1814,  Phila.,  1809-15,  6  vols.  8vo  ;  Eulogium 
upon  lion.  AVilliam  Tilghman,  1827,  8vo  (re- 
printed with  Eulogium  upon  Chief  Justice 
Marshall,  1861,  8vo)  ;  Eulogium  upon  Chief 
Justice  Marshall,  1836,  8vo  (see  above)  ; 
Argument  in  the  Case  of  Vidal  v.  the  City 
of  Philadelphia,  1844,  8vo  (Girard  AVill 
Case);  Murphy  v.  Hubert:  Review  of  the 
Opinion  of  the  Supreme  Court  that  the 
Pennsylvania  Act  of  Frauds  and  Perjuries 
does  not  extend  to  Equitable  Estates,  1848, 
8vo  ;  Centennial  Address  before  the  Phila- 
delphia Contributionship,  on  the  History 
and  Principles  of  that  Insurance  Company, 
and  of  Fire  Insurance  in  the  United  States 
1852,  8vo;  Bushrod  Washington,  1858,  8vo; 
The  Leaders  of  the  Old  Bar  of  Philadelphia, 
1859.  8vo  ;  An  Inquiry  into  the  Formation 
of  Washington's  Farewell  Address,  1859, 
8vo ;  The  Privilege  of  the  Writ  of  Habeas 
Corpus  under  the  Constitution,  1862,  8vo, 
Second  Part,  1862,  8vo,  Third  Part,  1865, 
8vo.  His  address  upon  John  Sergeant  will 
be  found  in  Wallace's  Circuit  Reports,  vol.  ii. 

"  Mr.  Binney  is  the  head  in  the  bar  of  the  United 
States." — CHARLES  SUMNEK  AND  W.  M.  EVARTS 
TO  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE. 

"  At  any  time  he  would  have  been  considered  a. 
most  fit  person  to  be  placed  on  the  bench  [which 
he  refused].  We  regret  that  he  never  was:  his 
mind  is  eminently  judicial,  and  his  general  learn- 
ing and  accomplishments  would  have  adorned  the 
professional  research  which  he  would  have  brought 
to  the  decision  of  all  questions,  while  his  high  per- 
sonal character  would  have  added  authority  to  his 
judgments." — SIR  JOHN  T.  COLERIDGE:  (London) 
Qnai:  Jteview,  April,  ISfiO. 

"I  sincerely  wish  Mr.  Binney  would  comply 
with  your  request,  and  collect  bis  speeches,  and 


358 


HORACE  BINNEY. 


such  arguments  as  are  adapted  for  the  general 
reorder,  in  a  volume.  It  would  be  as  valuable  a 
one  of  the  kind  as  was  ever  published.  I  have 
often  said  that  I  had  never  listened  to  a  speaker 
who  treated  a  politico-legal  question  so  exhaust- 
ively as  Mr.  Binney.  Of  all  the  men  I  have 
known,  I  would  have  preferred  him  as  the  suc- 
cessor of  Ch.  J.  Marshall." — EDWARD  EVERETT 
TO  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE,  Boston,  1st  Feb.,  1864. 

WHO  WAS  THE  AUTHOR  OF  WASHINGTON'S 
FAREWELL  ADDRESS? 

No  one,  who  has  formed  a  just  estimate 
of  that  great  man,  can  imagine  that  he  re- 
garded his  personal  dignity,  or  his  personal 
value  and  efficiency,  and,  least  of  all,  his 
true  claims  to  respect  and  reverence,  as  re- 
duced or  compromised,  in  the  least  degree, 
l>y  his  asking  the  aid  of  a  friend,  who  had 
been  his  trusted  minister,  to  arrange  his 
thoughts,  or  to  improve  their  expression, 
upon  any  public  subject  on  which  he  felt  it 
his  duty  to  speak.  He  was  so  high-spirited 
and  sensitive,  as  well  as  sincere,  that  the 
glimpse  of  such  a  thought  would  have  turned 
him  aside,  as  certainly,  perhaps,  as  any  man 
that  ever  lived.  The  resort  to  such  assist- 
ance was  all  the  more  likely  to  be  made,  be- 
cause no  one  was  more  justly  entitled  to  feel 
conscious  that  his  powers  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression were  such  as  to  place  him  on  a  per- 
fect level  with  his  office  and  duties  ;  though 
on  occasions  when  he  might  encounter  criti- 
cism from  enemies  or  adversaries, — and  he 
had  them  both, — he  may  have  thought  that 
his  active  life  had  not  permitted  him  to  be- 
come so  sure  of  the  various  colours  and 
shades  of  language,  or  so  intimate  with  the 
best  forms  of  composition,  as  to  enable  him 
to  select  with  facility,  in  the  face  of  such 
critics,  the  plan  and  words  which  would  give 
the  most  certain  and  effective  expression  to 
his  thoughts,  and  the  best  protection  against 
their  perversion. 

It  is  a  small  question  to  raise,  after  the 
death  of  two  great  public  men,  neither  of 
whom,  in  his  lifetime,  suffered  the  breath 
of  dishonour  to  condense  upon  his  garments  ; 
and  each  of  whom,  in  his  claims  to  a  death- 
less reputation,  could  have  referred  to  a 
thousand  proofs  that  are  stronger  than  the 
Farewell  Address,  or  the  original  draught 
of  it.  But  having  been  raised,  through  ac- 
cident or  design,  through  levity  or  malevo- 
lence, my  admiration  of  each  has  made  me 
unwilling  to  withhold  the  humble  labour  of 
putting  it  in  its  proper  light  in  regard  to  both. 

Having  now  concluded  this  Inquiry,  after 
placing  in  the  body  of  it,  or  pointing  out  in 
the  documents  it  refers  to,  ample  and  au- 
thentic materials  from  which  every  reader 
may  form  an  opinion  for  himself,  there  is 


little  occasion  for  expressing  my  own  upon 
the  whole  matter.  I  must  avoid,  however, 
the  appearance  of  affectation,  by  suppressing 
it  altogether  at  the  conclusion,  after  having, 
no  doubt,  intimated  portions  of  it  incident- 
ally, and  sometimes  perhaps  unintentionally, 
in  the  course  of  the  essay. 

I  have  not  the  least  intention,  however,  of 
either  instituting  or  leading  to,  a  comparison 
of  the  respective  values  of  the  several  con- 
tributions to  the  Farewell  Address.  If  that 
question  shall  be  raised,  of  which  I  should 
think  there  is  little  probability,  at  least 
among  men  who  have  sufficient  sentiment 
to  regard  that  address  as  the  testament  of 
Washington,  and  Hamilton  as  the  inditer 
of  his  Will,  the  comparison  must  have  dif- 
ferent results,  as  it  shall  be  made  upon 
either  political,  or  moral,  or  literary  grounds ; 
for  values  of  these  descriptions  are  not  com- 
parable altogether  in  their  nature,  one  or 
more  of  them  passing  by  weight,  adjusted 
upon  exact  principles,  and  one  at  least  by  a 
variable  and  rather  arbitrary  scale  of  taste 
or  convention.  Even  the  more  ponderable 
parts  are  by  no  means  on  one  side  only. 
My  disposition  is  to  describe,  and  not  to 
compare. 

Washington  was  undoubtedly  the  original 
designer  of  the  Farewell  Address  ;  and  not 
merely  by  general  or  indefinite  intimation, 
but  by  the  suggestion  of  perfectly  definite 
subjects,  of  an  end  or  object,  and  of  a  gen- 
eral outline,  the  same  which  the  paper  now 
exhibits.  His  outline  did  not  appear  so  dis- 
tinctly in  his  own  plan,  because  the  subjects 
were  not  so  arranged  in  it  as  to  show  that 
they  were  all  comprehended  within  a  regular 
and  proportional  figure ;  but  when  they 
came  to  be  so  arranged  in  the  present  Ad- 
dress, the  scope  of  the  whole  design  is  seen 
to  be  contained  within  the  limits  he  intended, 
and  to  fill  them.  The  subjects  were  traced 
by  him  with  adequate  precision,  though 
without  due  connection,  with  little  expan- 
sion, and  with  little  declared  bearing  of  the 
parts  upon  each  other,  or  towards  a  common 
centre:  but  they  may  now  be  followed  with 
ease  in  their  proper  relations  and  bearing  in 
the  finished  paper,  such  only  excepted  us  lie 
gave  his  final  consent  and  approbation  to 
exclude. 

In  the  most  common  and  prevalent  sense 
of  the  word  among  literary  men,  this  may 
not,  perhaps,  be  called  authorship  ;  but  in 
the  primary  etymological  sense, — the  quality 
of  imparting  growth  or  increase, — there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  is  so.  By  derivation 
from  himself,  the  Farewell  Address  speaks 
the  very  mind  of  Washington.  The  funda- 
mental thoughts  and  principles  were  his  ;  but 
he  was  not  the  composer  or  writer  of  the 
paper. 


JOHN  BIRD   SUMNER. 


359 


Hamilton  was,  in  the  prevalent  literary 
sense,  the  composer  and  writer  of  the  paper. 
The  occasional  adoption  of  Washington's 
language  does  not  materially  take  from  the 
justice  of  this  attribution, — the  new  plan,  the 
different  form  proceeded  from  Hamilton. 
He  was  the  author  of  it,  he  put  together  the 
thoughts  of  Washington  in  a  new  order,  and 
with  a  new  bearing ;  and  while,  as  often  as 
he  could,  he  used  the  words  of  Washington, 
his  own  language  was  the  general  vehicle, 
both  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  for  the  ex- 
pansion and  combination  of  AVashington's 
thoughts.  Hamilton  developed  the  thoughts 
of  Washington,  and  corroborated  them, — in- 
cluded several  cognate  subjects,  and  added 
many  effective  thoughts  from  his  own  mind, 
and  united  all  into  one  chain  by  the  links  of 
his  masculine  logic. 

The  main  trunk  was  Washington's ;  the 
branches  were  stimulated  by  Hamilton  ;  and 
the  foliage,  which  was  not  exuberant,  was 
altogether  his ;  and  he,  more  than  Wash- 
ington, pruned  and  nipped  off,  with  severe 
discrimination,  whatever  was  excessive, — 
that  the  tree  might  bear  the  fruits  which 
Washington  desired,  and  become  his  full  and 
fit  representative. 

This  is  the  impression  which  the  proofs 
have  made  upon  me  ;  and  I  am  not  conscious 
of  the  least  bias  or  partiality  in  receiving 
it  from  them.  It  is  quite  impossible,  I  think, 
to  divide  the  work  by  anything  like  a  sharp 
line  between  Washington  and  Hamilton  ; 
but  there  is  less  difficulty  in  representing 
the  character  of  their  contributions,  by  lan- 
guage in  some  degree  figurative,  such  as,  in 
one  instance,  I  have  used  already. 

We  have  explicit  authority  for  regarding 
the  whole  Man  as  compounded  of  BODY, 
SOUL,  and  SPIRIT.  The  Farewell  Address, 
in  a  lower  and  figurative  sense,  is  likewise 
so  compounded.  If  these  were  divisible  and 
distributable,  we  might,  though  not  with  full 
and  exact  propriety,  allot  the  SOUL  to  Wash- 
ington, and  the  SPIRIT  to  Hamilton.  The 
elementary  body  is  Washington's  also;  but 
Hamilton  has  developed  and  fashioned  it, 
and  he  has  symmetrically  formed  and  ar- 
ranged the  members,  to  give  combined  and 
appropriate  action  to  the  whole.  This  would 
point  to  an  allotment  of  the  soul  and  the 
elementary  body  to  Washington,  and  of  the 
arranging,  developing,  and  informing  spirit 
to  Hamilton, — the  same  characteristic  which 
is  found  in  the  great  works  he  devised  for 
the  country,  and  are  still  the  chart  by  which 
his  department  of  the  government  is  ruled. 
The  FAREWELL  ADDRESS  itself,  while  in  one 
respect — the  question  of  its  authorship — it 
has  had  the  fate  of  the  Eikon  Basilike,  in 
another  it  has  been  more  fortunate  ;  for  no 
Iconodastes  has  appeared,  or  ever  can  ap- 


pear, to  break  or  mar  the  image  and  super- 
scription of  Washington,  which  it  bears,  or 
to  rally  the  principles  of  moral  and  political 
action  in  the  government  of  a  Nation,  which 
are  reflected  from  it  with  his  entire  approval, 
and  were  in  fundamental  points  dictated  by 
himself. 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Formation  of  Wash- 
ington's Farewell  Address,  167-171. 


JOHN    BIRD    SUMNER,  D.D., 

born  at  Kenilworth,  1780,  became  Canon  of 
Durham,  1820,  Bishop  of  Chester,  182?, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  1848,  and  died 
1802.  He  was  the  author  of  an  Essay  on 
Prophecies,  Lond.,  1802,  8vo ;  Apostolical 
Preaching,  1815,  etc.,  8vo;  Treatise  on  the 
Records  of  the  Creation,  etc.,  1816,  etc.,  2 
vols.  8vo ;  Evidence  of  Christianity,  etc., 
1824,  etc.,  8vo  ;  Practical  Expositions  in  the 
Form  of  Lectures,  St.  Matthew  to  St.  Jude, 
8  vols.  8vo,  also  in  16  vols.  12mo  (Abridg- 
ment by  the  Rev.  G.  Wilkinson,  4  vols. 
12mo) ;  Charges,  1829-44,  1844,  8vo.  He 
also  published  four  volumes  of  sermons. 

"  All  his  works  are  distinguished  by  their  ear- 
nest piety,  their  depth  of  thought,  and  elegance 
of  language." — CHARLKS  KNIGHT:  Haif- Hours 
with  the  Best  Authors,  1850:  Second  Quarter,  239. 

THE  CHRISTIAN'S  DEPENDENCE  UPON  His 
REDEEMER. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  contemplate  the 
Christian  character  as  described  in  the  Gos- 
pel, and  held  up  to  our  imitation,  without 
acknowledging  an  excellence  truly  divine. 
This  may  justly  be  attributed  to  that  reli- 
gion which,  if  it  were  universally  obeyed, 
would  extinguish  all  the  vices  which  dis- 
turb human  society  and  disgrace  human 
nature,  would  subdue  pride,  violence,  self- 
ishness, and  sensuality,  and  introduce  in 
their  stead  humility,  charity,  temperance, 
mutual  forbearance  ;  would  repress  all  that 
eager  desire  after  temporal  advantages  which 
excites  evil  passions  through  the  collision 
of  interests;  and  would  unite  all  men  in  one 
pursuit, — the  only  pursuit  in  which  all  could 
unite,  and  yet  assist  instead  of  counteract- 
ing each  other, — that  of  studying  to  do 
the  will  of  God  for  the  sake  of  everlasting 
happiness. 

Were  men  to  presume  so  far  as  to  invent 
a  test  by  which  the  divine  origin  of  a  religion 
should  be  tried,  I  can  imagine  none  more  un- 
exceptionable than  its  tendency  to  overcome 
what  is  acknowledged  to  be  evil  in  human 
nature,  and  to  raise  in  an  immeasurable  de- 
gree the  standard  of  happiness.  I  can  im- 
agine no  eulogy  more  complete  than  this : 


360 


JOHN  BIRD   SUMNER. 


that  if  all  men  lived  up  to  the  spirit  of  the 
Gospel  few  sources  of  misery  would  remain 
in  the  world,  and  even  that  remainder  would 
receive  the  utmost  alleviation. 

The  only  objection  which  has  ever  been 
urged  against  the  true  Christian  character 
derives  whatever  force  it  has  from  the  dis- 
obedience of  mankind.  It  has  been  said  that 
the  meekness,  the  patience  under  injuries, 
which  it  prescribes,  is  incompatible  with  our 
condition  on  earth,  and  would  expose  the 
man  who  should  strictly  comply  with  its 
demands  to  indignities  and  wrongs  without 
remedy.  But  if  this  were  true,  which  it  is 
not  to  any  material  extent,  as  experience 
proves,  even  under  the  present  circum- 
stances of  Christianity,  it  would  afford  no 
argument  against  a  religion  which  requires 
abstinence  from  injuries  no  loss  positively 
than  patience  under  them.  Would  it  im- 
prove the  condition  of  mankind  if  resistance 
were  permitted  where  patience  is  now  en- 
joined? Or  would  it  be  consistent  with  the 
Divine  Author  of  the  religion  to  annul  one 
of  his  laws  because  another  was  broken  ? 
Let  a  human  legislator  sometimes  conde- 
scend, if  necessary,  to  the  refractory  subjects 
with  whom  he  has  to  deal.  But  it  is  not 
surely,  for  God  to  yield  to  the  passions  which 
rebel  against  his  will,  but  to  ordain  where 
their  proud  waves  shall  be  stayed.  In  no 
other  way  can  the  standard  of  human  nature 
be  raised  and  improved. 

An  objection  more  plausibly  reasonable 
might  perhaps  be  alleged  against  the  Chris- 
tian character,  grounded  on  the  impossibil- 
ity of  reaching  and  sustaining  it,  not  only 
from  the  opposition  of  the  surrounding  world, 
but  from  the  opposition  of  the  natural  heart ; 
which,  we  confess,  nay,  avow,  rises  more  or 
less  against  all  the  qualities  which  form  the 
consistent  Christian.  The  answer  to  this 
objection  is  conveyed  in  these  words, — 
"  Abide  in  me,  and  I  in  you.  As  the  branch 
cannot  bear  fruit  of  itself,  unless  it  abide  in 
the  vine  ;  no  more  can  ye,  except  ye  abide 
in  me."  The  Christian  has  on  his  side  one 
who  is  greater  than  his  natural  heart.  lie 
"  can  do  all  things  through  Christ  that 
strengthened!  him."  As  there  is  an  insep- 
arable connection  between  the  faith  and 
practice  of  a  Christian,  so  is  there  likewise 
a  mystical  union  between  the  Christian  and 
his  Redeemer,  the  "  author  and  finisher  of 
his  faith,"  which  enables  him  both  to  "will 
and  to  do  of  his  good  pleasure."  This  is 
described  by  a  strong  but  clear  and  most  in- 
telligible metaphor,  when  it  is  compared  to 
the  union  between  a  tree  and  its  branches. 
It  is  not  pretended  that  our  natural  unaided 
strength  would  enable  us  to  comply  with 
the  demands  of  the  Gospel.  Our  Lord  ex- 
pressly declares  to  his  disciples,  "  Without 


me  ye  can  do  nothing."  But  he  promises 
such  assistance  of  his  Spirit  from  above  as 
shall  make  them  both  willing  and  able  in 
"  the  day  of  his  power."  He  compares 
them  to  the  branch  which,  itself  separated 
at  a  distance  from  the  root  and  the  soil 
which  nourishes  the  root,  is  made  fruitful 
by  the  juices  which  the  stem  supplies.  1m t 
can  bear  no  fruit  from  the  time  that  it  is 
severed  from  the  parent  tree.  "  Abide  in 
me,  and  I  in  you.  As  the  branch  cannot 
bear  fruit  of  itself,  unless  it  abide  in  the 
vine ;  no  more  can  ye,  except  ye  abide  in 
me." 

But  as  the  expression  which  exhorts  us  to 
"abide  in  Christ"  is  confessedly  figurative, 
it  becomes  necessary  to  consider  in  what 
way  we  may  be  said  to  comply  with  the  con- 
dition on  which  our  power  of  obedience  de- 
pends. WThat  is  it  "to  abide  in  Christ"? 
It  is  to  live  in  habitual  faith  in  his  redemp- 
tion, and  in  habitual  reliance  upon  his 
Spirit. 

And  first,  as  to  habitual  faith.  FAITH  is  a 
word  so  familiar  to  our  ears  and  our  lips, 
that  we  may  be  easily  misled  into  a  ground- 
less belief  that  we  understand,  nay,  adopt  it, 
in  its  full  and  scriptural  acceptation.  But 
trace  it  back  to  its  original  meaning,  and  by 
that  signification  try  your  feelings  with  re- 
spect to  Christ.  That  signification  is  such 
a  belief  or  persuasion  as  leads  to  trust,  reli- 
ance, confidence.  And  if  we  consider  the 
offer  or  call  of  Christ,  we  shall  perceive  that 
the  trust  or  confidence  which  he  requires 
may  be  justly  termed  "abiding  in  him." 
He  came  into  the  world  to  deliver  mankind 
from  the  darkness  of  ignorance  and  sin,  i.e., 
from  spiritual  blindness  and  alienation  from 
God,  a  state  inconsistent  with  their  salva- 
tion. He  came  to  redeem  them  from  pun- 
ishment; to  renew  their  hearts  by  his  Holy 
Spirit;  to  assign  them  rules  for  such  a  life 
as  God  approves.  And  in  the  fulfilment  of 
this  purpose  his  language  is,  Ye  who  live  in 
the  world,  the  posterity  of  Adam,  are  "ene- 
mies to  God"  (who  is  a  God  of  holiness),  "  by 
wicked  works."  This  enmity,  this  wicked- 
ness, he  does  not  punish  now,  but  after 
death  there  is  judgment,  when  he  will  in- 
flict "  indignation  and  wrath,  tribulation 
and  anguish,  upon  every  soul  of  man  that 
doeth  evil."  But  trust  in  -me,  and  I  will, 
for  you,  appease  that  wrath,  and  disarm 
that  indignation  ;  cleave  to  me,  and  follow 
the  commandments  which  I  set  before  you  : 
then  will  I  lead  you  safely  through  the 
"valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,"  by  which 
you  must  pass  to  an  eternal  world,  and  will 
present  you  pure  and  faultless  before  the 
throne  of  your  Almighty  Judge. 

Now,  an  offer  of  this  nature  precludes  the 
idea  of  a  passive  or  hesitating  reception.  It 


RICHARD    CHENEVIX. 


3d 


is  a  personal  offer,  which  must  be  personally 
accepted  or  personally  rejected.  It  requires, 
first,  that  we  see  our  necessity,  and  are 
therefore  ready  to  apply  for  help ;  that  we 
feel  our  desert  of  punishment,  and  therefore 
desire  a  ransom.  But  it  requires  more  also: 
for  one  might  feel  his  necessity,  and  wisli 
for  relief,  and  yet  doubt  the  power  of  him 
who  offered  it:  it  requires  therefore  a  firm 
persuasion  that  he  who  makes  the  offer  is 
able  to  make  the  offer  good ;  and,  in  the 
special  case  of  Christ,  it  requires  us  to  be- 
lieve that  he  can  and  will  save  us;  has  ran- 
somed us ;  is  able  to  bestow  on  us  his  Holy 
Spirit,  and  to  prepare  us  for  an  eternal 
kingdom,  into  which  he  will  hereafter  re- 
ceive us  if  we  follow  him  obediently  here. 

Such  is  the  corresponding  movement  on 
our  parts  by  which  his  gracious  offer  must 
lie  met;  such  is  the  willing  hand  which  we 
must  stretch  out  to  receive  the  proffered 
boon,  or  it  is  proposed  to  us  in  vain. 
''  Faith  is  not  merely  a  speculation,  but  a 
practical  acknowledgment  of  Jesus  as  the 
Christ;  an  effort  and  motion  of  the  mind 
towards  God  ;  when  the  sinner,  convinced 
of  sin,  accepts  with  thankfulness  the  prof- 
fered terms  of  pardon,  and  in  humble  confi- 
dence applying  individually  to  himself  the 
benefit  of  the  general  atonement,"  in  the  ele- 
vated language  of  a  venerable  father  of  the 
church,  u  drinks  deep  of  the  stream  which 
flows  from  the  Redeemer's  side."  The  ef- 
fect is,  that  in  a  little  time  he  is  filled  with 
that  "  perfect  love  of  God  which  casteth  out 
fear." — he  cleaves  to  God  with  the  entire 
affection  of  the  soul.  And  the  question, 
whether  we  are  abiding  in  Christ,  comes  to 
this:  Have  we  that  confidence,  that  trust, 
that  dependence  upon  him,  which  induces 
us  to  accept  his  offer;  and  are  we  ready  to 
commit  ourselves — I  should  rather  say,  have 
we  committed  ourselves — into  his  hands, 
both  for  this  world  and  the  next,  instead  of 
taking  our  chance  for  what  may  come,  or 
instead  of  trusting  to  our  own  power,  our 
own  goodness,  our  own  views  of  religion? 
Then  we  can  say  with  the  Apostle,  "  I  know 
in  whom  I  have  believed  ;  and  that  he  is 
able  to  keep  that  which  I  have  committed 
to  him  against  that  day."  This  acceptance 
of  his  offer  is  FAITH  ;  and  to  have  so  ac- 
cepted it  as  to  be  habitually  living  by  it, 
and  depending  on  it,  is  to  "  abide  in  Christ:" 
then  he  is  to  the  Christian  what  the  stem  is 
to  the  branch,  the  sole  support  on  which  it 
leans. 


RICHARD    CHENEVIX, 

an  eminent  chemist,  a  native  of  Ireland,  died 
1830,  was  author  of  Dramatic  Poems,  1801, 


8vo ;  Chemical  Nomenclature,  1802,  12mo; 
Mineralogical  Systems.  1811,  8vo;  The  Man- 
tuan  Rivals,  a  Comedy  ;  Henry  Seventh,  a 
Historical  Tragedy,  1812,  8vo ;  An  Essay 
upon  National  Character,  1832,  2  vols.  8vo 
(posthumous) ;  and  Chemical  Papers  in  Phil- 
osophical Transactions,  Nicholson's  Jour- 
nal, and  Transactions  of  the  Irish  Academy. 
See  Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1812,  and 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  June,  1830,  562 
(Obituary). 

THE  INDUSTRY  OF  THE  BRITISH  NATION. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  fortunate 
circumstances  in  the  above  statement  is,  that 
the  domestic  and  proper  industry  of  English- 
men— the  produce  of  their  hands  and  minds 
— furnishes  four-fifths  of  their  exports.  Of 
all  the  modes  of  traffic,  the  most  advanta- 
geous would  be  for  one  and  the  same  people 
to  perform  every  operation  relating  to  it;  that 
is  to  say,  for  them  to  grow  the  raw  material, 
and  fabricate  it  at  home,  and  then  export  the 
manufactured  commodity  in  ships  of  their 
own  construction,  and  manned  by  them- 
selves. To  complete  this  process  in  all  its 
stages  has  not  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  empire 
extensively  engaged  in  industry;  nor  could 
it  be  possible  for  the  same  country  to  produce 
all  the  materials  employed  in  manufactures, 
some  of  which  belong  to  the  coldest,  others 
to  the  warmest  climates.  But  if  the  soil  be 
occupied  in  producing  what  it  can  best  pro- 
duce, and  if  the  returns  of  trade  bring  home 
other  materials,  the  advantage  is  nearly  as 
great;  and  the  rationale  of  industry  is  fully 
satisfied  by  the  proportion  of  labour  which 
remains  to  be  bestowed  upon  them.  Now, 
though  England  does  not  produce  the  silks 
which  she  weaves,  or  the  dyes  with  which 
she  colours  them  ;  though  all  the  wool  which 
she  spins,  all  the  iron  which  she  converts 
into  steel,  may  not  be  of  native  growth,  yet 
her  commercial  superiority  enables  her  to 
procure  those  primary  substances  at  as  low 
a  price  as  they  would  cost  her  were  they  the 
produce  of  the  land.  It  is,  then,  with  great 
wisdom  that  she  has  turned  her  attention, 
not  to  compel  an  unpropitious  soil  and  cli- 
mate to  yield  the  drugs  and  spices  of  the 
East,  but  to  import  them  ;  not  to  work  un- 
grateful ores  into  imperfect  instruments,  but 
to  purchase  the  crude  matter  wherever  it  is 
best,  and  to  bestow  upon  it  that  which  gives 
it  value, — labour.  Neither  is  she  the  only 
country  that  has  pursued  the  same  prudent 
system  :  almost  all  commercial  nations  have 
adopted  it.  But  there  never  did  exist  an 
empire  which  bestowed  so  much  of  its  own 
— of  itself — upon  the  raw  productions  of 
nature,  and  spun  so  large  a  portion  of  its 
wealth  out  of  the  unsubstantial,  intangible, 


362 


DANIEL   WEBSTER. 


abstract  commodity,  composed  of  time,  in- 
tellect, and  exertion,  and  which  is  market- 
able only  in  the  staples  of  civilization.  In 
the  ten  millions  of  foreign  or  colonial  pro- 
duce which  England  exported  in  1823,  there 
•was  much  important  labour, — much  nauti- 
cal skill  and  industry;  but  in  the  remaining 
forty  millions,  there  was  not  merely  four 
times,  but  perhaps  sixty  times,  as  much 
happy  application  of  time,  intellect,  and  ex- 
ertion ;  and  they  who  appreciate  her  by  her 
colonies,  and  by  her  mere  transport  of  ex- 
ternal produce,  have  a  feeble  idea  of  her 
state  of  improvement. 

Could  any  single  principle  suffice  to  desig- 
nate, with  absolute  precision,  the  difference 
between  civilization  and  luxury,  it  might  be 
the  value  of  time.  Time  must  be  estimated 
by  what  it  produces ;  and  superior  under- 
standing can  make  a  minute  bring  more 
blessings  to  mankind  than  ages  in  the  hands 
of  idleness.  Neither  is  it  by  the  selfish  en- 
joyments of  luxury  that  our  moments  can 
be  rendered  precious,  but  by  the  acquisition 
and  application  of  intellectual  force,  and 
their  productive  power  is  the  justest  meas- 
ure of  civilization. 

Now,  the  productive  power  of  time  must 
be  estimated  by  the  quantity  and  the  quality, 
— by  the  usefulness  and  the  multitude  of  its 
productions.  The  most  civilized  and  en- 
lightened nation  is  that  whose  industry  can 
pour  upon  the  world  the  greatest  proportion 
of  the  best  and  most  valuable  commodities 
in  the  shortest  time. 

From  the  rapidity  with  which  such  a  na- 
tion fabricates  good  things,  is  derived  a 
necessary  appendage  to  this  mode  of  appre- 
ciating civilization, — cheapness.  It  must 
not,  however,  be  supposed  that  this  is  un- 
limited, or  that  a  low  price  of  manufactures 
can  compensate  for  their  mediocrity.  Civil- 
ization does  not  make  bad  things  for  noth- 
ing: this  is  the  work  of  idleness,  or  of 
luxury  affecting  to  be  industrious.  The  lent 
of  civilization  is  to  make  good  things  cheap. 

It  is  a  proud  and  true  distinction,  that,  in 
this  island,  the  average  consumption  of 
woollens  per  head  is  more  than  double  of 
what  it  is  in  the  most  favoured  country  of 
Europe  ;  and  more  than  four  times  as  much 
as  the  average  of  the  entire  Continent,  in- 
cluding even  its  coldest  region. 

An  Essay  upon  National  Character. 


DANIEL  WEBSTER,  LL.D., 

an  eminent  American  orator  and  statesman, 
•was  born  in  Salisbury,  New  Hampshire, 
January  18,  1782;  graduated  at  Dartmouth 
College,  1801 ;  was  admitted  to  the  Suffolk 


bar,  1805;  removed  to  Boston,  1816;  M.C. 
1813-17  and  1823-27,  and  U.  S.  Senator 
1828-41  and  1845-50  ;  visited  England, 
Scotland,  and  France,  1839 ;  Secretary  of 
State  under  Harrison,  1841,  under  Tyler, 
1841-43,  and  under  Fillmore,  July  20,  1850, 
until  his  death,  at  his  seat  at  Marshfield, 
Mass.,  October  24,  1852.  His  Speeches  and 
Forensic  Arguments  were  published  in  Bos- 
ton, 1830-35-43,  3  vols.  8vo,  8th  edit.,  1841  ; 
his  Diplomatic  and  Official  Papers  whilst 
Secretary  of  State  were  issued  in  New  York, 
1848,  8vo ;  and  The  Speeches,  Forensic  Ar- 
guments, and  Diplomatic  Papers,  with  a 
Notice  of  his  Life  and  Writings,  by  lion. 
Edward  Everett,  were  published  at  Boston, 
1851,  6  vols.  8vo,  large  paper,  royal  8vo, 
llth  edit.,  1858,  new  edit.,  1864.  These  vol- 
umes should  be  accompanied  by  The  Pri- 
vate Correspondence  (1798-1852)  of  Daniel 
AVcbster,  Edited  by  [his  son]  Fletcher  Web- 
ster, Boston,  1857,  2  vols.  8vo,  large  paper, 
royal  8vo,  4th  edit.,  1857,  new  edit.,  1864,  and 
The  Life  and  Letters  of  Daniel  Webster,  by 
George  Ticknor  Curtis  [one  of  his  literary 
executors],  N.Y.,  1870, 2  vols.Svo;  The  Great 
Orations  and  Speeches,  Boston,  1879,  r.  8vo. 
"  The  best  speeches  of  Webster  are  among  the 
very  best  that  I  am  acquainted  with  in  the  whole 
range  of  oratory,  ancient  or  modern.  They  have 
always  appeared  to  me  to  belong  to  that  simple 
and  manly  class  which  may  be  properly  headed  by 
the  name  of  Demosthenes.  Webster's  speeches 
sometimes  bring  before  my  mind  the  image  of  the 
Cyclopean  walls, — stone  upon  stone,  compact,  firm, 
and  ground.  After  I  had  perused,  and  aloud,  too, 
the  last  speech  which  you  sent  me,  I  was  desirous 
of  testing  my  own  appreciation,  and  took  down 
Demosthenes,  reading  him  aloud  too.  It  did  not 
lessen  my  appreciation  of  Webster's  speech.  You 
know  that  I  insist  upon  the  necessity  of  entire 
countries  for  high,  modern  citizenship  :  and  all 
my  intercourse  with  Webster  made  me  feel  that 
the  same  idea  or  feeling  lived  in  him,  although 
he  never  expressed  it.  Webster  had  a  big  heart, 
— and  for  that  very  reason  was  a  poor  party-leader 
in  our  modern  sense." — DR.  FRANCIS  LIBBER  TO  S. 
AUSTIN  ALLIBONE,  Jan.  16,  1860. 

PRIDE  OF  ANCESTRY. 

It  is  a  noble  faculty  of  our  nature  which 
enables  us  to  connect  our  thoughts,  our 
sympathies,  and  our  happiness  with  what  is 
distant  in  place  or  time  ;  and,  looking  before 
and  after,  to  hold  communion  at  once  with 
our  ancestors  and  our  posterity.  Human 
and  mortal  although  we  are,  we  are  never- 
theless not  mere  insulated  beings,  without 
relation  to  the  past  or  the  future.  Neither 
the  point  of  time  nor  the  spot  of  earth  in 
which  we  physically  live,  bounds  our  rational 
and  intellectual  enjoyments.  We  live  in  the 
past  by  a  knowledge  of  its  history,  and  in 
future  by  hope  and  anticipation.  By  ascend- 
ing to  an  association  with  our  ancestors  ;  by 


DANIEL   WEBSTER. 


363 


contemplating  their  example  and  studying 
their  character;  by  partaking  their  senti- 
ments, and  imbibing  their  spirit;  by  accom- 
panying them  in  their  toils;  by  sympathiz- 
ing in  their  sufferings,  and  rejoicing  in  their 
successes  and  their  triumphs, — we  mingle 
our  own  existence  with  theirs,  and  seem  to 
belong  to  their  age.  We  become  their  con- 
temporaries, live  the  lives  which  they  lived, 
endure  what  they  endured,  and  partake  in 
the  rewards  which  they  enjoyed.  And  in 
like  manner,  by  running  along  the  line  of 
future  time  ;  by  contemplating  the  probable 
fortunes  of  those  who  are  coming. after  us  ; 
by  attempting  something  which  may  pro- 
mote their  happiness,  and  leave  some  not 
dishonourable  memorial  of  ourselves  for 
their  regard  when  we  shall  sleep  with  the 
fathers, — we  protract  our  own  earthly  being, 
and  seem  to  crowd  whatever  is  future,  as 
well  as  all  that  is  past,  into  the  narrow  com- 
pass of  our  earthly  existence.  As  it  is  not 
a  vain  and  false,  but  an  exalted  and  relig- 
ious imagination  which  leads  us  to  raise  our 
thoughts  from  the  orb  which,  amidst  this 
universe  of  worlds,  the  Creator  has  given  us 
to  inhabit,  and  to  send  them  with  something 
of  the  feeling  which  nature  prompts,  and 
teaches  to  be  proper  among  children  of  the 
same  Eternal  Parent,  to  the  contemplation 
of  the  myriads  of  fellow-beings  with  whom 
his  goodness  has  peopled  the  infinite  of 
space  ;  so  neither  is  it  false  or  vain  to  con- 
sider ourselves  as  interested  or  connected 
with  our  whole  race  through  all  time  ;  allied 
to  our  ancestors  ;  allied  to  our  posterity  ; 
closely  compacted  on  all  sides  with  others  : 
ourselves  being  but  links  in  the  great  chain 
of  being,  which  begins  with  the  origin  of 
our  race,  runs  onward  through  its  succes- 
sive generations,  binding  together  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future,  and  terminating 
at  last  with  the  consummation  of  all  things 
at  the  throne  of  God. 

There  may  be,  and  there  often  is,  indeed, 
a  regard  for  ancestry,  which  nourishes  only 
a  weak  pride ;  as  there  is  also  a  care  for 
posterity,  which  only  disguises  an  habitual 
avarice,  or  hides  the  workings  of  a  low  .and 
grovelling  vanity.  But  there  is  also  a  moral 
and  philosophical  respect  for  our  ancestors, 
which  elevates  the  character  and  improves 
the  heart.  Next  to  the  sense  of  religious 
duty  and  moral  feeling,  I  hardly  know  what 
should  bear  with  stronger  obligation  on  a 
liberal  and  enlightened  mind  than  a  con- 
sciousness of  alliance  with  excellence  which 
is  departed ;  and  a  consciousness,  too,  that 
in  its  acts  and  conduct,  and  even  in  its  sen- 
timents, it  may  be  actively  operating  on 
the  happiness  of  those  who  come  after  it. 
Poetry  is  found  to  have  few  stronger  con- 
ceptions, by  which  it  would  affect  or  over- 


whelm the  mind,  than  those  in  which  it 
presents  the  moving  and  speaking  image 
of  the  departed  dead  to  the  senses  of  the 
living.  This  belongs  to  poetry  only  because 
it  is  congenial  to  our  nature.  Poetry  is,  in 
this  respect,  but  the  handmaid  of  true  phi- 
losophy and  morality.  It  deals  with  us  as 
human  beings,  naturally  reverencing  those 
whose  visible  connection  with  this  state  of 
being  is  severed,  and  who  may  yet  exercise 
we  know  not  what  sympathy  with  ourselves  ; 
— and  when  it  carries  us  forward,  also,  and 
shows  us  the  long-continued  result  of  all  the 
good  we  do  in  the  prosperity  of  those  who 
follow  us,  till  it  bears  us  from  ourselves, 
and  absorbs  us  in  an  intense  interest  for 
what  shall  happen  to  the  generations  after 
us,  it  speaks  only  in  the  language  of  our 
nature,  and  affects  us  with  sentiments  which 
belong  to  us  as  human  beings. 

Discourse  delivered  at  Plymouth,  Dec.  %2, 

1820,  in  Commemoration  of  the  First 
Settlement    of  New   England,   Boston, 

1821,  8vo. 

THE  PRESERVATION  OF  THE  Ujnox. 

I  profess,  sir,  in  my  career  hitherto  to 
have  kept  steadily  in  view  the  prosperity 
and  honour  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
preservation  of  our  federal  union.  It  is  to 
that  union  we  owe  our  safety  at  home  and 
our  consideration  and  dignity  abroad.  It  is 
to  that  union  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted 
for  whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of  our 
country.  That  union  we  reached  only  by 
the  discipline  of  our  virtues,  in  the  severe 
school  of  adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the 
necessities  of  disordered  finance,  prostrate 
commerce,  and  ruined  credit.  Under  its 
benign  influences  these  great  interests  im- 
mediately awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and 
sprang  forth  with  newness  of  life.  Every 
year  of  its  duration  has  teemed  with  fresh 
proofs  of  its  utility  and  its  blessings;  and 
although  our  territory  has  stretched  out 
wider  and  wider,  and  our  population  spread 
farther  and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its 
protection  or  its  benefits.  It  has  been  to  us 
all  a  copious  fountain  of  national,  social, 
and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  be- 
yond the  union,  to  see  what  might  lie  hid- 
den in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have  not 
coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving 
liberty,  when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  to- 
gether shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have  not 
accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  preci- 
pice of  disunion  to  see  whether,  with  my 
short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the 
abyss  below;  nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a 
safe  counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this  govern- 
ment, whose  thoughts  should  be  mainly 
bent  on  considering  not  how  the  union 


3G4 


REGINALD  HEBER. 


should  be  best  preserved,  but  how  tolerable 
might  be  the  condition  of  the  people  when 
it  shall  be  broken  up  and  destroyed. 

While  the  union  lasts  we  have  high,  ex- 
citing, gratifying  prospects  spread  out  be- 
fore us,  for  us  and  our  children.  Beyond 
that  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  God 
grant  that,  in  my  day  at  least,  that  curtain 
may  not  rise.  God  grant  that  on  my  vision 
never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind. 
When  my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold, 
for  the  last  time,  the  sun  in  heaven,  may  I 
not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dis- 
honoured fragments  of  a  once  glorious  union ; 
on  States  dissevered,  discordant,  belligerent ; 
on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or  drenched, 
it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood  !  Let  their 
last  feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  be- 
hold the  gorgeous  ensign  of  the  republic, 
now  known  and  honoured  throughout  the 
earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and 
trophies  streaming  in  their  original  lustre, 
not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  nor  a  single 
star  obscured, — bearing  for  its  motto  no  such 
miserable  interrogatory  as, — What  is  all  this 
worth?  Nor  those  other  words  of  delusion 
and  folly, — Liberty  first,  and  union  after- 
wards,— but  everywhere,  spread  all  over  in 
characters  of  living  light,  blazing  on  all  its 
ample  folds  as  they  float  over  the  sea  and 
over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the 
whole  heavens,  that  other  sentiment  dear  to 
every  true  American  heart, — Liberty  and 
union,  now  and  for  ever,  one  and  insepa- 
rable ! 

Speech  in  Reply  to  Nr.  Hayne,  of  South 
Carolina,  on  the  Resolution  of  Mr.  Foot, 
of  Connecticut,  relative  to  the  Public 
Lands,  Washington,  1830,  8vo. 

ELOQUENCE. 

When  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed 
on  momentous  occasions,  when  great  inter- 
ests are  at  stake,  and  strong  passions  ex- 
cited, nothing  is  valuable  in  speech  further 
than  it  is  connected  with  high  intellectual 
and  moral  endowments.  Clearness,  force, 
and  earnestness  are  the  qualities  which  pro- 
duce conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed, 
does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be 
brought  from  far.  Labour  and  learning 
may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain. 
Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshalled  in 
every  way,  but  they  cannot  compass  it.  It 
must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject,  and 
in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense 
expression,  the  pomp  of  declamation,  all 
may  .aspire  after  it, — they  cannot  reach  it. 
It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreak- 
ing of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the 
bursting  forth  of  volcanic  fires  with  sponta- 
neous, original,  native  force.  The  graces 


taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  ornaments 
and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock 
and  disgust  men  when  their  own  lives  and 
the  fate  of  their  wives,  their  children,  and 
their  country  hang  on  the  decision  of  the 
hour.  Then  words  have  lost  their  power, 
rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory 
contemptible.  Even  genius  itself  then  feels 
rebuked  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of 
higher  qualities.  Then  patriotism  is  elo- 
quent; then  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The 
clear  conception  outrunning  the  deductions 
of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm  resolve, 
the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue, 
beaming  from  the  eye,  informing  every  fea- 
ture, and  urging  the  whole  man  onward, 
right  onward  to  his  object, — this,  this  is  elo- 
quence ;  or  rather  it  is  something  greater 
and  higher  than  all  eloquence, — it  is  action, 
noble,  sublime,  godlike  action. 

Discourse  in  Commemoration  of  John  Ad- 
ams and  Thomas  Jefferson,  Bost.,  1826, 
800. 


REGINALD    HEBER,    D.D., 

born  at  Malpas,  Cheshire,  1783,  educated  at 
Braxennose  College,  Oxford,  where  he  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  Latin  poem,  Carmen 
Seculare,  his  English  poem  of  Palestine,  and 
a  prose  essay,  entitled  The  Sense  of  Honour, 
in  1822  was  elected  Preacher  to  Lincoln's 
Inn,  and  in  1823  succeeded  Dr.  Middleton  in 
the  bishopric  of  Calcutta,  where  he  laboured 
with  great  zeal  and  success,  until  cut  off  by 
an  apoplectic  fit  wrhilst  bathing,  April  3, 
1826.  Works:  Palestine,  a  Poem,  to  which 
is  added  The  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea,  a 
Fragment,  1809,  4to  ;  Europe  :  Lines  on  the 
Present  War,  1809,  8vo:  reprinted,  with 
Palestine,  etc.,  in  Poems  and  Translations, 
1812,  small  8vo,  and  later;  The  Personality 
and  Office  of  the  Christian  Comforter  As- 
serted and  Explained  ;  Sermons  at  the  Bamp- 
ton  Lecture,  Oxf.,  1816,  8vo,  1818,  8vo ; 
Hymns  Written  and  Adapted  to  the  Weekly 
Service  of  the  Year,  by  Bishop  Ileber,  etc., 
Lond.,  1827,  llth  edit.,  1842;  A  Journey 
through  India,  from  Calcutta  to  Bombay, 
with  Notes  upon  Ceylon,  and  a  Journey  to 
Madras  and  the  Southern  Provinces,  Lond., 
1828,  2  vols.  4to  (some  on  fine  paper),  airain 

1828,  3  vols.  8vo,  1829,  3  vols.  8vo,  1830,  3 
vols.   8vo,    New   York,    1828,   2   vols.   8vo, 
abridged,  Lond.,  1844,  2  vols.  p.  8vo  (sold  for 
Mrs.  Ileber  by  Sir  R.  II.  Inglis.  for  £5000) ; 
Sermons  Prea'ched  in  England,  Lond.,  1829, 
8vo ;    Sermons   Preached   in    India,    Lond., 

1829,  8vo;    Parish    Sermons   on    the   Les- 
sons, the  Gospel,  or  the  Epistle,  for  Every 
Sunday  in  the  Year,  and  for  Week-day  Fes- 
tivals, "Preached  in   the  Parish  Church  of 


REGINALD  HEBER. 


365 


ITodnet.  Salop,  Loncl.,  1837,  3  vols.  8vo,  5th 
edit..  1844,  '2  vols.  8vo ;  The  Whole  Works 
of  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor,  with  a  Life  of  the 
Author,  and  a  Critical  Examination  of  his 
Writings,  Lond.,  1820-22,  15  vols.  8vo,  2(1 
edit.,  1828,  15  vols.  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1839,  15 
vols.  8vo :  revised  by  C.  P.  Eden,  1847-54, 
10  vols.  8vo:  lleber's  Life  of  Taylor  was 
published  separately,  1824,  2  vols.  cr.  8vo, 
3d  edit.,  1828,  8vo.  See  lleber's  Life  and 
unpublished  Works  by  his  Widow,  Lond., 
1830,  2  vols.  4to,  and  The  Last  Days  of 
Bishop  Heber,  by  Thomas  Robinson,  1830, 
8vo. 

"  Learned,  polished,  and  dignified,  he  was  un- 
doubtedly ;  yet  tar  more  conspicuously  kind, 
humble,  tolerant,  and  laborious: — zealous  for  his 
church,  too,  and  not  forgetl'ul  of  his  station  ;  but 
remembering  it  more  for  the  duties  than  for  the 
honours  that  were  attached  to  it." — LORD  JKF- 
FUEY  :  Editi.  Review,  48:  314. 

TIME  AND  ETERXITV. 

There  is  an  ancient  fable  told  by  the 
Greek  and  Roman  Churches,  which,  fable  as 
it  is,  may  for  its  beauty  and  singularity  well 
deserve  to  be  remembered,  that  in  one  of  the 
earliest  persecutions  to  which  the  Christian 
world  was  exposed,  seven  Christian  youths 
sought  concealment  in  a  lonely  cave,  and 
there,  by  God's  appointment,  fell  into  a  deep 
and  death-like  slumber.  They  slept,  the 
legend  runs,  two  hundred  years,  till  the 
greater  part  of  mankind  had  received  the 
faith  of  the  Gospel,  and  that  Church  which 
they  had  left  a  poor  and  afflicted  orphan, 
hail  "kings"  for  her  "nursing  fathers,  and 
queens''  for  her  "  nursing  mothers."  They 
then  at  length  awoke,  and  entering  into 
their  native  Ephesus,  so  altered  now  that 
its  streets  were  altogether  unknown  to  them, 
they  cautiously  inquired  if  there  were  any 
Christians  in  the  city?  "Christians!"  was 
the  answer,  "we  are  all  Christians  here!" 
and  they  heard  with  a  thankful  joy  the 
change,  which,  since  they  left  the  world, 
had  taken  place  in  the  opinions  of  its  inhab- 
itants. On  one  side  they  were  shown  a 
stately  fabric  adorned  with  a  gilded  cross, 
and  dedicated,  as  they  were  told,  to  the  wor- 
ship of  their  crucified  Master :  on  another, 
schools  for  the  public  exposition  of  those 
Gospels  of  which  so  short  a  time  before  the 
bare  profession  was  proscribed  and  deadly. 
But  no  fear  was  now  to  be  entertained  of 
those  miseries  which  had  encircled  the  cradle 
of  Christianity  :  no  danger  now  of  the  rack, 
the  lions,  or  the  sword  :  the  emperor  and  his 
prefects  held  the  same  faith  with  themselves, 
and  all  the  wealth  of  the  east,  and  all  the 
valour  and  authority  of  the  western  world, 
were  exerted  to  protect  and  endow  the  pro- 
fessors and  the  teachers  of  their  religion. 


But  joyful  as  these  tidings  must  at  first 
have  been,  their  further  inquiries  are  said 
to  have  been  met  with  answers  which  very 
deeply  surprised  and  pained  them.  They 
learned  that  the  greater  part  of  those  who 
called  themselves  by  the  name  of  Christ, 
were  strangely  regardless  of  the  blessings 
which  Christ  had  bestowed,  and  of  the  obli- 
gations which  lie  had  laid  on  His  followers. 
They  found  that,  as  the  world  had  become 
Christian,  Christianity  itself  had  become 
worldly ;  and  wearied  and  sorrowful  they 
besought  of  God  to  lay  them  asleep  again, 
crying  out  to  those  who  followed  them, 
"You  have  shown  us  many  heathens  who 
have  given  up  their  old  idolatry  without 
gaining  anything  better  in  its  room  ;  many 
who  are  of  no  religion  at  all ;  and  many  with 
whom  the  religion  of  Christ  is  no  more  than 
a  cloak  of  licentiousness;  but  where,  where 
are  the  Christians?"  And  thus  they  returned 
to  their  cave  ;  and  there  God  had  compassion 
on  them,  releasing  them,  once  for  all,  from 
that  world  for  whose  reproof  their  days  had 
been  lengthened,  and  removing  their  souls 
to  the  society  of  their  ancient  friends  and 
pastors,  the  martyrs  and  saints  of  an  earlier 
and  a  better  generation. 

The  admiration  of  former  times  is  a  feel- 
ing at  first,  perhaps,  engrafted  on  our  minds 
by  the  regrets  of  those  who  vainly  seek  in 
the  evening  of  life  for  the  sunny  tints  which 
adorned  their  morning  landscape ;  and  who 
are  led  to  fancy  a  deterioration  in  surround- 
ing objects,  when  the  change  is  in  themselves, 
and  the  twilight  in  their  own  powers  of  per- 
ception. It  is  probable  that,  as  each  age  of 
the  individual  or  the  species  is  subject  to 
its  peculiar  dangers,  so  each  has  its  peculiar 
and  compensating  advantages  ;  and  that  the 
difficulties  which,  at  different  periods  of  the 
world's  duration,  have  impeded  the  believer's 
progress  to  heaven,  though  in  appearance 
equally  various,  are,  in  amount,  very  nearly 
equal.  It  is  probable  that  no  age  is  without 
its  sufficient  share  of  offences,  of  judgments, 
of  graces,  and  of  mercies,  and  that  the  cor- 
rupted nature  of  mankind  was  never  other- 
wise than  hostile  or  indifferent  to  the  means 
which  God  has  employed  to  remedy  its 
misery.  Had  we  lived  in  the  times  of  the 
infant  Church,  even  amid  the  blaze  of  mir- 
acle on  the  one  hand,  and  the  chastening 
fires  of  persecution  on  the  other,  we  should 
have  heard,  perhaps,  no  fewer  complaints 
of  the  cowardice  sind  apostasy,  the  dissimu- 
lation and  murmuring  inseparable  from  a 
continuance  of  public  distress  and  danger, 
than  we  now  hear  regrets  for  those  days  of 
wholesome  affliction,  when  the  mutual  love 
of  believers  was  strengthened  by  their  com- 
mon danger;  when  their  want  of  worldly 
advantages  disposed  them  to  regard  a  release 


366 


WA  SHING  TON  IR  VING. 


from  the  world  with  hope  far  more  than 
with  apprehension,  and  compelled  the 
Church  to  cling  to  her  Master's  cross  alone 
for  comfort  and  for  succour. 

Still,  however,  it  is  most  wonderful,  yea, 
rather  by  this  very  consideration  is  our  won- 
der increased  at  the  circumstance,  that  in 
any  or  every  age  of  Christianity,  such  in- 
ducements and  such  menaces  as  the  religion 
of  Christ  displays,  should  be  regarded  with 
so  much  indifference,  and  postponed  for  ob- 
jects so  trifling  and  comparatively  worthless. 
If  there  were  no  other  difference  but  that  of 
duration  between  the  happiness  of  the  pres- 
ent life  and  of  the  life  which  is  to  follow,  or 
though  it  were  allowed  us  to  believe  that 
the  enjoyments  of  earth  were,  in  every  other 
respect,  the  greater  and  more  desirable  of  the 
two,  this  single  consideration  of  its  eternity 
would  prove  the  wisdom  of  making  heaven 
the  object  of  our  more  earnest  care  and  con- 
cern ;  of  retaining  its  image  constantly  in 
our  minds;  of  applying  ourselves  with  a 
more  excellent  zeal  to  everything  which  can 
help  us  in  its  attainment,  and  of  esteeming 
all  things  as  less  than  worthless  which  are 
set  in  comparison  with  its  claims,  or  which 
stand  in  the  way  of  its  purchase.  Accord- 
ingly, this  is  the  motive  which  St.  Paul  as- 
signs for  a  contempt  of  the  sufferings  and 
pleasures,  the  hopes  and  fears,  of  the  life 
which  now  is,  in  comparison  with  the  pleas- 
ures and  sufferings,  the  fears  and  hopes, 
which  are  in  another  life,  held  out  to  each 
of  us.  And  it  is  a  reason  which  must  carry 
great  weight  to  the  mind  of  every  reason- 
able being,  inasmuch  as  any  thing  which 
may  end  soon,  and  must  end  some  time  or 
other,  is,  supposing  all  other  circumstances 
equal,  or  even  allowing  to  the  temporal  good 
a  very  large  preponderance  of  pleasure,  of 
exceedingly  less  value  than  that  which,  once 
attained,  is  alike  safe  from  accident  and  de- 
cay, the  enjoyment  of  which  is  neither  to  be 
checked  by  insecurity,  nor  palled  by  long  pos- 
session, but  which  must  continue  thenceforth 
in  everlasting  and  incorruptible  blessedness, 
as  surely  as  God  Himself  is  incorruptible 
and  everlasting. 

Sermons  Preached  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  1823. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING,  LL.D., 

born  April  23,  1783,  in  William  Street,  be- 
tween John  and  Fulton  Streets,  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  after  a  two  years'  ( 1804-1806) 
residence  in  Italy,  Switzerland.  France,  Eng- 
land, etc.,  returned  to  New  York,  and  was 
admitted  to  the  New  York  bar ;  again  sailed 
for  Europe  in  1815,  and  remained  abroad 
until  1832  :  lived  in  Madrid  as  United  States 


Minister  to  Spain  from  1842  until  1846, 
when  he  retired  to  his  beautiful  country- 
seat  of  Wolfert's  Roost  (Sunnyside),  on  the 
Hudson,  purchased  by  him  some  years  be- 
fore, and  resided  there  until  his  death,  Nov. 
28,  1859. 

Works  and  Life,  New  York,  G.  P.  Put- 
nam's Sons,  1851-57,  and  later,  26  vols. 
16mo:  vol.  i.,  Bracebridge  Hall;  ii.,  Wol- 
fert's Roost;  iii.,  Sketch  Book  ;  iv.,  Tales  of 
a  Traveller  ;  v.,  Knickerbocker's  History  of 
New  York  ;  vi.,  The  Crayon  Miscellany  :  vii., 
Life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith;  viii.,  The  Alham- 
bra;  ix.,  x.,  xi.,  Columbus  and  his  Compan- 
ions; xii.,  Astoria;  xiii., Captain Bonneville's 
Adventures;  xiv.,xv.,  Mahomet  and  his  Suc- 
cessors; xvi.,  The  Conquest  of  Granada;  xvii., 
Salmagundi ;  xviii.,  Spanish  Papers  ;  xix., 
xx.,  xxi.,  xxii.,  xxiii.,  Life  of  George  Wash- 
ington (also  published  in  5  vols.  4to,  1855- 
57,  with  illustrations,  5  vols.  8vo,  1855-59,  4 
vols.  8vo,  1855-57,  2  vols.  8vo,  and  Abridged, 
1  vol.  large  12mo)  ;  xxiv.,  xxv.,  xxvi.,  Life 
and  Letters,  by  Pierre  M.  Irving  (abridged 
from  the  original  edition  in  4  vols.  12mo. 
1862-64). 

Messrs.  Putnam  published:  I.  The  River- 
side Edition,  26  vols.  16mo  ;  II.  The  People's 
Edition,  26  vols.  16mo;  III.  The  Knicker- 
bocker Edition,  27  vols.  large  12mo;  IV. 
Sunnyside  Edition,  28  vols.  12mo;  Lighter 
Works,  8  vols.  16mo.  II.  G.  Bohn,  of  Lon- 
don, publishes  an  edition  of  Irving's  Works 
(including  Theodore  Irving's  Conquest  of 
Florida  by  Hernando  de  Soto),  in  10  vols. 
p.  8vo.  To  either  edition  of  Irving's  Works 
should  be  added  :  I.  Irving  Vignettes  :  Vign- 
ette Illustrations  of  the  Writings  of  Wash- 
ington Irving,  Engraved  on  Steel  by  Smillie, 
Hall,  and  others  ;  with  a  Sketch  of  his  Life 
and  Works,  from  Allibone's  forthcoming 
"  Dictionary  of  Authors,"  and  Passages 
from  the  Works  Illustrated,  New  York,  G. 
P.  Putnam,  1857,  sq.  12mo,  pp.  287;  II. 
Irving  Memorial :  A  Discourse  on  the  Life, 
Character,  and  Genius  of  Washington  Ir- 
ving, delivered  before  the  New  York  His- 
torical Society,  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in 
New  York,  on  the  3d  of  April,  1860,  by 
William  Cullen  Bryant,  New  York,  G.  P. 
Putnam,  1860,  sq.  12mo,  pp.  70;  pp.  71- 
113,  Massachusetts  Historical  Society;  ap- 
pendix, pp.  7-63,  Allibone's  Sketch  of  Ir- 
ving. 

"  The  candour  with  which  the  English  have 
recognized  Mr.  Irving's  literary  merits  is  equally 
honourable  to  both  parties,  while  his  genius  has 
experienced  a  still  more  unequivocal  homage  in 
the  countless  imitations  to  which  he  has  given 
rise;  imitations  whose  uniform  failure,  notwith- 
standing all  the  appliances  of  accomplishment 
and  talent,  prove  their  model  to  be  inimitable." — 
WILLIAM  II.  PHESCOTT  :  N.  Amer.  Rev.,  35  :  192, 
July,  1832. 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


3GT 


"  Other  writers  may  no  doubt  arise  in  the  course 
of  time,  who  will  exhibit  in  verse  or  prose  a  more 
commanding  talent,  and  soar  a  still  loftier  flight 
in  the  empyrean  sky  of  glory.  Some  western 
Homer,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Corneille,  or  Calde- 
ron,  may  irradiate  our  literary  world  with  a  flood 
of  splendour  that  shall  throw  all  other  greatness 
into  the  shade.  This,  or  something  like  it,  may 
or  may  not  happen;  but,  even  if  it  should,  it  can 
never  be  disputed  that  the  mild  and  beautiful 
genius  of  Mr.  Irving  was  the  Morning  Star  that 
led  up  the  march  of  our  heavenly  host;  and  that 
he  has  a  fair  right,  much  fairer  certainly  than  the 
great  Mantuan,  to  assume  the  proud  device,  Primus 
er/o  in  patriam." — ALEXANDER  H.  EVERETT:  N. 
Amtr.  Rev.,  28  :  110,  Jan.  1829. 

A  RAINY  SUNDAY  IN  AN  INN. 

It  was  a  rainy  Sunday  in  the  gloomy 
month  of  November.  I  had  been  detained 
in  the  course  of  a  journey  by  a  slight  in- 
disposition, from  Avhich  I  was  recovering; 
but  I  was  still  feverish,  and  was  obliged  to 
keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn  of  the 
small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a 
country  inn  !  whoever  has  had  the  luck  to 
experience  one,  can  alone  judge  of  my  situ- 
ation. The  rain  pattered  against  the  case- 
ments, the  bells  tolled  for  church  with  a 
melancholy  sound.  I  went  to  the  windows 
in  quest  of  something  to  amuse  the  eye,  but 
it  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  placed  completely 
out  of  the  reach  of  all  amusement.  The 
windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out  among 
tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while 
those  of  my  sitting-room  commanded  a  full 
view  of  the  stable-yard.  I  know  of  nothing 
more  calculated  to  make  a  man  sick  of  this 
world  than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day. 
The  place  was  littered  with  wet  straw  that 
had  been  kicked  about  by  travellers  and 
stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant 
pool  of  water  surrounding  an  island  of 
muck  ;  there  were  several  half-drowned 
fowls  crowded  together  under  a  cart,  among 
which  was  a  miserable  crest-fallen  cock, 
drenched  out  of  all  life  and  spirit,  his  droop- 
ing tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a  single 
feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled 
from  his  back  ;  near  the  cart  was  a  half- 
dozing  cow,  chewing  the  cud,  and  standing 
patiently  to  be  rained  on,  with  wreaths  of 
vapour  rising  from  her  reeking  hide;  a  wall- 
eyed horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness  of  the 
stable,  Avas  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of 
a  window,  with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from 
the  eaves;  an  unhappy  cur,  chained  to  a 
dog-house  hard  by,  uttered  something  every 
now  and  then  between  a  bark  and  a  yelp  ; 
a  drab  of  a  kitchen  wench  tramped  back- 
wards and  forwards  through  the  yards  in 
pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather 
itself;  everything,  in  short,  was  comfortless 
and  forlorn,  excepting  a  crew  of  hard-drink- 


ing ducks,  assembled  like  boon  companions 
round  a  puddle,  and  making  a  riotous  noise 
over  their  liquor. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood 
gazing  at  the  people  picking  their  way  to 
church,  with  petticoats  hoisted  mid-leg  high, 
and  dripping  umbrellas.  The  bells  ceased 
to  toll,  and  the  streets  became  silent.  I  then 
amused  myself  with  watching  the  daughters 
of  a  tradesman  opposite,  who,  being  confined 
to  the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sun- 
day finery,  played  off  their  charms  at  the 
front  windows,  to  fascinate  the  chance  ten- 
ants of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  sum- 
moned away  by  a  vigilant  vinegar-faced 
mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further  without 
to  amuse  me. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy  ; 
the  slovenly,  ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted 
heavily  along  ;  there  was  no  variety  even  in 
the  rain  ;  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  mo- 
notonous patter,  patter,  patter,  excepting 
that  now  and  then  I  was  enlivened  by  the 
idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of 
the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella.  It  was 
quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a 
hackneyed  phrase  of  the  day)  when  in  the 
course  of  the  morning  a  horn  blew,  and  a 
stage-coach  whirled  through  the  street  with 
outside  passengers  stuck  all  over  it,  cower- 
ing under  cotton  umbrellas,  and  seethed  to- 
gether, and  reeking  with  the  steams  of  wet 
box-coats  and  upper  Benjamins.  The  sound 
brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew 
of  vagabond  boys  and  vagabond  dogs,  and 
the  carroty-headed  hostler,  and  that  nonde- 
script animal  yclept  Boots,  and  all  the  other 
vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of  an 
inn  ;  but  the  bustle  was  transient:  the  coach 
again  whirled  on  its  way  ;  and  boy  .and  dog, 
and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again 
to  their  holes  ;  the  street  again  became  si- 
lent, and  the  rain  continued  to  rain  on. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The 
travellers  read  the  papers  two  or  three  times 
over.  Some  drew  round  the  fire,  and  told  long 
stories  about  their  horses,  about  their  adven- 
tures, their  overturns  and  breakings-down. 
They  discussed  the  credits  of  different  mer- 
chants and  different  inns,  and  the  two  wags 
told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  cham- 
bermaids and  kind  landladies.  All  this 
passed  as  they  were  quietly  taking  what 
they  called  their  nightcaps  ;  that  is  to  say, 
strong  glasses  of  brandy  and  water  or  sugar, 
or  some  other  mixture  of  the  kind ;  after 
which  they  one  after  another  rang  for  Boots 
and  the  chambermaid,  arid  walked  off  to  bed 
in  old  shoes  cut  down  into  marvellously  un- 
comfortable slippers.  There  was  only  one 
man  left, — a  short-legged,  long-bodied  ple- 
thoric fellow,  with  a  very  large  sandy  head. 
He  sat  by  himself  with  a  glass  of  port  wine 


368 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


negus  and  a  spoon,  sipping  and  stirring,  and 
meditating  and  sipping,  until  nothing  was 
left  but  the  spoon,  lie  gradually  fell  asleep 
bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  with  the  empty  glass 
standing  before  him;  and  the  candle  seemed 
to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long  and 
black,  and  cabbaged  at  the  end,  and  dimmed 
the  little  light  that  remained  in  the  chamber. 
The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was  conta- 
gious. Around  hung  the  shapeless  and 
almost  spectral  box-coats  of  departed  travel- 
lers, long  since  buried  in  deep  sleep.  I  only 
heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with  the 
deep-drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping  toper, 
and  the  drippings  of  the  rain — drop,  drop, 
drop — from  the  eaves  of  the  house. 
Bracebridye  Hall. 

THE  FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 

Columbus  was  now  at  open  defiance  with 
his  crew,  and  his  situation  became  desperate. 
Fortunately,  the  manifestations  of  the  vi- 
cinity of  land  were  such  on  the  following 
day  as  no  longer  to  admit  a  doubt.  Beside 
a  quantity  of  fresh  weeds,  such  as  grow  in 
rivers,  they  saw  a  green  fish  of  a  kind  which 
keeps  about  rocks  ;  then  a  branch  of  thorn 
with  berries  on  it,  and  recently  separated 
from  the  tree,  floated  by  them  ;  then  they 
picked  up  a  reed,  a  small  board,  and,  above 
all,  a  staff  artificially  carved.  All  gloom 
and  mutiny  now  gave  way  to  sanguine  ex- 
pectation ;  and  throughout  the  day  each  one 
was  eagerly  on  the  watch,  in  hopes  of  being 
the  first  to  discover  the  long-sought-for  land. 

In  the  evening,  when,  according  to  invari- 
able custom  on  board  of  the  admiral's  ship, 
the  mariners  had  sung  the  salve  rcgina,  or 
vesper-hymn  to  the  Virgin,  he  made  an  im- 
pressive address  to  his  crew.  He  pointed  out 
the  goodness  of  God  in  thus  conducting  them 
by  soft  and  favouring  breezes  across  a  tran- 
quil ocean,  cheering  their  hopes  continually 
with  fresh  signs,  increasing  as  their  fears 
augmented,  and  thus  leading  and  guiding 
them  to  a  promised  land.  He  now  reminded 
them  of  the  orders  he  had  given  on  board 
the  Canaries,  that,  after  sailing  westward 
seven  hundred  leagues,  they  should  not 
make  sail  after  midnight.  Present  appear- 
ances authorized  such  a  precaution.  He 
thought  it  probable  they  would  make  land 
that  very  night ;  he  ordered,  therefore,  a 
vigilant  look-out  to  be  kept  from  the  fore- 
castle, promising  to  whomsoever  should 
make  the  discovery  a  doublet  of  velvet,  in 
addition  to  the  pension  .to  be  given  by  the 
sovereigns. 

The  breeze  had  been  fresh  all  day,  with 
more  sea  than  usual,  and  they  had  made  great 
progress.  At  sunset  they  had  stood  again 
to  the  west,  and  were  ploughing  the  waves 


at  a  rapid  rate,  the  Pinta  keeping  the  lead, 
from  her  superior  sailing.  The  greatest 
animation  prevailed  throughout  the  ships  ; 
not  an  eye  was  closed  that  night.  As  the 
evening  darkened,  Columbus  took  his  station 
on  the  top  of  the  castle  or  cabin  on  the  high 
poop  of  his  vessel,  ranging  his  eye  along  tho 
dusky  horizon,  and  maintaining  an  intense 
and  unremitting  Avatch.  About  ten  o'clock 
he  thought  he  beheld  a  light  glimmering  at 
a  great  distance.  Fearing  his  eager  hopes 
might  deceive  him,  he  called  to  Pedro  Gutier- 
rez, gentleman  of  the  king's  bed-chain  her, 
and  inquired  whether  he  saw  such  a  light; 
the  latter  replied  in  the  affirmative.  Doubt- 
ful whether  it  might  not  yet  be  some  delu- 
sion of  the  fancy,  Columbus  called  Kodrigo 
Sanchez  of  Segovia,  and  made  the  same  in- 
quiry. By  the  time  the  latter  had  ascended 
the  round-house,  the  light  had  disappeared. 
They  saw  it  once  or  twice  afterwards  in 
sudden  and  passing  gleams  ;  as  if  it  were  a 
torch  in  the  bark  of  a  fisherman,  rising  and 
sinking  with  the  waves ;  or  in  the  hand  of 
some  person  on  shore,  borne  up  and  down 
as  he  walked  from  house  to  house.  So  tran- 
sient and  uncertain  were  these  gleams  that 
few  attached  any  importance  to  them  ;  Co- 
lumbus, however,  considered  them  as  certain 
signs  of  land,  and,  moreover,  that  the  land 
was  inhabited. 

They  continued  their  course  until  two  in 
the  morning,  when  a  gun  from  the  Pinta 
gave  the  joyful  signal  of  land.  It  was  first 
descried  by  a  mariner  named  llodrigo  de 
Triana ;  but  the  reward  was  afterwards 
adjudged  to  the  admiral,  for  having  previ- 
ously perceived  the  light.  The  land  was 
now  clearly  seen  about  two  leagues  distant, 
whereupon  they  took  in  sail,  and  laid  to, 
waiting  impatiently  for  the  dawn. 

The  thoughts  and  feelings  of  Columbus 
in  this  little  space  of  time  must  have  been 
tumultuous  and  intense.  At  length,  in  spite 
of  every  difficulty  and  danger,  he  had  ac- 
complished his  object.  The  great  mystery  of 
the  ocean  was  revealed  ;  his  theory,  which 
had  been  the  scoff  of  sages,  was  triumph- 
antly established  ;  he  had  secured  to  him- 
self a  glory  durable  as  the  world  itself. 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  feelings  of 
such  a  man,  at  such  a  moment ;  or  the  con- 
jectures which  must  have  thronged  upon 
his  mind,  as  to  the  land  before  him,  covered 
with  darkness.  That  it  was  fruitful,  was 
evident  from  the  vegetables  which  floated 
from  its  shores.  lie  thought,  too,  that  he 
perceived  the  fragrance  of  aromatic  groves. 
The  moving  light  he  had  beheld  proved  it 
the  residence  of  man.  But  what  were  its  in- 
habitants ?  Were  they  like  those  of  the  other 
parts  of  the  globe  ;  or  Avere  they  some  strange 
and  monstrous  race,  such  as  the  irnagina- 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


5G9 


tion  was  prone  in  those  times  to  give  to  all 
remote  and  unknown  regions?  Had  he  come 
upon  some  wild  island  far  in  the  Indian  sea; 
or  was  this  the  famed  Cipango  itself,  the 
object  of  his  golden  fancies  ?  A  thousand 
speculations  of  the  kind  must  have  swarmed 
upon  him,  as,  with  his  anxious  crews,  he 
waited  for  the  night  to  pass  away  ;  wonder- 
ing whether  the  morning  light  would  reveal 
a  savage  wilderness,  or  dawn  upon  spicy 
groves,  and  glittering  fanes,  and  gilded  cities, 
and  all  the  splendour  of  oriental  civiliza- 
tion. 

Life  and  Voyac/es  of  Christopher  Columbus, 
Book  Hi.  Ckap.  4. 

IRVIXG  AT  ABBOTSFORD. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  29th  of  August, 
1817,  I  arrived  at  the  ancient  little  border 
town  of  Selkirk,  where  I  put  up  for  the 
night.  I  had  come  down  from  Edinburgh, 
partly  to  visit  Melrose  Abbey  and  its  vicin- 
ity, but  chiefly  to  get  a  sight  of  the  "  mighty 
minstrel  of  the  north."  I  had  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  him  from  Thomas  Campbell 
the  poet,  and  had  reason  to  think,  from  the 
interest  he  had  taken  in  some  of  my  earlier 
scribblings,  that  a  visit  from  me  would  not 
be  deemed  an  intrusion. 

On  the  following  morning,  after  an  early 
breakfast,  I  set  off  in  a  post-chaise  for  the 
Abbey.  On  the  way  thither  I  stopped  at 
the  gate  of  Abbotsford,  and  sent  the  postil- 
lion to  the  house  with  the  letter  of  introduc- 
tion and  my  card,  on  which  I  had  written 
that  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  ruins  of  Mel- 
rose  Abbey,  and  wished  to  know  whether  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  Mr.  Scott  (he  had  not 
yet  been  made  a  Baronet)  to  receive  a  visit 
from  me  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

While  the  postillion  was  on  his  errand,  I 
had  time  to  survey  the  mansion.  It  stood 
some  short  distance  below  the  road,  on  the 
side  of  a  hill  sweeping  down  to  the  Tweed ; 
and  was  as  yet  but  a  snug  gentleman's  cot- 
tage, with  something  rural  and  picturesque 
in  its  appearance.  The  whole  front  was 
overrun  with  evergreens,  and  immediately 
below  the  portal  was  a  great  pair  of  elk 
horns  branching  out  from  beneath  the  foli- 
age, and  giving  the  cottage  the  look  of  a 
hunting-lodge.  The  huge  baronial  pile,  to 
which  this  modest  mansion  in  a  manner 
gave  birth,  was  just  emerging  into  exist- 
ence: part  of  the  walls,  surrounded  by 
scaffolding,  already  had  risen  to  the  height 
of  the  cottage,  and  the  court-yard  in  front 
was  encumbered  by  masses  of  hewn  stone. 

The  noise  of  the  chaise  had  disturbed  the 

quiet  of  the  establishment.     Out  sallied  the 

warder  of  the  castle,   a    black   greyhound, 

and,  leaping  on  one  of  the  blocks  of  stone. 

24 


began  a  furious  barking.  His  alarm  brought 
out  the  whole  garrison  of  dogs: 

"  Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  ani  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree  ;" 

all  open-mouthed  and  vociferous. — I  should 
correct  my  quotation  ; — not  a  cur  was  to  be 
seen  on  the  premises :  Scott  was  too  true  a 
sportsman,  and  had  too  high  a  veneration 
for  pure  blood,  to  tolerate  a  mongrel. 

In  a  little  while  the  "lord  of  the  castle" 
himself  made  his  appearance.  I  knew  him  at 
once  by  the  descriptions  I  had  read  and  heard, 
and  the  likenesses  that  had  been  published 
of  him.  lie  was  tall,  and  of  a  large  and  pow- 
erful frame.  His  dress  was  simple,  and  al- 
most rustic.  An  old,  green  shooting-coat, 
with  a  dog  whistle  at  the  button-hole,  brown 
linen  pantaloons,  stout  shoes  that  tied  at  the 
ankles,  and  a.  white  hat  that  had  evidently 
seen  service.  He  came  limping  up  the  gravel 
walk,  aiding  himself  by  a  stout  walking- 
staff,  but  moving  rapidly  and  with  vigour. 
By  his  side  jogged  along  a  large  iron-gray 
staghound  of  most  grave  demeanour,  who 
took  no  part  in  the  clamour  of  the  canine 
rabble, but  seemed  to  consider  himself  bound, 
for  the  dignity  of  the  house,  to  give  me  a 
courteous  reception. 

Before  Scott  had  reached  the  gate  he 
called  out  in  a  hearty  tone,  welcoming  me 
to  Abbotsford,  and  asking  news  of  Camp- 
bell. Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  chaise,  he 
grasped  me  warmly  by  the  hand :  "  Come, 
drive  down,  drive  down  to  the  house,"  said 
he;  "ye're  just  in  time  for  breakfast,  and 
afterwards  ye  shall  see  all  the  wonders  of 
the  Abbey." 

I  would  have  excused  myself,  on  the  plea 
of  having  already  made  my  breakfast. 
"  Hout,  man,"  cried  he,  "a  ride  in  the 
morning  in  the  keen  air  of  the  Scotch  hills 
is  warrant  enough  for  a  second  breakfast." 

I  was  accordingly  whirled  to  the  portal 
of  the  cottage,  and  in  a  few  moments  found 
myself  seated  at  the  breakfast-table.  There 
was  no  one  present  but  the  family,  which 
consisted  of  Mrs.  Scott,  her  eldest  daughter 
Sophia,  then  a  fine  girl  about  seventeen, 
Miss  Ann  Scott,  two  or  three  years  younger, 
Walter,  a  well-grown  stripling,  and  Charles, 
a  lively  boy,  eleven  or  twelve  years  of  age. 
I  soon  felt  myself  quite  at  home,  and  my 
heart  in  a  glow  with  the  cordial  welcome  I 
experienced.  I  had  thought  to  make  a  mere 
morning  visit,  but  found  I  was  not  to  be  let 
off  so  lightly. 

"  You  must  not  think  our  neighbourhood 
is  to  be  read  in  a  morning,  like  a  news- 
paper," said  Scott.  '•  It  takes  several  days 
of  study  for  an  observant  traveller  that  has 
a  relish  for  auld  world  trumpery.  After 
breakfast  you  shall  make  your  visit  to  Mel- 
rose  Abbey ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  accoui- 


370 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


pany  you,  as  I  have  some  household  affairs 
to  attend  to,  but  I  will  put  you  in  charge  of 
my  son  Charles,  who  is  very  learned  in  all 
things  touching  the  old  ruin  and  the  neigh- 
bourhood it  stands  in,  and  he  and  my  friend 
Johnny  Bower  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth 
about  it,  with  a  good  deal  more  that  you  are 
not  called  upon  to  believe,  unless  you  be  a 
true  and  nothing  doubting  antiquary.  When 
you  come  back  I'll  take  you  out  on  a  ramble 
about  the  neighbourhood.  To-morrow  we 
will  take  a  look  at  the  Yarrow,  and  the  next 
day  we  will  drive  over  to  Dryburgh  Abbey, 
which  is  a  tine  old  ruin  well  worth  your 
seeing" — in  a  word,  before  Scott  had  got 
through  with  his  plan,  I  found  myself  com- 
mitted for  a  visit  of  several  days,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  little  realm  of  romance  was 
suddenly  opened  before  me. 

On  the  following  morning  the  sun  darted 
his  beams  from  over  the  hills  through  the 
low  lattice  window.  I  rose  at  an  early 
hour,  and  looked  out  between  the  branches 
of  eglantine  which  overhung  the  casement. 
To  my  surprise,  Scott  was  already  up  and 
forth,  seated  on  a  fragment  of  stone,  and 
chatting  with  the  workmen  employed  on  the 
new  building.  I  had  supposed,  after  the 
time  he  had  wasted  on  me  yesterday,  he 
would  be  closely  occupied  this  morning,  but 
he  appeared  like  a  man  of  leisure,  who  had 
nothing  to  do  but  bask  in  the  sunshine  and 
amuse  himself. 

I  soon  dressed  myself  and  joined  him. 
He  talked  about  his  proposed  plans  of  Ab- 
botsford  :  happy  would  it  have  been  for  him 
could  he  have  contented  himself  with  his 
delightful  little  vine-covered  cottage,  and 
the  simple  yet  hearty  and  hospitable  style, 
in  which  he  lived  at  the  time  of  my  visit. 
The  great  pile  of  Abbotsford,  with  the  huge 
expense  it  entailed  upon  him  of  servants, 
retainers,  guests,  and  baronial  style,  was  a 
drain  upon  his  purse,  a  tax  upon  his  exer- 
tions, and  a  weight  upon  his  mind  that 
finally  crushed  him. 

As  yet,  however,  all  was  in  embryo  and 
perspective,  and  Scott  pleased  himself  with 
picturing  out  his  future  residence  as  he 
would  one  of  the  fanciful  creations  of  his 
own  romances.  "  It  was  one  of  his  air  cas- 
tles," he  said,  "which  he  was  reducing  to 
solid  stone  and  mortnr."  About  the  place 
were  strewed  various  morsels  from  the  ruins 
of  Melrose  Abbey,  which  were  to  be  incor- 
porated in  his  mansion.  He  had  constructed 
out  of  similar  materials  a  kind  of  Gothic 
shrine  over  a  spring,  and  had  surmounted 
it  by  a  small  stone  cross.  .  .  . 

I  have  thus  given,  in  a  rude  style,  my 
main  recollections  of  what  occurred  during 
my  sojourn  at  Abbotsford,  and  I  feel  morti- 
fied that  I  can  give  but  such  meagre,  scat- 


tered, and  colourless  details  of  what  was  so 
copious,  rich,  and  varied.  During  several 
days  that  I  passed  there  Scott  was  in  admi- 
rable vein.  From  early  morn  until  dinner- 
time he  was  rambling  about,  showing  me 
the  neighbourhood,  and  during  dinner,  and 
until  late  at  night,  engaged  in  social  conver- 
sation. No  time  was  reserved  for  himself; 
he  seemed  as  if  his  only  occupation  was  to 
entertain  me;  and  yet  I  was  almost  an  en- 
tire stranger  to  him,  one  of  whom  he  knew 
nothing  but  an  idle  book  I  had  written,  and 
which  some  years  before  had  amused  him. 
But  such  was  Scott;  he  appeared  to  have 
nothing  to  do  but  lavish  his  time,  attention, 
and  conversation  on  those  around.  It  was 
difficult  to  imagine  what  time  he  found  to 
write  those  volumes  that  were  incessantly 
issuing  from  the  press ;  all  of  which,  too, 
were  of  a  nature  to  require  reading  and  re- 
search. I  could  not  find  that  his  life  was 
ever  otherwise  than  a  life  of  leisure  and  hap- 
hazard recreation,  such  as  it  was  during  my 
visit.  He  scarce  ever  balked  a  party  of 
pleasure,  or  a  sporting  excursion,  and  rarely 
pleaded  his  own  concerns  as  an  excuse  for 
rejecting  those  of  others.  During  my  visit 
I  heard  of  other  visitors  who  had  preceded 
me,  and  who  must  have  kept  him  occupied 
for  many  days,  and  I  have  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  knowing  the  course  of  his  daily  life 
for  some  time  subsequently.  Not  long  after 
my  departure  from  Abbotsford,  my  friend 
Wilkie  arrived  there,  to  paint  a  picture  of 
the  Scott  family.  He  found  the  house  full 
of  guests.  Scott's  whole  time  was  taken  up 
in  riding  and  driving  about  the  country,  or 
in  social  conversation  at  home.  "All  this 
time,"  said  Wilkie  to  me,  "  I  did  not  pre- 
sume to  ask  Mr.  Scott  to  sit  for  his  portrait, 
for  I  saw  he  had  not  a  moment  to  spare;  I 
waited  for  the  guests  to  go  away,  but  as 
fast  as  one  went  another  arrived,  and  so  it 
continued  for  several  days,  and  with  each 
set  he  was  completely  occupied.  At  length 
all  went  off,  and  we  were  quiet.  I  thought-. 
however,  Mr.  Scott  will  now  shut  himself 
up  among  his  books  and  papers,  for  he  has 
to  make  up  for  lost  time;  it  won't  do  for  me 
to  ask  him  now  to  sit  for  his  picture.  Laid- 
law,  who  managed  his  estate,  came  in,  and 
Scott  turned  to  him,  as  I  supposed,  to  con- 
sult about  business.  '  Laidlaw,'  said  he,  'to- 
morrow morning  we'll  go  across  the  water 
and  take  the  dogs  with  us ;  there's  a  place 
where  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  find  a 
hare!'  In  short,"  added  Wilkie,  "  I  found 
that,  instead  of  business,  he  was  thinking 
only  of  amusement,  as  if  he  had  nothing  in 
the  world  to  occupy  him  ;  so  I  no  longer 
feared  to  intrude  upon  him." 

The    conversation   of    Scott  was    frank, 
hearty,  picturesque,  and  dramatic.     During 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


371 


the  time  of  my  visit  he  inclined  to  the  comic 
rather  than  the  grave,  in  his  anecdotes  and 
stories ;  and  such,  I  was  told,  was  his  gen- 
eral inclination.  He  relished  a  joke,  or  a 
trait  of  humour  in  social  intercourse,  and 
laughed  with  right  good  will.  He  talked 
not  for  effect,  nor  display,  hut  from  the  flow 
of  his  spirits,  the  stores  of  his  memory,  and 
the  vigour  of  his  imagination.  He  had  a 
natural  turn  for  narration,  and  his  narra- 
tives and  descriptions  were  without  effort, 
yet  wonderfully  graphic.  He  placed  the 
scene  hefore  you  like  a  picture ;  he  gave  the 
dialogue  with  the  appropriate  dialect  or 
peculiarities,  and  described  the  appearance 
and  characters  of  his  personages  with  that 
spirit  and  felicity  evinced  in  his  writings. 
Indeed,  his  conversation  reminded  me  con- 
tinually of  his  novels;  and  it  seemed  to  me, 
that  during  the  whole  time  I  was  with  him,  he 
talked  enough  to  fill  volumes,  and  that  they 
could  not  have  been  filled  more  delightfully. 

He  was  as  good  a  listener  as  talker,  ap- 
preciating every  thing  that  others  said,  how- 
ever humble  might  be  their  rank  or  preten- 
sions, and  was  quick  to  testify  his  perception 
of  any  point  in  their  discourse.  He  arro- 
gated nothing  to  himself,  but  was  perfectly 
unassuming  and  unpretending,  entering 
with  heart  and  soul  into  the  business,  or 
pleasure,  or,  I  had  almost  said,  folly  of  the 
hour  and  the  company.  No  one's  concerns, 
no  one's  thoughts,  no  one's  opinions,  no 
one's  tastes  and  pleasures  seemed  beneath 
him.  He  made  himself  so  thoroughly  the 
companion  of  those  with  whom  he  happened 
to  be,  that  they  forgot  for  a  time  his  vast 
superiority,  and  only  recollected  and  won- 
dered, when  all  was  over,  that  it  was  Scott 
with  whom  they  had  been  on  such  familiar 
terms,  and  in  whose  society  they  had  felt  so 
perfectly  at  their  ease. 

It  was  delightful  to  observe  the  generous 
spirit  in  which  he  spoke  of  all  his  literary 
contemporaries,  quoting  the  beauties  of  their 
works,  and  this,  too,  with  respect  to  persons 
with  whom  he  might  have  been  supposed  to 
be  at  variance  in  literature  or  politics.  Jef- 
frey, it  was  thought,  had  ruffled  his  plumes 
in  one  of  his  reviews,  yet  Scott  spoke  of 
him  in  terms  of  high  and  warm  eulogy,  both 
as  an  author  and  as  a  man. 

His  humour  in  conversation,  as  in  his 
works,  was  genial  and  free  from  all  caus- 
ticity. He  had  a  quick  perception  of  faults 
and  foibles,  but  he  looked  upon  poor  human 
nature  with  an  indulgent  eye,  relishing 
what  was  good  and  pleasant,  tolerating 
what  was  frail,  and  pitying  what  was  evil. 
It  is  this  beneficent  spirit  which  gives  such 
an  air  of  bonhommie  to  Scott's  humour 
throughout  all  his  works.  He  played  with 
the  foibles  and  errors  of  his  fellow-beings, 


and  presented  them  in  a  thousand  whim- 
sical and  characteristic  lights,  but  the  kind- 
ness and  generosity  of  his  nature  would  not 
allow  him  to  be  a  satirist.  I  do  not  recollect 
a  sneer  throughout  his  conversation  any 
more  than  there  is  throughout  his  works. 

Such  is  a  rough  sketch  of  Scott  as  I  saw 
him  in  private  life,  not  merely  at  the  time 
of  the  visit  here  narrated,  but  in  the  casual 
intercourse  of  subsequent  years.  Of  his 
public  character  and  merits  all  the  world  can 
judge.  His  works  have  incorporated  them- 
selves with  the  thoughts  and  concerns  of 
the  whole  civilized  world  for  a  quarter  of  a 
century,  and  have  had  a  controlling  influence 
over  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  But  when 
did  a  human  being  ever  exercise  an  influ- 
ence more  salutary  and  benignant?  "Who 
is  there  that,  on  looking  back  over  a  great 
portion  of  his  life,  does  not  find  the  genius 
of  Scott  administering  to  his  pleasures,  be- 
guiling his  cares,  and  soothing  his  lonely 
sorrows?  Who  does  not  still  regard  his 
works  as  a  treasury  of  pure  enjoyment,  an 
armoury  to  which  to  resort  in  time  of  need, 
to  find  weapons  with  which  to  fight  off  the 
evils  and  the  griefs  of  life?  For  my  own 
part,  in  periods  of  dejection  I  have  hailed 
the  announcement  of  a  new  work  from  his 
pen  as  an  earnest  of  certain  pleasure  in  store 
for  me,  and  have  looked  forward  to  it  as  a 
traveller  in  a  waste  looks  to  a  green  spot  at 
a  distance,  where  he  feels  assured  of  solace 
and  refreshment.  When  I  consider  how 
much  he  has  thus  contributed  to  the  better 
hours  of  my  past  existence,  and  how  inde- 
pendent his  works  Mill  make  me,  at  times, 
of  all  the  world  for  my  enjoyment,  I  bless 
my  stars  that  cast  my  lot  in  his  days,  to  be 
thus  cheered  and  gladdened  by  the  outpour- 
ings of  his  genius.  I  consider  it  one  of  the 
greatest  advantages  that  I  have  derived  from 
my  literary  career,  that  it  has  elevated  me 
into  genial  communion  with  such  a  spirit; 
and  as  a  tribute  of  gratitude  for  his  friend- 
ship, and  veneration  for  his  memory,  I  cast 
this  humble  stone  upon  his  cairn,  which  will 
soon,  I  trust,  be  piled  aloft  with  the  contri- 
butions of  abler  hands. 

The  Crayon  Miscellany. 

IRVING'S  LAST  INTERVIEW  WITH  SCOTT. 

It  was  at  Sunnyside,  on  a  glorious  afternoon 
in  June,  1855,  that  surrounded  by  scenei-y 
which  Irving  has  best  described,  he  narrated 
to  me  (S.  Austin  Allibone)  the  following 
account  of  his  last  interview  with  Scott: 

"  I  was  in  London  when  Scott  arrived  after 
his  attack  of  paralysis,  on  his  way  to  the 
continent  in  search  of  health.  I  received  a 
note  from  Lockhart,  begging  me  to  come 
and  take  dinner  with  Scott  and  himself  the 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


next  day.  When  I  entered  the  room,  Scott 
grasped  my  hand,  and  looked  me  steadfastly 
in  the  face.  '  Time  has  dealt  gently  with 
you,  my  friend,  since  we  parted,'  he  ex- 
claimed:— he  referred  to  the  difference  in 
himself  since  we  had  met.  At  dinner,  I 
could  see  that  Scott's  mind  was  failing.  lie 
was  painfully  conscious  of  it  himself.  He 
would  talk  with  much  animation,  and  we 
would  listen  with  the  most  respectful  atten- 
tion ;  but  there  was  an  effort  and  an  em- 
barrassment in  his  manner:  he  knew  all 
was  not  right.  It  was  very  distressing,  and 
we  [Irving,  Lockhart,  and  Anne  ScottJ  tried 
to  keep  up  the  conversation  between  our- 
selves, that  Sir  Walter  might  talk  as  little 
as  possible.  After  dinner  he  took  rny  arm 
to  walk  up-stairs,  which  he  did  with  diffi- 
culty. He  turned  and  looked  in  my  face, 
and  said,  '  They  need  not  tell  a  man  his 
mind  is  not  affected  when  his  body  is  as 
much  impaired  as  mine.'  This  was  my 
last  interview  with  Scott.  I  heard  after- 
wards that  he  was  better ;  but  I  never  saw 
him  again." 

Two  years  later  (in  1857),  in  narrating 
the  same  event,  Irving  told  me  that  as  Scott 
passed  up  the  stairs  with  him  after  dinner,  he 
remarked,  "  Times  are  sadly  changed  since 
we  walked  up  the  Eildnn  hills  together." 

Allibone's  Critical  Dictionary  of  English 
Literature  and  British  and  American 
Authors,  ii.  1970:  Scott,  Sir  Walter. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT, 

the  son  of  the  Rev.  Isaac  Hunt  and  Miss 
Mary  Shewell,  the  daughter  of  Stephen 
Shewell,  a  merchant  of  Philadelphia,  was 
born  1784,  and  after  a  life  of  great  literary  ac- 
tivity, accompanied  with  pecuniary  troubles, 
died  at  Putney,  England,  1859.  See  (Lon- 
don) Gentleman's  Magazine,  Oct.  1859,  425 
(Obituary),  his  Autobiography  and  Remi- 
niscences, 1850,  3  vols.  post  8vo,  and  The 
Correspondence  of  Leigh  Hunt,  Edited  by 
his  Eldest  Son  [Thornton  Hunt],  Lond., 
1862,  2  vols.  12rno.  Works:  Juvenilia,  or, 
A  Collection  of  Poems  Written  between  the 
Ages  of  Twelve  and  Sixteen,  1801,  12mo, 
2d  edit.,  1802  ;  Critical  Essays  on  the  Per- 
formers of  the  London  Theatres,  etc.,  Lond., 
1S07,  12mo,2dedit.,  1808,  12rno;  Methodism, 
1809,  8vo;  Reformist's  Reply  to  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  1810,  Svo;  The  Reflector, 
Nos.  1-4,  1810;  Reply  on  the  Attorney- 
General's  Information,  1812;  Classic  Tales, 
1813,  5  vols.  12mo  ;  The  Feast  of  the  Poets, 
etc.,  1814,  cr.  8vo,  2d  edit,,  1815;  Descent 
of  Liberty,  a  Mask,  1815,  12mo;  The  Story 
of  Rimini,  a  Poem,  1816,  fp.  8vo,  3d  edit., 


1819,  12mo;  Foliage:  Poems,  1818,  12mo; 
The  Indicator,  100  numbers,  1819-21,  2 
vols.  med.  8vo ;  Amyntas,  a  Tale  of  the 
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12mo;  Indicator  and  Companion,  1822,  2 
vols.  post  8vo,  1834,  2  vols.  post  8vo,  1840, 
roy.  8vo,  with  The  Seer,  1842,  roy.  8vo,  1848, 
roy.  8vo;  The  Liberal  [with  Byron,  Hazlitt, 
and  Shelley],  1822,  4  pts.,  8'vo  :  The  Lit- 
erary Examiner.  26  numbers,  1823,  med.Svo; 
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of  the  Year,  n.  d  ,  12mo;  Ultra-Crepidarius: 
a  Satire  on  William  Gifford  ;  Recollections 
of  Lord  Byron  and  some  of  his  Contem- 
poraries, etc.,  1828,  4to,  2d  edit.,  1828,  2 
vols.  8vo;  The  Tatler,  1831-32:  Poetical 
Works,  1832,  8vo,  1833,  8vo,  1844,  32mo; 
Sir  Ralph  Esher,  a  Romance,  1832,  3  vols. 
post  Svo,  1836, 12mo,  1850,  post  8vo ;  London 
Journal,  1834-35,  2  vols.  fol. ;  Captain  Sword 
and  Captain  Penn,  a  Poem,  1839,  fp.  Svo, 
3d  edit.,  1849,  12mo:  A  Legend  of  Florence, 
a  Play,  1840,  8vo ;  The  Seer,  or  Common 
Places  Refreshed,  1840-41,  2  pts.,  8vo,  1848, 
med.Svo,  with  The  Indicator  and  Companion, 
1842,  roy.  8vo,  1848,  roy.  8vo;  The  Palfrey, 
a  Love  Story  of  Old  Times,  a  Poem,  1842, 
8vo;  One  Hundred  Romances  of  Real  Life, 
a  Selection,  1843,  roy.  8vo  ;  Imagination  and 
Fancy,  or  Selections  from  the  English  Poets, 
Illustrative  of  these  First  Requisites  of  their 
Art,  1844,  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1845,  post  8vo.  3d 
edit.,  1852,  cr.  Svo;  Christiamsm  [1846], 
12mo:  A  Manual  of  Domestic  Devotions: 
Printed  only  for  private  circulation  :  Stories 
from  the  Italian  Poets,  with  Lives  of  the 
Writers,  1846,  2  vols.  post  Svo,  1854,  2  vols. 
post  Svo  :  Wit  and  Humour,  Selected  from 
the  English  Poets,  etc.,  1S46,  post  8vo.  1852. 
post  Svo ;  A  Jar  of  Honey  from  Mount  Hybla, 
1847,  post  Svo.  1852,  12mo;  Men,  Women, 
and  Books :  Sketches,  Essays,  and  Critical 
Memoirs  [from  his  uncollected  prose  wri- 
tings], 1847,  2  vols.  post  Svo,  1852,  2  vols. 
post  Svo ;  The  Town,  its  Character  and 
Events,  1848,  2  vols.  post  Svo ;  A  Book  for 
a  Corner :  Selections  in  Prose  and  Verse, 

1849,  2  vols.  12mo,  2d  edit.,  1851,  post  Svo, 
3d  edit.,  1858,  post  Svo  ;  Autobiography  and 
Reminiscences,  1850,  3  vols.  post  Svo,  1852, 
3  vols.  post   Svo;    Reading   for   Railways, 

1850,  12mo;  Table-Talk,  Imaginary  Conver- 
sations of  Pope  and  Swift,  1S50,  post  Svo, 
1852,  post  Svo;  Religion  of  the  Heart:  A 
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Scenes,  Lyrica,  and  other  Beauties,  selected 
from    Beaumont    and    Fletcher,    etc.,   with 
Preface,  1855,  post  Svo. 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


373 


Many  of  his  works  have  been  republished 
in  Boston,  Philadelphia,  and  New  York. 
Hunt's  Complete  Poetical  Works,  Collected 
and  Arranged  by  Himself,  Boston,  Ticknor 
&  Fields,  1857,  2  vols.  32mo  ;  Hunt's  Works, 
New  York,  Derby  &  Jackson,  1857,  4  vols. 
12mo  ;  A  Day  by  the  Fire,  and  other  Papers, 
Hitherto  Uncollected,  by  Leigh  Hunt,  Bos- 
ton. Roberts  Brothers,  1870,  1  vol.  In  18U8 
he  founded  The  Examiner,  and  edited  it  for 
many  years ;  he  also  edited  The  Monthly 
Repository;  contributed  to  The  News,  The 
Round  Table,  The.  True  Sun,  Edinburgh 
Review,  and  Westminster  Review ;  edited 
The  Dramatic  Works  of  Wycherly,  Con- 
greve,  and  Farquhar,  with  Biographical  and 
Critical  Notices,  Lond.,  1840,  roy.  8vo  (re- 
viewed by  Lord  Macau  lay  in  Edin.  Review, 
Jan.  1841,  and  in  his  Essays)  ;  and  made 
an  admirable  translation  of  the  Lutrin  of 
Boileau.  See  Selections  from  the  Corre- 
spondence of  the  Late  Macvey  Napier,  Esq., 
Lond.,  1879,  8vo.  Index,  547. 

"  To  my  taste,  the  Author  of  Rimini  and  Editor 
of  the  Examiner  is  among  the  bust  and  least  cor- 
rupted of  our  poetical  prose-writers.  In  his  light 
but  well -supported  columns  we  find  the  raciness,  the 
sharpness,  and  the  sparkling  effect  of  poetry,  with 
Lttle  that  is  extravagant  or  far-fctched,  and  no 
turgidity  or  pompous  pretension." — HAZLITT:  Ta- 
ble- Talk  :  On  the  Pruse  Style  of  Poets. 

"  His  prose  is  gossiping,  graceful,  and  searching, 
and  charms  many  readers." — ALLA..V  CUNNINGHAM  : 
Jii'iij.  and  Ci-it.  Mist,  of  the  Lit.  of  the  Last  Fifty 
Years,  1833. 

WHAT  is  POETRY? 

If  a  young  reader  should  ask,  after  all, 
What  is  the  best  way  of  knowing  bad  poets 
from  good,  the  best  poets  from  the  next  best, 
and  so  on?  the  answer  is,  the  only  and  two- 
fold way  :  first,  the  perusal  of  the  best  poets 
with  the  greatest  attention ;  and  second,  the 
cultivation  of  that  love  of  truth  and  beauty 
which  made  them  what  they  are.  Every 
true  reader  of  poetry  partakes  a  more  than 
ordinary  portion  of  the  poetic  nature;  and 
no  one  can  be  completely  such  who  does  not 
love,  or  take  an  interest  in,  everything  that 
interests  the  poet,  from  the  firmament  to  the 
daisy, — from  the  highest  heart  of  man  to 
the  most  pitiable  of  the  low.  It  is  a  good 
practice  to  read  with  pen  in  hand,  marking 
what  is  liked  or  doubted.  It  rivets  the 
attention,  realizes  the  greatest  amount  of 
enjoyment,  and  facilitates  reference.  It  en- 
ables the  reader  also,  from  time  to  time,  to 
see  what  progress  he  makes  with  his  own 
mind,  and  how  it  grows  up  to  the  stature  of 
its  exalter. 

If  the  same  person  should  ask,  What  class 
of  poetry  is  the  highest?  I  should  say  un- 
doubtedly, The  Epic;  for  it  includes  the 
drama,  with  narration  besides  ;  or  the  speak- 


ing and  action  of  the  characters,  with  the 
speaking  of  the  poet  himself,  whose  utmost 
address  is  taxed  to  relate  all  well  for  so  long 
a  time,  particularly  in  the  passages  least 
sustained  by  enthusiasm.  Whether  this 
class  has  included  the  greatest  poet,  is 
another  question  still  under  trial ;  for  Shak- 
speare  perplexes  all  such  verdicts,  even 
when  the  claimant  is  Homer:  though  if  a 
judgment  may  be  drawn  from  his  early  nar- 
ratives ("Venus  and  Adonis,"  and  "The 
Rape  of  Lucrece"),  it  is  to  be  doubted 
whether  even  Shakspeare  could  have  told  a 
story  like  Homer,  owing  to  that  incessant 
activity  and  superfoetation  of  thought,  a  little 
less  of  which  may  be  occasionally  desired  even 
in  his  plays ; — if  it  were  possible,  once  possess- 
ing anything  of  his,  to  wish  it  away.  Next 
to  Homer  and  Shakspeare  come  such  narra- 
tors as  the  less  universal  but  intenser  Dante; 
Milton,  with  his  dignified  imagination  ;  the 
universal  profoundly  simple  Chaucer;  and 
luxuriant  remote  Spenser, — immortal  child 
in  poetry's  most  poetic  solitudes:  then  the 
great  second-rate  dramatists ;  unless  those 
who  are  better  acquainted  with  Greek  tragedy 
than  I  am  demand  a  place  for  them  before 
Chaucer:  then  the  airy  yet  robust  univer- 
sality of  Ariosto;  the  hearty  out-of-door  na- 
ture of  Theocritus,  also  a  universalist ;  the 
finest  lyrical  poets  (who  only  take  short 
flights,  compared  with  the  narrators)  ;  the 
purely  contemplative  poets  who  have  more 
thought  than  feeling  ;  the  descriptive,  satiri- 
cal, didactic,  epigrammatic.  It  is  to  be 
borne  in  mind,  however,  that  the  first  poet 
of  an  inferior  class  may  be  superior  to  fol- 
lowers in  the  train  of  a  higher  one,  though 
the  superiority  is  by  no  means  to  be  taken 
for  granted:  otherwise  Pope  would  be  su- 
perior to  Fletcher,  and  Butler  to  Pope.  Im- 
agination, teeming  with  action  and  character, 
makes  the  greatest  poets ;  feeling  and  thought 
the  next ;  fancy  (by  itself)  the  next ;  wit  the 
last.  Thought  by  itself  makes  no  poet  at  al  1 : 
for  the  mere  conclusions  of  the  understand- 
ing can  at  best  be  only  so  many  intellectual 
matters  of  fact.  Feeling,  even  destitute  of 
conscious  thought,  stands  a  far  better  poet- 
ical chance  ;  feeling  being  a  sort  of  thought 
without  the  process  of  thinking, — a  grasper 
of  the  truth  without  seeing  it.  And  what 
is  very  remarkable,  feeling  seldom  makes 
the  blunders  that  thought  does.  An  idle 
distinction  has  been  made  between  taste 
and  judgment.  Taste  is  the  very  maker  of 
judgment.  Put  an  artificial  fruit  in  your 
mouth,  or  only  handle  it,  and  you  will 
soon  perceive  the  difference  between  judging 
from  taste  or  tact,  and  judging  from  the 
abstract  figment  called  judgment.  The  lat- 
ter does  hut  throw  you  into  guesses  and 
doubts.  Hence  the  conceits  that  astonish  us 


374 


JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


in  the  gravest  and  even  subtlest  thinkers, 
Avhose  taste  is  not  proportionate  to  their 
mental  perceptions;  men  like  Donne,  for 
instance ;  who,  apart  from  accidental  per- 
sonal impressions,  seem  to  look  at  nothing 
as  it  really  is,  but  only  as  to  what  may  be 
thought  of  it.  Hence,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  delightfulness  of  those  poets  who  never 
violate  truth  of  feeling,  whether  in  things 
real  or  imaginary  ;  who  are  always  consistent 
with  their  object  and  its  requirements ;  and 
who  run  the  great  round  of  nature,  not  to 
perplex  and  be  perplexed,  but  to  make  them- 
selves and  us  happy.  And,  luckily,  delight- 
fulness  is  not  incompatible  with  greatness, 
willing  soever  as  men  may  be  in  their  pres- 
ent imperfect  state  to  set  the  power  to  sub- 
jugate above  the  power  to  please. 

Truth,  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  makes 
great  writing.  This  is  the  reason  why  such 
poets  as  Ariosto,  though  not  writing  with  a 
constant  detail  of  thought  and  feeling  like 
Dante,  are  justly  considered  great  as  well 
as  delightful.  Their  greatness  proves  itself 
by  the  same  truth  of  nature,  and  sustained 
power,  though  in  a  different  way.  Their 
action  is  not  so  crowded  and  weighty ;  their 
sphere  has  more  territories  less  fertile;  but 
it  has  enchantments  of  its  own  which  excess 
of  thought  would  spoil, — luxuries,  laughing 
graces,  animal  spirits ;  and  not  to  recognize 
the  beauty  and  greatness  of  these,  treated  as 
they  treat  them,  is  simply  to  be  defective  in 
sympathy.  Ever}7  planet  is  not  Mars  or 
Saturn.  There  is  also  Venus  and  Mercury. 
There  is  one  genius  of  the  south,  and  an- 
other of  the  north,  and  others  uniting  both. 
The  render  who  is  too  thoughtless  or  too  sen- 
sitive to  like  intensity  of  any  sort,  and  he 
who  is  too  thoughtful  or  too  dull  to  like  any- 
thing but  the  greatest  possible  stimulus  of 
retlection  or  passion,  are  equally  wanting  in 
complexional  fitness  for  a  thorough  enjoy- 
ment of  books.  Ariosto  occasionally  says 
as  line  things  as  Dante,  and  Spenser  as 
Shakspeare ;  but  the  business  of  both  is  to 
enjoy  ;  and  in  order  to  partake  their  enjoy- 
ment to  its  full  extent,  you  must  feel  what 
poetry  is  in  the  general  as  well  as  the  par- 
ticular, must  be  aware  that  there  are  differ- 
ent songs  of  the  spheres,  some  fuller  of 
notes,  and  others  of  a  sustained  delight: 
and  as  the  former  keep  you  perpetually 
alive  to  thought  or  passion,  so  from  the 
latter  you  receive  a  constant  harmonious 
sense  of  truth  and  beauty,  more  agreeable 
perhaps  on  the  whole,  though  less  exciting. 
Ariosto,  for  instance,  does  not  tell  a  story 
with  the  brevity  and  concentrated  passion 
of  Dante;  every  sentence  is  not  so  full  of 
matter,  nor  the  style  so  removed  from  the 
indifference  of  prose;  yet  you  are  charmed 
with  a  truth  of  another  sort,  equally  char- 


acteristic of  the  writer,  equally  drawn  from 
nature,  and  substituting  a  healthy  sense  of 
enjoyment  for  intenser  emotion.  Exclusive- 
ness  of  liking  for  this  or  that  mode  of  truth, 
only  shows,  either  that  the  reader's  percep- 
tions are  limited,  or  that  he  would  sacrifice 
truth  itself  to  his  favourite  form  of  it.  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  who  was  as  trenchant  witli 
his  pen  as  his  sword,  hailed  the  "  Faerie 
Queene"  of  his  friend  Spenser  in  verses  in 
which  he  said  that  ''  Petrarch"  was  hence- 
forth to  be  no  more  heard  of;  and  that  in  all 
English  poetry  there  was  nothing  he  counted 
"of  any  price''  but  the  effusions  of  the  new 
author.  Yet  Petrarch  is  still  living  ;  Chau- 
cer was  not  abolished  by  Sir  Walter;  and 
Shakspeare  is  thought  somewhat  valuable. 
A  botanist  might  as  well  have  said  that  myr- 
tles and  oaks  were  to  disappear  because 
acacias  had  come  up.  It  is  with  the  poet's 
creations  as  with  Nature's,  great  or  small. 
Wherever  truth  and  beauty,  whatever  their 
amount,  can  be  shaped  into  verse,  and  answer 
to  some  demand  for  it  in  our  hearts,  there 
poetry  is  to  be  found ;  whether  in  produc- 
tions grand  and  beautiful  as  some  great 
event,  or  some  mighty,  leafy  solitude,  or  no 
bigger  and  more  pretending  than  a  sweet 
face  or  a  bunch  of  violets ;  whether  in  Ho- 
mer's epic  or  Gray's  "Elegy,"'  in  the  en- 
chanted gardens  of  Ariosto  and  Spenser,  or 
the  very  pot-herbs  of  the  "  Schoolmistress" 
of  Shenstone,  the  balms  of  the  simplicity 
of  a  cottage.  Not  to  know  and  feel  this,  is 
to  be  deficient  in  the  universality  of  Nature 
herself,  who  is  a  poetess  on  the  smallest  as 
well  as  the  largest  scale,  and  who  calls  upon 
us  to  admire  all  her  productions  ;  not  in- 
deed with  the  same  degree  of  admiration, 
but  with  no  refusal  of  it  except  to  defect. 

I  cannot  draw  this  essay  towards  its  con- 
clusion better  than  with  three  memorable 
words  of  Milton,  who  has  said  that  poetry, 
in  comparison  with  science,  is  "simple,  sen- 
suous, and  passionate."  By  simple,  he 
means  imperplexed  and  self-evident  ;  by 
sensuous,  genial  and  full  of  imagery  ;  by 
passionate,  excited  and  enthusiastic.  I  am 
aware  that  different  constructions  have  been 
put  on  some  of  these  words  ;  but  the  context 
seems  to  me  to  necessitate  those  before  us. 
I  quote,  however,  not  from  the  original,  but 
from  an  extract  in  the  "  Remarks  on  Para- 
dise Lost,"  by  Richardson. 

What  the  poet  has  to  cultivate  above  all 
things  is  love  and  truth  ;  what  he  has  to 
avoid,  like  poison,  is  the  fleeting  and  the 
false.  He  will  get  no  good  by  proposing  to 
be  "in  earnest  at  the  moment."  His  earn- 
estness must  be  innate  and  habitual;  born 
with  him,  and  felt  to  be  his  most  precious 
inheritance.  "I  expect  neither  profit  nor 
general  fame  by  my  writings,"  says  Cole- 


JOHN  WILSON. 


375 


ridge,  in  the  Preface  to  his  Poems  ;  "  and  I 
consider  myself  as  having  been  amply  re- 
paid without  either.  Poetry  has  been  to  me 
its  own  exceeding  great  reward  ;  i  t  has  soothed 
my  afflictions  ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined 
my  enjoyments  ;  it  has  endeared  solitude ; 
and  it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing  to 
discover  the  good  and  the  beautiful  in  all 
that  meets  and  surrounds  me." — Pickering' s 
edition,  p.  10. 

'•  Poetry,"  says  Shelley,  "lifts  the  veil  from 
the  hidden  beauty  of  the  world,  and  makes 
familiar  objects  be  as  if  they  were  not  famil- 
iar. It  reproduces  all  that  it  represents; 
and  the  impersonations  clothed  in  itsElysian 
light  stand  thenceforward  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  have  once  contemplated  them,  as 
memorials  of  that  gentle  and  exalted  content 
which  extends  itself  over  all  thoughts  and 
actions  with  which  it  co-exists.  The  great 
secret  of  morals  is  love,  or  a  going  out  of 
our  own  nature,  and  an  identification  of 
ourselves  with  the  beautiful  which  exists  in 
thought,  action,  or  person  not  our  own.  A 
man,  to  be  greatly  good,  must  imagine  in- 
tensely and  comprehensively  ;  he  must  put 
himself  in  the  place  of  another,  and  of  many 
others ;  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  his  spe- 
cies become  his  own.  The  great  instrument 
of  moral  good  is  imagination  ;  and  poetry 
administers  to  the  effect  by  acting  upon  the 
cause.'' — Essays  and  Letters,  vol.  i.  p.  16. 

I  would  not  willingly  say  anything  after 
perorations  like  these;  but  as  treatises  on 
poetry  may  chance  to  have  auditors  who 
think  themselves  called  upon  to  vindicate 
the  superiority  of  what  is  termed  useful 
knowledge,  it  may  be  as  well  to  add,  that, 
if  the  poet  may  be  allowed  to  pique  himself 
on  any  one  thing  more  than  other,  compared 
with  those  who  undervalue  him,  it  is  on  that 
power  of  undervaluing  nobody,  and  no  at- 
tainments different  from  his  own,  which  is 
given  him  by  the  very  faculty  of  imagina- 
tion which  they  despise.  The  greater  in- 
cludes the  less.  They  do  not  see  that  their 
inability  to  comprehend  him  argues  the 
smaller  capacity.  No  man  recognizes  the 
worth  of  utility  more  than  the  poet:  he 
only  desires  that  the  meaning  of  the  term 
in  ay  not  come  short  of  its  greatness,  and  ex- 
clude the  noblest  necessities  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  lie  is  quite  as  much  pleased,  for 
instance,  with  the  facilities  for  rapid  convey- 
ance afforded  him  by  the  railroad,  as  the 
dullest  confiner  of  its  advantages  to  that 
single  idea,  or  as  the  greatest  two-idea'd 
man  who  varies  that  single  idea  with  hug- 
ging himself  on  his  "  buttons"  or  his  good 
dinner.  But  he  sees  also  the  beauty  of  the 
country  through  which  he  passes,  of  the 
towns,  of  the  heavens,  of  the  steam-engine 
itself,  thundering  and  foaming  along  like  a 


magic  horse ;  of  the  affections  that  are  carry- 
ing, perhaps,  half  the  passengers  on  their 
journey,  nay,  of  those  of  the  great  two-idea' d 
man;  and,  beyond  this,  he  discerns  the  in- 
calculable amount  of  good,  and  knowledge, 
and  refinement,  and  mutual  consideration 
which  this  wonderful  invention  is  fitted  to 
circulate  over  the  globe,  perhaps  to  the  dis- 
placement of  war  itself,  and  certainly  to  the 
diffusion  of  millions  of  enjoyments. 

"And  a  button-maker,  after  all,  invented 
it!"  cries  our  friend.  Pardon  me,  it  was  a 
nobleman.  A  button-maker  may  be  a  very 
excellent,  and  a  very  poetical  man  too,  and 
yet  not  have  been  the  first  man  visited  by  a 
sense  of  the  gigantic  powers  of  the  combina- 
tion of  water  and  fire.  It  was  a  nobleman 
who  first  thought  of  it,  a  captain  who  first 
tried  it,  and  a  button-maker  who  perfected 
it.  And  he  who  put  the  nobleman  on  such 
thoughts  was  the  great  philosopher  Bacon, 
who  said  that  poetry  had  "  something  divine 
in  it,"  and  was  necessary  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  human  mind. 

Imagination  and  Fancy. 


JOHN        WILSON      ("CHRIS- 
TOPHER  NORTH"), 

born  at  Paisley,  Scotland,  1785,  and  edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Glasgow  and 
Magdalene  College,  Oxford,  became  a  con- 
tributor to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  with  No. 
7, October,  1817, and  continued  hisconnection 
with  this  periodical  (acting  as  literary  edi- 
tor, whilst  Blackwood  himself  managed  the 
business  department),  writing  with  more  or 
less  frequency,  until  September,  1852,  No. 
443,  in  which  appeared  his  last  paper,  Dies 
Boreales,  No.  x.,  Christopher  under  Canvas  ; 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh.  1820-1852;  died  1854. 
Works  :  The  Isle  of  Palms,  and  other  Poems, 
Edin.,  1812,  8vo ;  The  City  of  the  Plague, 
and  other  Poems,  Edin.,  1816,  Svo,  2d  edit, 
1820,  Svo;  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish 
Life,  Euin.,  1822,  p.  8vo.  1839,  fp.  8vo,  1844, 
fp.  8vo,  1806,  fp.  8vo  ;  The  Trials  of  Marga- 
ret Lindsay,  Edin.,  1823,  p.  8vo,  1825,  fp.  8vo, 
1844,  fp.  8vo,  1845,  fp.  8vo,  1850.  fp.  Svo, 
1854,  fp.  Svo,  1866,  fp.  8vo;  The  Foresters, 
Edin.,  1825,  p.  8vo,  1839,  fp.  Svo,  1845,  fp. 
Svo,  1852,  fp.  Svo,  1867,  fp.  Svo;  Poetical 
and  Dramatic  Works,  Edin.,  1825.  2  vols. 
post  8vo ;  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Writings 
of  Robert  Burns,  Glasgow,  1841,  4to;  The 
Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Articles  of  Chris- 
topher North,  Phila.,  1842,  3  vols.  12mo 
(from  Blackwood's  Magazine — incomplete)  ; 
Recreations  of  Christopher  North,  Edin., 
1842,  3  vols.  post  Svo  (from  Blackwood'a 


3T6 


JOHN   WILSON. 


Magazine) ;  Noctes  Ambrosianse  (from  Black- 
wood's  Magazine),  Phila..  1843, 4vols.  12mo: 
new  edition,  with  Memoirs  and  Notes  by  R. 
Shelton  Mackenzie,  D.C.L..  New  York,  1854, 
.  5  vols.  12mo,  4th  edit.,  1857,  4  vols.  12mo, 
revised  edit.,  1863,  5  vols.  sin.  8vo  and  4to : 
edition  by  Professor  Terrier,  Edin.,  1855-56, 
4  vols.  cr.  8vo  :  being  vols.  i.-iv.  of  The 
Works  of  Professor  Wilson,  edited  by  his 
son-in-law,  Professor  Ferrier,  Edin.,  1855—58, 
12  vols.  cr.  8vo  ;  Specimens  of  British  Crit- 
ics, Phila.,  1846,  12mo  (from  Blackwood's 
Magazine)  ;  Dies  Boreales,  or,  Christopher 
under  Canvas,  Phila.,  1850,  12mo  (from 
Blackwood's  Magazine — incomplete).  See 
41  Christopher  North''  :  A  Memoir  of  John 
Wilson,  etc.,  by  his  Daughter,  Mrs.  Gordon, 
Edin.,  1862,  2  vols.  cr.  8vo,  new  edit.,  1863, 
2  vols.  cr.  Svo,  with  Preface  by  11.  S.  Mac- 
kenzie, D.C.L.,  New  York,  1863,  cr.  Svo, 
large  paper,  100  copies,  4to. 

"  His  poetical  powers  are  very  varied, — that  is, 
he  can  handle  any  subject  in  its  own  peculiar  spirit. 
.  .  .  Indeed,  throughout  all  his  smaller  poems 
there  is  a  deep  feeling  for  nature  ;  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  workings  of  the  heart ;  and  a 
liquid  fluency  of  language  almost  lyrical." — AL- 
LAN CUNNINGHAM  :  liioy.  find  Crit.  Hint,  of  the  Lit. 
of  the  J\iet  Fifty  Yfai-s,  1833. 

"  As  to  his  poetry,  I  cannot  say  that  it  has 
been  underrated, — I  only  say  that  it  has  been 
eclipsed  by  his  splendid  prose.  But  in  The  Isl'e 
of  Palms  and  The  City  of  the  Plague,  to  say  no- 
thing of  his  smaller  poems,  there  is  much  which 
'  the  world  will  not  willingly  letdie.'  Scott,  Southey, 
and  Wilson  are  men  who,  had  they  never  written 
prose,  would  have  stood  higher  among  Poets  than 
they  do."— R.  S.  MACKENZIE,  D.C.L. :  Life  of  Pro- 
feoaor  Wilson,  in  his  edition  of  the  Soctts,  ii.,  xxiv. 

THE  Sxo\v-SxoRM. 

Where  is  Flora?  Her  lover  has  forgotten 
her. — and  he  is  alone — nor  knows  it — he 
and  the  red  deer — an  enormous  animal,  fast 
stiffening  in  the  frost  of  death. 

Some  large  flakes  of  snow  are  in  the  air. 
and  they  seem  to  waver  and  whirl,  though 
an  hour  ago  there  was  not  a  breath.  Faster 
they  fall  and  faster, — the  flakes  are  almost 
as  large  as  leaves  ;  and  overhead  whence  so 
suddenly  has  come  that  huge  yellow  cloud? 
"  Flora,  where  are  you  ?  where  are  you, 
Flora?"  and  from  the  huge  hide  the  boy  leaps 
up,  and  sees  that  no  Flora  is  at  hand.  But 
yonder  is  a  moving  speck,  far  off  upon  the 
snow.  'Tis  she, — 'tis  she  ;  and  again  Ronald 
turns  his  eyes  upon  the  quarry,  and  the  heart 
of  the  hunter  burns  within  him  like  a  new- 
stirred  fire.  Shrill  as  the  eagle's  cry,  dis- 
turbed in  his  eyry,  he  sends  a  shout  down 
the  glen,  and  Flora,  with  cheeks  pale  and 
bright  by  fits,  is  at  last  by  his  side.  Panting 
and  speechless  she  stands,  and  then  dizzily 
«inks  on  his  breast.  Her  hair  is  ruffled  by 


the  wind  that  revives  her,  and  her  face  all 
moistened  by  the  snow-flakes,  now  not  fall- 
ing, but  driven, — for  the  day  has  undergone 
a  dismal  change,  and  all  over  the  sky  are 
now  lowering  savage  symptoms  of  a  fast- 
coming  night-storm. 

Bare  is  poor  Flora's  head,  and  sorely 
drenched  her  hair,  that  an  hour  or  two  ago 
glittered  in  the  sunshine.  Her  shivering 
frame  misses  now  the  warmth  of  the  plaid, 
which  almost  no  cold  can  penetrate,  and 
which  had  kept  the  vital  current  flowing 
freely  in  many  a  bitter  blast.  What  would 
the  miserable  boy  give  now  for  the  coverings 
lying  far  away,  which,  in  his  foolish  pas- 
sion, he  flung  down  to  chase  that  fatal  deer! 
•'  Oh,  Flora  !  if  you  would  not  fear  to  stay 
here  by  yourself,  under  the  protection  of 
God,  who  surely  will  not  forsake  you,  soon 
will  I  go  and  come  from  the  place  where 
our  plaids  are  lying;  and  under  the  shelter 
of  the  deer  we  may  be  able  to  outlive  the 
hurricane — you  wrapped  up  in  them — and 
folded,  0  my  dearest  sister,  in  my  arms." 
"  I  will  go  with  you  down  the  glen,  Ronald  ;" 
and  she  left  his  breast ;  but  weak  as  a  day- 
old  lamb,  tottered,  and  sank  down  on  the 
snow.  The  cold — intense  as  if  the  air  was 
ice — had  chilled  her  very  heart,  after  the 
heat  of  that  long  race  ;  and  it  was  manifest 
that  here  she  must  be  for  the  night — to  live 
or  to  die.  And  the  night  seemed  already 
come,  so  full  was  the  lift  of  snow;  while 
the  glimmer  every  moment  became  gloomier, 
as  if  the  day  were  expiring  long  before  its 
time.  Howling  at  a  distance  down  the 
glen  was  heard  a  sea-born  tempest  from  the 
Linn  he  Loch,  where  now  they  both  knew 
the  tide  was  tumbling  in,  bringing  with  it 
sleet  and  snow — blasts  from  afar  ;  and  from 
the  opposite  quarter  of  the  sky  an  inland 
tempest  was  raging  to  meet  it,  while  every 
lesser  glen  had  its  own  uproar,  so  that  on 
all  hands  they  were  environed  with  death. 

"  I  will  go, — and,  till  I  return,  leave  you 
with  God."  "Go,  Ronald!"  and  he  went 
and  came,  as  if  he  had  been  endowed  with 
the  raven's  wings. 

Miles  away  and  miles  away  had  he  flown, 
and  an  hour  had  not  been  with  his  going 
and  his  coming  ;  but  what  a  dreary  wretch- 
edness meanwhile  had  been  hers !  She 
feared  that  she  was  dying, — that  the  cold 
snow-storm  was  killing  her, — and  that  she 
would  never  more  see  Ronald,  to  say  to  him 
Farewell.  Soon  as  he  was  gone  all  her  cour- 
age had  died.  Alone,  she  feared  death,  and 
wept  to  think  how  hard  it  was  for  one  so 
young  thus  miserably  to  die.  He  came, 
and  her  whole  being  was  changed.  Folded 
up  in  both  the  plaids,  she  felt  resigned. 
"  Oh !  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  Ronald :  for  your 
love — great  as  it  is — is  not  as  my  love.  You 


JOHN   WILSON. 


377 


must  never  forget  me,  Ronald,  when  your 
poor  Flora  is  dead." 

Religion  with  these  two  young  creatures 
was  as  clear  as  the  lightof  the  Sabbath-day, — 
and  their  belief  in  heaven  just  the  same  as 
in  earth.  The  will  of  God  they  thought  of 
just  as  they  thought  of  their  parent's  will, 
— and  the  same  was  their  living  obedience 
to  its  decrees.  If  she  was  to  die.  supported 
now  by  the  presence  of  her  brother,  Flora 
was  utterly  resigned  ;  if  she  was  to  live,  her 
heart  imagined  to  itself  the  very  forms  of 
her  grateful  worship.  But  all  at  once  she 
closed  her  eyes,  she  ceased  breathing, — and, 
as  the  tempest  howled  and  rumbled  in  the 
glooin  that  fell  around  them  like  blindness, 
Ronald  almost  sunk  down,  thinking  that  she 
was  dead. 

"  Wretched  sinner  that  I  am  !  my  wicked 
madness  brought  her  here  to  die  of  cold  !" 
And  he  smote  his  breast,  and  tore  his  hair, 
and  feared  to  look  up,  lest  the  angry  eye  of 
God  were  looking  on  him  through  the  storm. 

All  at  once,  without  speaking  a  word, 
Ronald  lifted  Flora  in  his  arms,  and  walked 
away  up  the  glen,  here  almost  narrowed 
into  a  pass.  Distraction  gave  him  super- 
natural strength,  and  her  weight  seemed 
that  of  a  child.  Some  walls  of  what  had 
once  been  a  house,  he  had  suddenly  remem- 
bered, were  but  a  short  way  off;  whether  or 
not  they  had  any  roof  he  had  forgotten, — but 
the  thought  even  of  such  a  shelter  seemed  a 
thought  of  salvation.  There  it  was. — a 
snow-drift  at  the  opening  that  had  once 
been  a  door, — snow  up  the  holes  once  win- 
dows,— the  wood  of  the  roof  had  been  car- 
ried off  for  fuel,  and  the  snow-flakes  were 
falling  in,  as  if  they  would  soon  fill  up  the 
inside  of  the  ruin.  The  snow  in  front  was 
all  trampled,  as  by  sheep;  and  carrying  in 
his  burden  under  the  low  lintel,  he  saw  the 
place  was  filled  Avith  a  flock  that  had  fore- 
known the  hurricane,  and  that,  all  huddled 
together,  looked  on  him  as  on  the  shepherd, 
come  to  see  how  they  were  faring  in  the 
storm . 

And  a  young  shepherd  he  was,  with  a 
l.imb  apparently  dying  in  his  arms.  All 
colour,  all  motion,  all  breath  seemed  to  be 
gone ;  and  yet  something  convinced  his 
heart  that  she  was  yet  alive.  The  ruined 
hut  was  roofless,  but  across  an  angle  of  the 
walls  some  pine-branches  had  been  flung, 
as  a  sort  of  shelter  for  the  sheep  or  cattle 
that  might  repair  thither  in  cruel  weather, 
— some  pine-branches  left  by  the  wood-cut- 
ters who  had  felled  the  yew-trees  that  once 
stood  at  the  very  head  of  the  glen.  Into  that 
corner  the  snow-drift  had  not  yet  forced  its 
way,  and  he  sat  down  there,  with  Flora  in 
the  cherishing  of  his  embrace,  hoping  that 
the  warmth  of  his  distracted  heart  might  be 


felt  by  her,  who  was  as  cold  as  a  corpse. 
The  chill  air  was  somewhat  softened  by  the 
breath  of  the  huddled  flock,  and  the  edge  of 
the  cutting  wind  blunted  by  the  stones.  It 
was  a  place  in  which  it  seemed  possible  that 
she  might  revive,  miserable  as  it  was  with 
the  mire-mixed  snow,  and  almost  as  cold  as 
one  supposes  the  grave.  And  she  did  re- 
vive, and  under  the  half-open  lids  the  dim 
blue  appeared  to  be  not  yet  life-deserted. 
It  was  yet  but  the  alternoon, — night-like 
though  it  was,  —  and  he  thought,  as  he 
breathed  upon  her  lips,  that  a  faint  red  re- 
turned, and  that  they  felt  the  kisses  he 
dropt  on  them  to  driv-e  death  away. 

"Oh!  father,  go  seek  for  Ronald,  for  I 
dreamt  to-night  that  he  was  perishing  in  the 
snow."  "  Flora,  fear  not, — God  is  with  us."' 
*'  Wild  swans,  they  say,  are  come  to  Loch 
Phoil.  Let  us  go,  Ronald,  and  see  them  ; 
but  no  rifle, — for  why  kill  creatures  said  to 
be  so  beautiful  ?"  Over  them  where  they 
lay  bended  down  the  pine-branch  roof,  as 
if  it  would  give  way  beneath  the  increasing 
weight:  but  there  it  still  hung,  though  the 
drift  came  over  their  feet,  and  up  to  their 
knees,  and  seemed  stealing  upwards  to  be 
their  shroud.  "  Oh !  I  am  overcome  with 
drowsiness,  and  fain  would  be  allowed  to 
sleep.  Who  is  disturbing  me — and  what 
noise  is  this  in  our  house?"  "Fear  not. 
fear  not,  Flora, — God  is  with  us."  "  Mother  ! 
am  I  lying  in  your  arms?  My  father  surely 
is  not  in  the  storm.  Oh,  I  have  had  a  most 
dreadful  dream  !"  and  with  such  mutterings 
as  these  Flora  again  relapsed  into  that  peril- 
ous sleep  which  soon  becomes  that  of  death. 

Night  itself  came,  but  Flora  and  Ronald 
knew  it  not;  and  both  lay  motionless  in 
one  snow-shroud.  Many  passions,  though 
earth-born,  heavenly  all, — pity,  and  grief, 
and  love,  and  hope,  and  at  last  despair,  had 
prostrated  the  strength  they  had  so  long 
supported  ;  and  the  brave  boy — who  had 
been  for  some  time  feeble  as  a  very  child 
after  a  fever,  with  a  mind  confused  and 
wandering,  and  in  its  perplexities  sore 
afraid  of  some  nameless  ill — had  submitted 
to  lay  down  his  head  beside  his  Flora's,  and 
liad  soon  become,  like  her,  insensible  to  the 
night  and  all  its  storms. 

Bright  was  the  peat  fire  in  the  hut  of 
Flora's  parents  in  Glencoe, — and  they  were 
among  the  happiest  of  the  humble,  happy, 
blessing  this  the  birthday  of  their  blameless 
child.  They  thought  of  her.  singing  her 
sweet  songs  by  the  fireside  of  the  hut  in 
Glencreran,  and  tender  thoughts  of  her 
cousin  Ronald  wrere  with  them  in  their 
prayers.  No  warning  came  to  their  ears  in 
the  sigh  or  the  howl ;  for  fear  it  is  that  cre- 
ates its  own  ghosts,  .and  all  its  own  ghost-like 
visitings  ;  and  they  had  seen  their  Flora,  in 


378 


JOHN  WILSON. 


the  meekness  of  the  morning,  setting  forth 
on  her  way  over  the  quiet  mountains,  like 
a  fawn  to  play.  Sometimes  too,  Love,  who 
starts  at  shadows  as  if  they  were  of  the 
grave,  is  strangely  insensible  to  realities 
that  might  well  inspire  dismay.  So  it  was 
now  with  the  dwellers  in  the  hut  at  the  head 
of  Glencreran.  Their  Ronald  had  left  them 
in  the  morning, — night  had  come,  and  he 
and  Flora  were  not  there, — but  the  day  had 
been  almost  like  a  summer  day,  and  in  their 
infatuation  they  never  doubted  that  the 
happy  creatures  had  changed  their  minds, 
and  that  Flora  had  returned  with  him  to 
Gle'ncoe.  Ronald  had  laughingly  said,  that 
haply  he  might  surprise  the  people  in  that 
glen  by  bringing  back  to  them  Flora  on  her 
birthday,  and — strange  though  it  afterwards 
seemed  to  her  to  be — that  belief  prevented 
one  single  fear  from  touching  his  mother's 
heart,  and  she  and  her  husband  that  night 
lay  down  in  untroubled  sleep. 

And  what  could  have  been  done  for  them, 
had  they  been  told  by  some  good  or  evil 
spirit  that  their  children  were  in  the  clutches 
of  such  a  night?  As  well  seek  for  a  single 
bark  in  the  middle  of  the  misty  main  I  But 
the  inland  storm  had  been  seen  brewing 
among  the  mountains  round  King's-IIouse, 
and  hut  had  communicated  with  hut,  though 
far  apart  in  regions  where  the  traveller  sees 
no  symptoms  of  human  life.  Down  through 
the  long  cliff-pass  of  Mealanumy,  between 
Buchael-Etive  and  the  Black  Mount,  towards 
the  lone  house  of  Dalness,  that  lies  in  the 
everlasting  shadows,  went  a  band  of  shep- 
herds, trampling  their  way  across  a  hundred 
frozen  streams.  Dalness  joined  its  strength, 
and  then  away  over  the  ch-ift-bridgcd  chasms 
toiled  that  gathering,  with  their  sheep-dogs 
scouring  the  loose  snows  in  the  van,  Fingal, 
the  Red  Reaver,  with  his  head  aloft  on  the 
look-out  for  deer,  grimly  eying  the  corrie 
where  last  he  tasted  blood.  All  "  plaided 
in  their  tartan  array,"  these  shepherds 
laughed  at  the  storm, — and  hark,  you  hear 
the  bagpipe  play, — the  music  the  Highlands 
love  both  in  war  and  in  peace. 

"  They  think  then  of  the  owric  cattle, 
And  silly  sheep." 

And  though  they  ken  'twill  be  a  moonless 
night, — for  the  snow-storm  will  sweep  her 
out  of  heaven, — up  the  mountain  and  down 
the  glen  they  go,  marking  where  flock  and 
herd  have  betaken  themselves,  and  now, 
at  midfall,  unafraid  of  that  blind  hollow, 
they  descend  into  the  depth  where  once 
stood  the  old  grove  of  pines.  Following 
their  dogs,  who  know  their  duties  in  their 
instinct,  the  band,  without  seeing  it,  are  now 
close  to  that  ruined  hut.  Why  bark  the 
sheep-dogs  so,— and  why  howls  Fingal,  as 


if  some  spirit  passed  athwart  the  night? 
He  scents  the  dead  body  of  the  boy  who  so 
often  had  shouted  him  on  in  the  forest  when 
the  antlers  went  by  !  Not  dead — nor  dead 
she  who  is  on  his  bosom.  Yet  life  in  both 
frozen, — and  will  the  red  blood  in  their  veins 
ever  again  be  thawed?  Almost  pitch  dark 
is  the  roofless  ruin  ;  and  the  frightened  sheep 
know  not  what  is  that  terrible  shape  that  is 
howling  there.  But  a  man  enters,  and  lifts 
up  one  of  the  bodies,  giving  it  into  the  arms 
of  those  at  the  doorway,  and  then  lifts  up 
the  other;  and  by  the  flash  of  a  rifle  they 
see  that  it  is  Ronald  Cameron  and  Flora 
Macdonald,  seemingly  both  frozen  to  death. 
Some  of  those  reeds  that  the  shepherds  burn 
in  their  huts  are  kindled,  and  in  that  small 
light  they  are  assured  that  such  are  the 
corpses.  But  that  noble  dog  knows  that 
death  is  not  there,  and  licks  the  face  of  Ro- 
nald, as  if  he  would  restore  life  to  his  eyes. 
Two  of  the  shepherds  know  well  how  to  fold 
the  dying  in  their  plaids, — how  gentlest  to 
carry  them  along;  for  they  had  learnt  it  on 
the  field  of  victorious  battle,  when,  without 
stumbling  over  the  dead  and  wounded,  they 
bore  away  the  shattered  body,  yet  living, 
of  the  youthful  warrior,  who  had  shown  that 
of  such  a  clan  he  was  worthy  to  be  the  chief. 
The  storm  was  with  them  all  the  way 
down  the  glen  ;  nor  could  they  have  heard 
each  other's  voices  had  they  spoke ;  but 
mutely  they  shifted  the  burden  from  strong 
hand  to  hand,  thinking  of  the  hut  in  Glen- 
coe, and  of  what  would  be  felt  there  on  their 
arrival  with  the  dying  or  the  dead.  Blind 
people  walk  through  what  to  them  is  the 
night  of  crowded  day-streets,  unpausing 
turn  round  corners,  unhesitating  plungo 
down  steep  stairs,  wind  their  way  fearlessly 
through  whirlwinds  of  fire,  and  reach  in 
their  serenity,  each  one  unharmed,  his  own 
obscure  house.  For  God  is  with  the  blind. 
So  lie  is  with  all  who  walk  on  ways  of 
mercy.  This  saving  band  had  no  fear, 
therefore  there  was  no  danger,  on  the  edge 
of  the  pitfall  or  the  cliff.  They  knew  the 
countenances  of  the  mountains,  shown  mo- 
mentarily by  ghastly  gleamings  through  the 
fitful  night,  and  the  hollow  sound  of  each 
particular  stream  beneath  the  snow,  at 
places  where  in  other  weather  there  was  a 
pool  or  a  water-fall.  The  dip  of  the  hills, 
in  spite  of  the  drifts,  familiar  to  their  feet, 
did  not  deceive  them  now ;  and  then  the 
dogs,  in  their  instinct,  were  guides  that 
erred  not:  and  as  well  as  the  shepherds 
knew  it  themselves,  did  Fingal  know  that 
they  were  anxious  to  reach  Glencoe.  lie 
led  the  way  as  if  he  were  in  moonlight ;  and 
often  stood  still  when  they  were  shifting 
their  burden,  and  whined  as  if  in  grief.  lie 
knew  where  the  bridges  were,  stones  or  logs; 


HENRY  KIRKE    WHITE. 


379 


and  he  rounded  the  marshes  where  at  springs 
the  wild  fowl  feed.  And  thus  instinct,  and 
reason,  and  faith  conducted  the  saving  band 
along,  and  now  they  are  at  Glencoe,  and  at 
the  door  of  the  hut. 

To  life  were  brought  the  dead  ;  and  there, 
at  midnight,  sat  they  up  like  ghosts.  Strange 
seemed  they  fora  while  to  each  other's  eyes, 
and  at  each  other  they  looked  as  if  they  had 
forgotten  how  dearly  once  they  loved.  Then, 
as  if  in  holy  fear,  they  gazed  in  each  other's 
faces,  thinking  that  they  had  awoke  together 
in  heaven.  "Flora!"  said  Ronald;  and 
that  sweet  word,  the  first  he  had  been  able 
to  speak,  reminded  him  of  all  that  had 
passed,  and  he  knew  that  the  God  in  whom 
they  had  put  their  trust  had  sent  them  de- 
liverance. Flora,  too,  knew  her  parents, 
who  were  on  their  knees ;  and  she  strove  to 
rise  up  and  kneel  down  beside  them,  but  she 
was  powerless  as  a  broken  reed ;  and  when 
she  thought  to  join  with  them  in  thanks- 
giving, her  voice  was  gone.  Still  as  death 
sat  all  the  people  in  the  hut,  and  one  or  two 
who  were  fathers  were  not  ashamed  to  weep. 

liecrcations  of  Christopher  North. 


HENRY   KIRKE   WHITE, 

the  son  of  a  butcher  in  Nottingham,  Eng- 
land, and  born  in  that  town  1785,  after  some 
experience  as  a  butcher's  boy,  stocking-loom 
labourer,  and  attorney's  apprentice,  became 
late  in  1804  a  sizar  of  St.  John's  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  studied  (chiefly  with 
a  view  to  the  ministry)  with  such  injudicious 
zeal  that  he  died  in  1806.  He  published 
Clifton  Grove:  a  Sketch  in  Verse,  with 
other  Poems,  London,  1803,  crown  8vo: 
after  his  death  Robert  Southey  gave  to  the 
world  The  Remains  of  Henry  Kirke  White, 
etc..  with  an  Account  of  his  Life,  London, 
1807,  2  vols.  8vo ;  and  many  editions  of  the 
Remains,  and  his  Poetical  Works  and  Letters, 
have  been  issued  in  England  and  America. 

"  Chatterton  is  the  only  youthful  poet  whom  he 
does  not  leave  far  behind  him.  ...  I  have  in- 
spected all  the  existing  manuscripts  of  Chatterton, 
and  they  excited  less  wonder  than  these." — ROB- 
ERT SOUTHEY:  Account  of  White. 

•'  What  an  amazing  reach  of  genius  appears  in 
the  '  Remains  of  Kirke  White' !  How  unfortunate 
that  he  should  have  been  lost  to  the  world  almost 
as  soon  as  known  !  I  greatly  lament  the  circum- 
stances that  forced  him  to  studies  so  contrary  to 
his  natural  talent." — SIR  S.  E.  BKYDGES  :  Ceiuuria 
Literaria,  is..  393. 

Ox    TlIEMISTOCLES,    AlUSTIDES,    AND    CoMPO- 
SITIO.V. 

NOTTINGHAM,  May  6,  1804. 
DEAR  ROBERT, —  .  .  .  You  don't  know  how 
I  long  to  hear  how  your  declamation  was 


received  ;  and  "  all  about  it."  as  we  say  in 
these  parts.  I  hope  to  see  it  when  I  see  its 
author  and  pronouncer.  Themistocles,  no 
doubt,  received  due  praise  from  you  for  his 
valour  and  subtlety,  but  I  trust  you  poured 
down  a  torrent  of  eloquent  indignation  upon 
the  ruling  principles  of  his  actions,  and  the 
motive  of  his  conduct ;  while  you  exalted 
the  mild  and  unassuming  virtues  of  his  more 
amiable  rival.  The  object  of  Themistocles 
was  the  aggrandizement  of  himself ;  that  of 
Aristides  the  welfare  and  prosperity  of  the 
state.  The  one  endeavoured  to  swell  the  glory 
of  his  country  ;  the  other  to  promote  its  se- 
curity, external  and  internal,  foreign  and 
domestic.  While  you  estimated  the  services 
which  Themistocles  rendered  to  the  state,  in 
opposition  to  those  of  Aristides,  you  of  course 
remembered  that  the  former  had  the  largest 
scope  for  action,  and  that  he  influenced  his 
countrymen  to  fall  into  all  his  plans,  while 
they  banished  his  competitor,  not  by  his  su- 
perior wisdom  or  goodness,  but  by  those  in- 
trigues and  factious  artifices  which  Aristides 
would  have  disdained.  Themistocles  cer- 
tainly did  use  bad  means  to  a  desirable  end, 
and  if  we  may  assume  it  as  an  axiom  that 
Providence  will  forward  the  designs  of  a 
good,  sooner  than  those  of  a  bad  man,  what- 
ever inequality  of  abilities  there  may  be  be- 
tween the  two  characters,  it  will  follow  that 
had  Athens  remained  under  the  guidance 
of  Aristides,  it  would  have  been  better  for 
her.  The  difference  between  Themistocles 
and  Aristides  seems  to  me  to  be  this :  That 
the  former  was  a  wise  and  a  fortunate  man  ; 
and  that  the  latter,  though  he  had  equal 
wisdom,  had  not  equal  good  fortune.  We 
may  admire  the  heroic  qualities  and  the 
crafty  policy  of  the  one,  but  to  the  temper- 
ate and  disinterested  patriotism,  the  good 
and  virtuous  dispositions  of  the  other,  we 
can  alone  give  the  meed  of  heart-felt  praise. 

I  mean  only  by  this,  that  we  must  not 
infer  Themistocles  to  have  been  the  better  or 
the  greater  man,  because  he  rendered  more 
essential  services  to  the  state  than  Aristides, 
nor  even  that  his  system  was  the  most  judi- 
cious,— but  only  that,  by  decision  of  charac- 
ter, and  by  good  fortune,  his  measures  suc- 
ceeded best.  .  .  . 

The  rules  of  composition  are,  in  my  opin<- 
ion,  very  few.  If  we  have  a  mature  ac- 
quaintance with  our  subject,  there  is  little 
fear  of  our  expressing  it  as  we  ought,  pro- 
vided we  have  had  some  little  experience  in 
writing.  The  first  thing  to  be  aimed  at  is 
perspicuity.  That  is  the  great  point,  which, 
once  attained,  will  make  all  other  obstacles 
smooth  to  us.  In  order  to  write  perspicu- 
ously, we  should  have  a  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  topic  on  which  we  are  about  to  treat, 
in  all  its  bearings  and  dependencies.  We 


330 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE Y. 


should  think  well,  beforehand,  what  will  be 
the  clearest  method  of  conveying  the  drift  of 
our  design.  This  is  similar  to  what  painters 
call  the  massing,  or  getting  the  effect  of  the 
more  prominent  lights  and  shades  by  broad 
dashes  of  the  pencil.  When  our  thesis  is 
well  arranged  in  our  mind,  and  we  have 
predisposed  our  arguments,  reasonings,  and 
illustrations,  so  as  they  shall  all  conduce  to 
the  object  in  view,  in  regular  sequence  and 
gradation,  we  may  sit  down  and  express  our 
ideas  in  as  clear  a  manner  as  we  can.  always 
using  such  words  as  are  most  suited  to  our 
purpose,  and  when  two  modes  of  expression, 
equally  luminous,  present  themselves,  select- 
ing that  which  is  the  most  harmonious  and 
elegant. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  writers,  in  aim- 
ing at  perspicuity,  over-reach  themselves,  by 
employing  too  many  words,  and  perplex  the 
mind  by  a  multiplicity  of  illustrations.  This 
is  a  very  fatal  error.  Circumlocution  seldom 
conduces  to  plainness ;  and  you  may  take  it 
as  a  maxim,  that,  when  once  an  idea  is 
clearly  expressed,  every  additional  stroke  will 
only  confuse  the  mind  and  diminish  the 
effect. 

When  you  have  once  learned  to  express 
yourself  with  clearness  and  propriety,  you 
will  soon  arrive  at  elegance.  Every  thing 
else,  in  fact,  will  follow  as  of  course.  But 
I  warn  you  not  to  invert  the  order  of  things, 
and  be  paying  your  addresses  to  the  graces, 
Avhen  you  ought  to  be  studying  perspicuity. 
Young  writers,  in  general,  are  too  solicitous 
to  round  off  their  periods,  and  regulate  the 
cadences  of  their  style.  Hence  the  feeble 
pleonasms  and  idle  repetitions  which  de- 
form their  pages.  If  you  would  have  your 
compositions  vigorous  and  masculine  in  their 
tone,  let  every  word  TELL  ;  and  when  you 
detect  yourself  polishing  off  a  sentence  with 
expletives,  regard  yourself  in  exactly  the 
same  predicament  with  a  poet  who  should 
eke  out  the  measure  of  his  verses  with 
"  titum,  titum,  tee,  sir." 

So  much  for  style . 

Htnnj  Kirke  White  to  Mr.  R.  A.  .  .  . 


THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY, 

born  at  Manchester,  1786,  and  educated  at 
Eton  and  Oxford,  attracted  great  attention 
by  a  series  of  glowing  autobiographic  papers 
under  the  title  of  Confessions  of  an  Opium- 
Eater,  published  in  The  London  Magazine, 
September  and  October,  1821,  and  December, 
1822.  These  were  succceeded  by  some  ex- 
cellent translations  from  Jean  Paul  llichter 
and  Lessing,  which  appeared  in  The  London 
Magazine  and  Blackwood,  and  many  articles 


on  biography,  metaphysics,  philosophy,  etc., 
in  The  London,  Blackwood,  and  Tail's  Ma- 
gazines, and  other  periodicals,  and  The  Lives 
of  Shakspeare  and  Pope  in  The  Encyclopae- 
dia Britannica.  After  a  life  of  great  literary 
activity  and  much  suffering  from  the  long- 
continued  and  excessive  use  of  opium,  he 
died  December  8,  1859,  of  "  senile  decay" 
(funeral  circular),  in  his  75th  year. 

An  edition  of  his  Writings,  edited  by  Mr. 
James  T.  Field,  was  published  by  Messrs. 
Ticknor  &  Fields,  Boston,  1853-59,  in  23  vols. 
12mo:  contents,  vol.  i.,  ii.,  Narrative  and 
Miscellaneous  Papers ;  iii.,  iv.,  Literary 
Reminiscences;  v.,  vi.,  Historical  and  Crit- 
ical Essays:  vii.,  Life  and  Manners;  viii., 
Miscellaneous  Essays ;  ix.,  Confessions  of 
an  English  Opium-Eater,  and  Suspiria  de 
Profundis  ;  x.,  Biographical  Essays  ;  xi.,  Cae- 
sars ;  xii.,  Essays  on  the  Poets  and  other 
English  Writers;  xiii.,  xiv.,  Essays  on  Phil- 
osophical Writers  and  other  Men  of  Letters  ; 
xv.,  xvi.,  Memorials,  and  other  Papers ; 
xvii.,  Note-Book  of  an  English  Opium-Eater; 
xviii.,  Logic  of  Political  Economy  ;  xix.,  xx., 
Theological  Essays,  and  other  Papers;  xxi., 
Letters  to  a  Young  Man,  and  other  Pa- 
pers; xxii.,  Autobiographic  Sketches;  xxiii., 
Avenger,  and  other  Papers.  There  is  also 
a  Boston  edition  (Riverside  edition,  Hough- 
ton,  Osgood  &  Co.)  of  his  Works  in  12  vols. 
cr.  8vo,  and  a  series  of  his  Writings  under 
the  title  of  Selections,  Grave  and  Gay,  from 
Writings,  Published  and  Unpublished,  of 
Thomas  De  Quincey,  Revised  and  Arranged 
by  Himself,  Lond.,  1853-60,  14  vols.  p.  8vo, 
to  which  add  vols.  xv.,  xvi.  Works,  new  edit., 
Lond.,  1862,  16  vols.  p.  8vo. 

"They  [the  Confessions]  have  an  air  of  reality 
and  life;  and  they  exhibit  such  strong  graphic 
powers  as  to  throw  an  interest  and  even  dignity 
round  a  subject  which  in  less  able  hands  might 
have  been  rendered  a  tissue  of  trifles  and  absurd- 
ities. They  are,  indeed,  very  picturesque  nnd 
vivid  sketches  of  individual  character  and  feel- 
ings, drawn  with  a  boldness  yet  an  exactness  of 
pencil  that  is  to  bo  found  only  in  one  or  two  pro- 
minent geniuses  of  our  day.  .  .  .  They  combine 
strong  sense  with  wild  and  somewhat  fantastic 
inventions,  accuracy  of  detail  with  poetic  illu'tra- 
tion,  and  analytical  reasoning  and  metaphysical 
research  with  uncommon  pathos  and  refinement 
of  ideas.  .  .  .  Much  truth  and  fine  colouring  are 
displayed  in  the  descriptions  and  details  of  the 
work  ;  its  qualities  are  all  of  a  rich  and  elevated 
kind, — such  as  high  pathos,  profound  views,  and 
deep  reasoning,  with  a  happy  vein  of  ridicule  in- 
dulged at  the  writer's  own  expense.'1 — London 
Monthly  Review,  100  :  288.  See  also  London  Quar- 
terly Review,  July,  1861. 

We  add  an  interesting  sketch  of  De  Quin- 
cey communicated  to  the  author  of  this 
volume  by  his  daughter  a  few  months  after 
her  father's  death: 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE T. 


"  Papa  was  generally  a  late  goer  to  bed,  and  a 
late  riser;  but  he  often  went  to  bed  late  and  got 
up  early,  making  up  for  lost  sleep  in  his  chair:  but 
he  existed  on  a  very  small  amount  of  sleep.  If  he 
had  an  article  on  hand,  he  would  .sit  up  writing  it 
all  night,  and  drink  strong  coffee  or  tea  to  keep 
him  wide  awake  ;  for  he  was  always  liable  to  drop- 
ping over  in  his  chair  into  short  dozes.  He  pre- 
ferred writing  during  the  night-.  He  always  read 
at  niglit,  holding  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and  would 
constantly  fall  asleep  with  it  in  this  position. 
When  aroused  by  the  information,  '  Papa,  papa, 
your  hair  is  on  fire!'  he  would  say,  'Is  it,  my 
love  ?'  brush  his  hand  over  it,  and  go  to  sleep 
again  with  the  candle  in  his  hand.  He  got  so 
absorbed  in  what  he  was  reading  that  it  was  a 
common  occurrence  setting  his  hair  on  fire.  He 
was  utterly  callous  to  danger,  and  it  is  a  miracle 
that  he  never  set  himself  on  fire.  He  has  often 
set  his  bed  on  fire  ;  but  he  was  as  expert  in  putting 
it  out  as  in  putting  it  in. 

'•  He  was  always  more  genial  nnd  talkative 
among  ourselves,  and  particularly  at  tea-time  and 
after  it.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  what  author 
he  was  fondest  of  reading  ;  for  from  a  penny  spell- 
ing-book up  to  a  Bhakspearc,  Milton,  or  Jeremy 
Taylor,  he  would  read  it,  criticise  it,  turn  it  up- 
side-down. In  fact,  as  regards  the  spelling-book, 
you  would  be  amazed  at  the  amount  of  latent 
knowledge  that  lay  hid  in  its  recesses.  I  should 
think  any  one  would  guess  from  his  works  what 
a  great  admiration  he  had  for  Shakspeare  and 
Milton,  but  I  do  not  think  that  people  would  gather 
the  same  opinion  as  regards  Jeremy  Taylor;  and 
yet  I  think  he  would  have  placed  him  beside  those 
two  great  towers  of  strength.  He  had  an  im- 
mense admiration  and  knowledge  of  Scripture, 
although  he  was  far  too  unsystematic  in  his  ways 
to  make  any  point  of  conscience  in  reading  them 
regularly.  He  often  made  points  in  the  Bible 
subjects  for  discussion:  yet  I  never  heard  him 
breathe  a  word  of  disbelief  as  regards  any  of  them. 
He  was  a  decided  son  of  the  Christian  religion, 
and  he  had  always  a  great  respect  and  love  for  the 
Anglican  Church. 

"  Children  were  always  very  fond  of  him, — not 
that  he  ever  romped  with  them,  but  he  had  a 
great  power  of  interesting  them  by  his  talking  to 
them,  and  his  gentle  manner  won  their  confidence. 
He  was  interested  to  the  most  curious  extent  by 
all  his  grandchildren,  the  thought  of  them  even 
haunting  him  into  the  delirium  of  his  death-bed. 
His  constant  talk  during  his  illness  was  of  chil- 
dren. I  heard  him  say  one  night,  '  Dear,  dear 
little  girl !  you  are,  in  some  measure,  the  child  of 
my  old  age.'  '  Who,  papa?'  I  said.  The  answer 
was,  '  My  dear  little  Eva.'  She  is  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Craig's,  little  girl,  and  he  had  seen  her  when  a 
baby. 

"  When  within  an  hour  or  two  of  death,  he  said, 
'  They  are  all  leaving  me  but  my  dear,  dear  little 
children  ;'  and  one  night  he  woke  up  from  a  long 
sleep  and  said  with  great  animation,  '  Emily, 
those  Edinburgh  cabmen  are  the  most  brutal  set 
of  fellows  I  ever  knew  of!'  '  Why,  what  have  they 
done  ?'  '  You  must  know,  my  dear,  that  I  and  the 
little  children  were  all  invited  to  a  supper  by  Jesus 
Christ.  So  you  see,  as  it  was  a  great  honour,  I 
determined  to  get  new  dresses  for  the  little  chil- 
dren, and,  would  you  believe  it,  when  I  and  they 
Went  out  in  our  new  dresses,  I  saw  those  fellows 
all  laughing  at  them.'" — EMILY  DE  QUINCEY  TO  S. 
AUSTIN  ALLIBONE,  May  31,  1860. 


THE  EFFECTS  OF  OPIUM. 

I  have  thus  described  and  illustrated  my 
intellectual  torpor,  in  terms  that  apply,  more 
or  less,  to  every  part  of  the  four  years  during 
which  I  -was  under  the  Circean  spell  of 
opium.  But  for  misery  and  suffering,  I 
might,  indeed,  be  said  to  have  existed  in  a 
dormant  state.  I  seldom  could  prevail  on 
myself  to  write  a  letter;  an  answer  of  a  few 
words,  to  any  that  I  received,  was  the  utmost 
that  I  could  accomplish  ;  and  often  that  not 
until  the  letter  had  lain  weeks,  or  even 
months,  on  my  writing-table.  Without  the 

aid  of  M all  records  of  bills  paid,  or  to 

be  paid,  must  have  perished  ;  and  my  whole 
domestic  economy,  whatever  became  of  po- 
litical economy,  must  have  gone  into  irre- 
trievable confusion.  I  shall  not  afterwards 
allude  to  this  part  of  the  case !  it  is  one, 
however,  which  the  opium-eater  will  find,  in 
the  end,  as  oppressive  and  tormenting  as  any 
other,  from  the  sense  of  incapacity  and  fee- 
bleness, from  the  direct  embarrassments  in- 
cident to  the  neglect  or  procrastination  of 
each  day's  appropriate  duties,  and  from  the 
remorse  which  must  often  exasperate  the 
stings  of  these  evils  to  a  reflective  and  con- 
scientious mind.  The  opium-eater  loses 
none  of  his  moral  sensibilities  or  aspira- 
tions :  he  wishes  and  longs,  as  earnestly  as 
ever,  to  realize  what  he  believes  possible 
and  feels  to  be  exacted  by  duty ;  but  his  in- 
tellectual apprehension  of  what  is  possible 
infinitely  outruns  his  power,  not  of  execu- 
tion only,  but  even  of  power  to  attempt. 
He  lies  under  the  weight  of  incubus  and 
nightmare:  he  lies  in  sight  of  all  that  he 
would  fain  perform,  just  as  a  man  forcibly 
confined  to  his  bed  by  the  mortal  languor  of 
a  relaxing  disease,  who  is  compelled  to  wit- 
ness injury  or  outrage  offered  to  some  object 
of  his  tenderest  love :  he  curses  the  spells 
which  chain  him  down  from  motion :  he 
would  lay  down  his  life  if  he  might  get  up 
and  walk,  but  he  is  powerless  as  an  infant, 
and  cannot  even  attempt  to  rise. 

I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject  of 
these  later  confessions,  to  the  history  and 
journal  of  what  took  place  in  my  dreams  : 
for  these  were  the  immediate  and  proximate 
cause  of  my  acutest  suffering. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important 
change  going  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical 
economy  was  the  re-awakening  of  a  state 
of  eye  generally  incident  to  childhood,  or 
exalted  states  of  irritability.  I  know  not 
whether  my  reader  is  aware  that  many 
children,  perhaps  most,  have  a  power  of 
painting,  as  it  were  upon  the  darkness,  all 
sorts  of  phantoms;  in  some,  that  power  is 
simply  a  mechanic  affection  of  the  eye ; 
others  have  a  voluntsiry  or  a  semi-voluntary 
power  to  dismiss  or  to  summon  them  ;  or,  as  a 


382 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE Y. 


child  once  said  to  me  when  I  questioned  him 
on  this  matter. "  I  can  tell  them  to  go  and  they 
go ;  hut  sometimes  they  come  when  I  don't 
tell  them  to  come."  Whereupon  I  told  him 
that  he  had  almost  as  unlimited  a  command 
over  apparitions  as  a  Roman  centurion  over 
his  soldiers.  In  the  middle  of  1817,  I  think 
it  was,  that  this  faculty  became  positively 
distressing  to  me :  at  night,  when  I  lay  in 
bed,  vast  processions  passed  along  in  mourn- 
ful pomp;  friezes  of  never-ending  stories, 
that  to  my  feelings  were  as  sad  and  solemn 
as  if  they  were  stories  drawn  from  times 
before  (Edipus  or  Priam, — before  Tyre, — be- 
fore Memphis.  And,  at  the  same  time,  a 
corresponding  change  took  place  in  my 
dreams:  a  theatre  seemed  suddenly  opened 
and  lighted  up  within  my  brain,  which  pre- 
sented mighty  spectacles  of  more  than  earthly 
splendour.  And  the  four  following  facts 
may  be  mentioned,  as  noticeable  at  this 
time : — 

1 .  That  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye 
increased,  a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise  be- 
tween the  waking  and  the  dreaming  states  of 
the  brain  in  one  point, — that  whatsoever  I 
happened  to  call  up  and  to  trace  by  a  volun- 
tary act  upon  the  darkness  was  very  apt  to 
transfer  itself  to  my  dreams,  so  that  I  feared 
to  exercise  this  faculty  ;  for,  as  Midas  turned 
all  things  to  gold,  that  yet  baffled  his  hopes 
and  defrauded  his  human  desires,  so  what- 
soever tilings  capable  of  being  visually  rep- 
resented I  did  but  think  of  in  the  darkness, 
immediately  shaped    themselves  into  phan- 
toms of  the  eye,  and  by  a  process  apparently 
no  less  inevitable,  when  thus  once  traced  in 
faint  and  visionary  colours,  like  writings  in 
sympathetic  ink,  they  were  drawn  out  by 
the  tierce  chemistry  of  my  dreams  into  in- 
sufferable splendour  that  fretted  my  heart. 

2.  For  this  and  all  other  changes  in  my 
dreams  were   .accompanied    by   deep-seated 
anxiety  and  gloomy  melancholy,  such  as  are 
wholly  incommunicable  bv  words.    I  seemed 
every  night  to  descend,  not  metaphorically 
but   literally  to  descend,  into   chasms   and 
sunless  abysses,  depths  below  depths,  from 
which  it  seemed  hopeless  that  I  could  ever 
re-ascend.     Nor  did  I.  by  waking,  feel  that 
I   had   re-ascended.     This  I  do   not   dwell 
upon  :  because  the  state  of  gloom  Avhich  at- 
tended these  gorgeous  spectacles,  amounting 
at  least  to  utter  darkness,  as  of  some  sui- 
cidal despondency,  cannot  be  approached  by 
words. 

3.  The  sense  of  space,  and  in  the  end  the 
sense  of  time,  were  both  powerfully  affected. 
Buildings,  landscapes,  etc.,  were  exhibited 
in  proportions  so  vast  as  the  bodily  eye  is 
not  fitted  to   receive.     Space   swelled,  and 
was  amplified  to  an  extent  of  unutterable 
infinity.     This,  however,  did  not  disturb  me 


so  much  as  the  vast  expansion  of  time:  I 
sometimes  seemed  to  have  lived  for  70  or 
100  years  in  one  night,  nay.  sometimes  had 
feelings  representative  of  a  millennium  passed 
in  that  time,  or,  however,  of  a  duration  far 
beyond  the  limits  of  any  human  experience. 

4.  The  minutest  incidents  of  childhood, 
or  forgotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were  often 
revived :  I  could  not  be  said  to  recollect 
them  ;  for  if  I  had  been  told  of  them  when 
waking,  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  ac- 
knowledge them  as  parts  of  my  past  expe- 
rience. But  placed  as  they  were  before  me, 
in  dreams  like  intuitions,  and  clothed  in  all 
their  evanescent  circumstances,  and  accom- 
panying feelings,  I  recognized  them  instan- 
taneously. I  was  once  told  by  a  near  rela- 
tive of  mine,  that  having  in  her  childhood 
fallen  into  a  river,  and  being  on  the  very 
verge  of  death  but  for  the  critical  assistance 
which  reached  her,  she  saw  in  a  moment  her 
whole  life,  in  its  minutest  incidents,  arrayed 
before  her  simultaneously  as  in  a  mirror; 
and  she  had  a  faculty  developed  as  suddenly 
for  comprehending  the  whole  and  every  part. 
This,  from  some  opium  experiences  of  mine, 
I  can  believe.  I  have,  indeed,  seen  the  same 
thing  asserted  twice  in  modern  books,  and 
accompanied  by  a  remark  which  I  am  con- 
vinced is  true,  viz.,  that  the  dread  book  of 
account  which  the  Scriptures  speak  of,  is,  in 
fact,  the  mind  itself  of  each  individual.  Of 
this,  at  least,  I  feel  assured,  that  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  forgetting  possible  to  the  mind. 
A  thousand  accidents  may,  and  will,  inter- 
pose a  veil  between  our  present  consciousness 
and  the  secret  inscriptions  on  the  mind  :  ac- 
cidents of  the  same  sort  will  always  rend 
away  this  veil ;  but  alike,  whether  veiled  or 
unveiled,  the  inscription  remains  for  ever, 
just  as  the  stars  seem  to  withdraw  before 
the  common  light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact, 
we  all  know  that  it  is  the  light  which  is 
drawn  over  them  as  a  veil, — and  that  they 
are  waiting  to  be  revealed  when  the  obscur- 
ing daylight  shall  have  withdrawn. 

Having  noticed  these  four  facts  as  mem- 
orably distinguishing  my  dreams  from  those 
of  health,  I  shall  now  cite  a  case  illustrative 
of  the  first  fact,  and  shall  then  cite  any 
others  that  I  remember,  either  in  their  chro- 
nological order,  or  any  other  that  may  give 
them  more  effect  as  pictures  to  the  reader. 

I  had  been  in  youth,  and  even  since,  for 
occasional  amusement,  a  great  reader  of 
Livy,  whom  I  confess  that  I  prefer,  both  for 
style  and  matter,  to  any  other  of  the  Roman 
historians;  and  I  had  often  felt  as  most 
solemn  and  appalling  sounds,  and  most  em- 
phatically representative  of  the  majesty  of 
the  Roman  people,  the  two  words  so  often 
occurring  in  Livy, — Consul  Jlomanus ;  es- 
pecially when  the  consul  is  introduced  in 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE Y. 


383 


his  military  character.  I  mean  to  say  that 
the  words  king,  sultan,  regent,  etc.,  or  any 
other  titles  of  those  who  embody  in  their 
own  persons  the  collective  majesty  of  a  great 
people,  had  less  power  over  my  reverential 
feelings.  I  had  also,  though  no  great  reader 
of  history,  made  myself  minutely  and  crit- 
ically familiar  with  one  period  of  English 
history,  viz.,  the  period  of  the  parliamentary 
war,  having  been  attracted  by  the  moral 
grandeur  of  some  who  figured  in  that  day, 
and  by  the  many  interesting  memoirs  which 
survived  those  unquiet  times.  Both  these 
parts  of  my  lighter  reading,  having  fur- 
nished me  often  with  matter  of  reflection, 
now  furnished  me  with  matter  for  my  dreams. 
Often  I  used  to  see,  after  painting  upon  the 
black  darkness,  a  sort  of  rehearsal  whilst 
waking,  a  crowd  of  ladies,  and  perhaps  a 
festival,  and  dances.  And  I  heard  it  said, 
or  I  said  to  myself,  u  These  are  English 
ladies  from  the  unhappy  times  of  Charles  I. 
These  are  the  wives  and  the  daughters  of 
those  who  met  in  peace,  and  sat  at  the  same 
tables,  and  were  allied  by  marriage  or  by 
blood  ;  and  yet,  after  a  certain  day  in  Au- 
gust, 1042,  never  smiled  upon  each  other 
again,  nor  met  but  in  the  field  of  battle  ; 
and  at  Marston  Moor,  at  Newbury.  or  at 
Naseby,  cut  asunder  all  ties  of  love  by  the 
cruel  sabre,  and  washed  away  in  blood  the 
memory  of  ancient  friendship."  The  ladies 
danced  and  looked  as  lovely  as  the  court  of 
George  IV.  Yet  I  knew,  even  in  my  dream, 
that  they  had  been  in  the  grave  for  nearly 
two  centuries.  This  pageant  would  suddenly 
dissolve  ;  and,  at  a  clapping  of  hands,  would 
be  heard  the  heart-quaking  sound  of  Consul 
Romanus ;  and  immediately  came  "  sweep- 
ing by,"  in  gorgeous  paludaments,  Paulus 
or  Marius,  girt  round  by  a  company  of  cen- 
turions, with  the  crimson  tunic  hoisted  on  a 
spear,  and  followed  by  the  Alalagmos  of  the 
lloinan  legions. 

Many  years  ago,  when  I  was  looking  over 
Piranesi's  Antiquities  of  Rome,  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge, who  was  standing  by,  described  to 
me  a  set  of  plates  by  that  artist,  called  his 
Dreams,  and  which  record  the  scenery  of 
his  own  visions  during  the  delirium  of  a 
fever.  Some  of  them  (I  describe  only  from 
memory  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  account)  repre- 
sented vast  Gothic  halls,  on  the  floor  of 
which  stood  all  sorts  of  engines  and  ma- 
chinery, wrheels,  cables,  pulleys,  levers,  cata- 
pults, etc.,  etc.,  expressive  of  enormous  power 
put  forth,  and  resistance  overcome.  Creep- 
ing along  the  sides  of  the  walls,  you  per- 
ceived a  staircase  ;  and  upon  it,  groping  his 
way  upwards,  was  Piranesi  himself:  follow 
the  stairs  a  little  farther,  and  you  perceive 
it  came  to  a  sudden  abrupt  termination, 
without  any  balustrade,  and  allowing  no 


step  onwards  to  him  who  had  reached  the 
extremity,  except  into  the  depths  below. 
Whatever  is  to  become  of  Piranesi,  you  sup- 
pose, at  least,  that  his  labours  must  in  some 
way  terminate  here.  But  raise  your  eyes, 
and  behold  a  second  flight  of  stairs  still 
higher,  on  which  again  Piranesi  is  per- 
ceived, by  this  time  standing  on  the  very 
brink  of  the  abyss.  Again  elevate  your 
eye,  and  a  still  more  aerial  flight  of  stairs 
is  beheld  ;  and  again  is  poor  Piranesi  busy 
on  his  aspiring  labours;  and  so  on,  until 
the  unfinished  stairs  and  Piranesi  both  are 
lost  in  the  upper  gloom  of  the  hall.  With 
the  same  power  of  endless  growth  and  self- 
reproduction  did  my  architecture  proceed  in 
dreams.  In  the  early  stage  of  my  malady, 
the  splendours  of  my  dreams  were  indeed 
chiefly  architectural ;  and  I  beheld  such 
pomp  of  cities  and  palaces  as  was  never  yet 
beheld  by  the  waking  eye,  unless  in  the 
clouds.  From  a  great  modern  poet  I  cite 
part  of  a  passage  which  describes,  as  an 
appearance  actually  beheld  in  the  clouds, 
what  in  many  of  its  circumstances  I  saw 
frequently  in  sleep: — 

"The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed, 
Was  of  a  mighty  city — boldly  say 
A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 
Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end  ! 
Fabric  it  seem'd  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires, 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uplifted;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright 
In  avenues  disposed,  there  towns  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars — illumination  of  all  gems  ! 
By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified  :  on  them  and  on  the  cones, 
And  mountain-steeps  and  summits  whereunto 
The  vapours  had  receded, — taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  sublime  circumstances — "  battlements 
that  on  their  restless  fronts  bore  stars" — 
might  have  been  copied  from  my  architect- 
ural dreams,  for  it  often  occurred.  We  hear 
it  reported  of  Dryden,  and  of  Fuseli  in 
modern  times,  that  they  thought  proper  to 
eat  raw  meat  for  the  sake  of  obtaining  splen- 
did dreams :  how  much  better  for  such  a 
purpose  to  have  eaten  opium,  which  yet  I 
do  not  remember  that  any  poet  is  recorded 
to  have  done,  except  the  dramatist  Shadwell : 
and  in  ancient  days,  Homer  is,  I  think, 
rightly  reputed  to  have  known  the  virtues 
of  opium. 

To  my  architecture  succeeded  dreams  of 
lakes  and  silvery  expanses  of  water :  these 
haunted  me  so  much,  that  I  feared  (though 
possibly  it  will  appear  ludicrous  to  a  medi- 
cal man)  that  some  dropsical  state  or  ten- 
dency of  the  brain  might  thus  be  making 


384 


THOMAS  DE   QUINCE  Y. 


itself  (to  use  a  metaphysical  word)  object- 
ive; and  the  sentient  organ  project  itself  us 
its  own  object.  For  two  months  I  suffered 
greatly  in  my  head, — a  part  of  my  bodily 
structure  which  had  hitherto  been  so  clear 
from  all  touch  or  taint  of  weakness  (physi- 
cally I  mean),  that  I  used  to  say  of  it,  as 
the  last  Lord  Oxford  said  of  his  stomach, 
that  it  seemed  likely  to  survive  the  rest  of 
my  person.  Till  now  I  had  never  felt  a 
headache  even,  or  any  the  slightest  pain, 
except  rheumatic  pains  caused  by  my  own 
folly.  However,  I  got  over  this  attack, 
though  it  must  have  been  verging  on  some- 
thing very  dangerous. 

The  waters  now  changed  their  character, 
— from  translucent  lakes,  shining  like  mir- 
rors, they  now  became  seas  and  oceans. 
And  now  came  a  tremendous  change,  which, 
unfolding  itself  slowly  like  a  scroll,  through 
many  months,  promised  an  abiding  torment ; 
and,  in  fact,  it  never  left  me  until  the  wind- 
ing-up  of  my  case.  Hitherto  the  human 
face  had  mixed  often  in  my  dreams,  but  not 
despotically,  nor  with  any  special  power  of 
tormenting.  But  now  that  which  I  have 
called  the  tyranny  of  the  human  face  began 
to  unfold  itself.  Perhaps  some  part  of  my 
London  life  might  be  answerable  for  this. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  now  it  was  that  upon  the 
rocking  waves  of  the  ocean  the  human  face 
began  to  appear :  the  sea  appeared  paved 
with  innumerable  faces,  upturned  to  the 
heavens, — faces,  imploring,  wrathful,  de- 
spairing, surged  upwards  by  thousands,  by 
myriads,  by  generations,  by  centuries.  My 
agitation  was  infinite, — my  mind  tossed, — 
and  surged  with  the  ocean. 

The  Malay  has  been  a  fearful  enemy  for 
months.  I  have  been  every  night,  through 
his  means,  transported  into  Asiatic  scenes. 
I  know  not  whether  others  share  in  my 
feelings  on  this  point;  but  I  have  often 
thought  that  if  I  were  compelled  to  forego 
England,  and  to  live  in  China  and  among 
Chinese  manners  and  modes  of  life  and 
scenery,  I  should  go  mad.  The  causes  of 
my  horror  lie  deep  ;  and  some  of  them  must 
be  common  to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in 
general,  is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  as- 
sociations. As  the  cradle  of  the  human 
race,  it  would  alone  have  a  dim  and  rever- 
ential feeling  connected  with  it.  But  there 
are  other  reasons.  No  man  can  pretend  that 
the  wild,  barbarous,  and  capricious  super- 
stitions of  Africa,  or  of  savage  tribes  else- 
where, affect  him  in  the  way  that  he  is 
affected  by  the  ancient,  monumental,  cruel, 
and  elaborate  religions  of  Indostan,  etc.  The 
mere  antiquity  of  Asiatic  tilings,  of  their  in- 
stitutions, histories,  modes  of  faith,  etc.,  is 
so  impressive,  that  to  me  the  vast  age  of 
the  race  and  name  overpowers  the  sense  of 


youth  in  the  individual.  A  young  Chinese 
seems  to  me  an  antediluvian  man  renewed. 
Even  Englishmen,  though  not  bred  in  any 
knowledge  of  such  institutions,  cannot  but 
shudder  at  the  mystic  sublimity  of  castes 
that  have  flowed  apart,  and  refused  to  mix 
through  such  immemorial  tracts  of  time  ; 
nor  can  any  man  fail  to  be  awed  by  the 
names  of  the  Ganges  or  the  Euphrates.  It 
contributes  much  to  these  feelings,  that 
Southern  Asia  is,  and  has  been  for  thou- 
sands of  years,  the  part  of  the  earth  most 
swarming  with  human  life, — the  great  of- 
ficina  gentium.  Man  is  a  weed  in  those  re- 
gions. The  vast  empires,  also,  into  which 
the  enormous  population  of  Asia  has  always 
been  cast,  give  a  further  sublimity  to  the 
feelings  associated  with  all  Oriental  names 
or  images.  In  China,  over  and  above  what 
it  has  in  common  with  the  rest  of  Southern 
Asia,  I  am  terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by 
the  manners,  and  the  barrier  of  utter  ab- 
horrence, and  want  of  sympathy,  placed 
between  us  by  feelings  deeper  than  I  can 
analyze.  I  could  sooner  live  with  lunatics 
or  brutal  animals.  AH  this,  and  much  more 
than  I  can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader 
must  enter  into  before  he  can  comprehend  the 
unimaginable  horror  which  these  dreams  of 
Oriental  imagery  and  mythological  tortures 
impressed  upon  me.  Under  the  connecting 
feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights, 
I  brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts, 
reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and  ap- 
pearances, that  are  found  in  all  tropical  re- 
gions, and  assembled  them  together  in  China 
or  Indostan.  From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon 
brought  Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under  the 
same  law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at, 
grinned  at,  chattered  at,  by  monkeys,  by 
parroquets,  by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pa- 
godas :  and  was  fixed,  for  centuries,  at  the 
summit,  or  in  secret  rooms :  I  was  the  idol  ; 
I  was  the  priest ;  I  was  worshipped  ;  I  was 
sacrificed.  I  fled  from  the  wrath  of  Brama 
through  all  the  forests  of  Asia ;  Vishnu 
hated  me  ;  Seeva  laid  wait  for  me.  I  came 
suddenly  upon  Iris  and  Osiris,  I  had  done  a 
deed,  they  said,  which  the  ibis  and  the  croco- 
dile trembled  at.  I  was  buried  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  in  stone  coffins,  with  mummies 
and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  chambers,  at  the 
heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was  kissed, 
with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles,  and 
laid,  confounded  with  all  unutterable  slimy 
things,  amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic  mud. 

I  thus  give  the  reader  some  slight  abstrac- 
tion of  my  Oriental  dreams,  which  always 
filled  me  with  such  amazement  at  the  mon- 
strous scenery,  that  horror  seemed  absorbed 
for  a  while  in  sheer  astonishment.  Sooner 
or  later  came  a  reflux  of  feeling  that  swal- 
lowed up  the  astonishment,  and  left  me,  not 


RICHARD    WHATELT. 


385 


so  much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomi- 
nation at  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and 
threat,  and  punishment,  and  dim,  sightless 
incarceration,  brooded  a  sense  of  eternity 
and  infinity  that  drove  me  into  an  oppres- 
sion as  of  madness.  Into  these  dreams  only, 
it  was,  with  one  or  two  slight  exceptions, 
that  any  circumstances  of  physical  horror  en- 
tered. All  before  had  been  moral  and  spirit- 
ual terrors.  But  here  the  main  agents  were 
ugly  birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles,  espe- 
cially the  last.  The  cursed  crocodile  became 
to  me  the  object  of  more  than  almost  all  the 
rest.  I  was  compelled  to  live  with  him,  and 
(as  was  always  the  case  almost  in  my 
dreams)  for  centuries.  I  escaped  some- 
times, and  found  myself  in  Chinese  houses, 
with  cane  tables,  etc.  All  the  feet  of  the 
tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon  became  instinct  with 
life:  the  abominable  head  of  the  crocodile, 
and  his  leering  eyes,  looked  out  at  me,  mul- 
tiplied into  a  thousand  repetitions  :  and  I 
stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  And  so  often 
did  this  hideous  reptile  haunt  my  dreams, 
that  many  times  the  very  same  dream  was 
broken  up  in  the  very  same  way :  I  heard 
gentle  voices  speaking  to  me  (I  hear  every- 
thing when  I  am  sleeping)  ;  and  instantly  I 
awoke :  it  was  broad  noon ;  and  my  chil- 
dren were  standing,  hand  in  hand,  at  my 
bedside,  come  to  show  me  their  coloured 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them 
dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest,  that  so 
.awful  was  the  transition  from  the  damned 
crocodile,  and  the  other  unutterable  mon- 
sters and  abortions  of  my  dreams  to  the 
sight  of  innocent  human  natures,  and  of  in- 
fancy, that,  in  the  mighty  and  sudden  revul- 
sion of  mind,  I  wept,  and  could  not  forbear, 
as  I  kissed  their  faces.  ...  As  a  final  speci- 
men, I  cite  a  dream  of  a  different  character 
from  1820: — The  dream  commenced  with  a 
music  which  now  I  often  heard  in  dreams, — 
a  music  of  preparation  and  of  awakening  sus- 
pense,— a  music  like  the  opening  of  the  Coro- 
nation Anthem,  and  which,  like  that,  gave 
the  feeling  of  a  vast  march,  of  infinite  cav- 
alcades filing  off,  and  the  tread  of  innumer- 
able armies.  The  morning  was  come  of  a 
mighty  day, — a  day  of  crises  and  of  final 
hope  for  human  nature,  then  suffering  some 
mysterious  eclipse,  and  labouring  in  some 
dread  extremity.  Somewhere,  I  knew  not 
where, — somehow,  I  knewnot  how, — by  some 
beings,  I  knew  not  whom, — a  battle,  a  strife, 
an  agony  was  conducting, — was  evolving 
like  a  great  drama,  or  piece  of  music,  with 
which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  insup- 
portable from  my  confusion  as  to  its  place, 
its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  possible  issue. 
I,  as  usual  in  dreams  (where,  of  necessity, 
we  make  ourselves  central  to  every  move- 
ment), had  the  power,  and  yet  had  not  the 
25 


power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the  power,  if  I 
could  raise  myself,  to  will  it;  and  yet  again 
had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of  twenty 
Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of 
inexpiable  guilt.  "  Deeper  than  ever  plum- 
met sounded,"  I  lay  inactive.  Then,  like  a 
chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater 
interest  was  at  stake ;  some  mightier  cause 
than  ever  yet  the  sword  had  pleaded  or  trum- 
pet had  proclaimed.  Then  came  the  sudden 
alarms ;  hurryings  to  and  fro ;  trepidations  of 
innumerable  fugitives,  I  knew  not  whether 
from  the  good  cause  or  the  bad ;  darkness 
and  lights;  tempests  and  human  faces;  and 
at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost, 
female  forms,  and  the  features  that  were 
worth  all  the  world  to  me.  and  but  a  mo- 
ment allowed — and  clasped  hands,  and 
heart-breaking  partings,  and  then — everlast- 
ing farewells  !  and  with  a  sigh,  such  as  the 
caves  of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous 
mother  uttered  the  abhorred  name  of  death, 
the  sound  was  reverberated — everlasting 
farewells ;  and  again,  and  yet  again  rever- 
berated— everlasting  farewells ! 

And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud, 
— "  I  will  sleep  no  more  !" 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater. 


RICHARD   WHATELY,   D.D., 

born  in  London,  1787,  Fellow  of  Oriel  Col- 
lege, 1811,  Principal  of  St.  Alban  Hall,  Ox- 
ford, 1825,  Professor  of  Political  Economy, 
Oxford,  1830,  Archbishop  of  Dublin  and 
Bishop  of  Glendalagh.  1831,  Bishop  of  Kil- 
dare,  1846,  died  in  Dublin,  Oct.  8,  1863. 
Works:  Historic  Doubts  relative  to  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte,  Lond.,  1819,  8vo  (anon.), 
12th  edit.,  1849,  12mo;  The  Christian's 
Duty  with  Respect  to  the  Established  Gov- 
ernment and  the  Laws  Considered,  in  Three 
Sermons,  1821,  8vo  ;  The  Use  and  Abuse  of 
Party  Feeling  in  Matters  of  Religion  Con- 
sidered, in  Eight  Sermons:  Bampton  Lec- 
ture, Oxf.,  1822,  8vo.  4th  edit,,  with  addi- 
tions, 1839,  8vo;  Essays  (First  Series)  on 
some  of  the  Peculiarities  of  the  Christian 
Religion,  Oxf.,  1825,  8vo,  7th  edit.,  Lond., 
1860,  8vo;  Elements  of  Logic,  Lond.,  1827, 
8vo,  10th  edit.,  1850,  demy  8vo,  new  edit., 
1864.  post  8vo;  Elements  of  Rhetoric,  Oxf., 
1828,  8vo,  7th  edit.,  Lond.,  1846,  demy  8vor 
new  edit.,  1857,  crown  8vo :  Essays  (Second 
Series)  on  some  of  the  Difficulties  in  the 
Writings  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  in  other 
Parts  of  the  New  Testament,  Lond.,  1828, 
8vo,  8th  edit.,  1865,  Svo;  A  View  of  the 
Scripture  Revelations  concerning  a  Future 
State,  etc.,  Lond.,  1829,  12mo,  9th  edit, 
1870,  fp.  8vo;  Essays  (Third  Series):  The 


386 


RICHARD  WHATELT. 


Errors  of  Romanism  traced  to  their  Origin 
in  Human  Nature,  Lond.,  1830,  8vo,  5th 
edit.,  1856 ;  Introductory  Lectures  on  Polit- 
ical Economy,  etc.,  Lond.,  1831,  8vo,  4th 
edit.,  1855,  8vo;  Essays  on  some  of  the 
Dangers  to  Christian  Faith,  etc.,  Lond., 
1839,  8vo,  10th  edit.,  1857,  8vo;  The  King- 
dom of  Christ  Delineated  in  Two  Essays, 
Lond.,  1841,  8vo,  5th  edit.,  1851,  8vo,  6th 
edit.,  8vo ;  Introductory  Lessons  on  Chris- 
tian Evidences,  3d  edit.,  Lond.,  1843,  12mo, 
8th  edit.,  by  T.  Arden,  1868,  18mo ;  Easy 
Lessons  on  Reasoning,  1843,  12mo,  8th  edit., 

1857,  12mo;  Lectures  on  the  History  of  Re- 
ligious Worship,  Lond.,  1847, 12rno,  2d  edit., 
1849,  12mo,  new  edit ,  1867,  12mo;  Treatise 
on  Logic  (from  the  Encyclopaedia  Metropoli- 
tana),  Lond.,  1849,  crown  8vo ;  Treatise  on 
Rhetoric  (from  the  Encyclopaedia  Metropoli- 
tana),  Lond.,  1849,  crown  8vo  ;  Introductory 
Lessons  on  the  Study  of  St.  Paul's  Epistles, 
1849,  18mo;  Scripture  Revelations  concern- 
ing Good   and   Evil  Angels,    Lond.,   1851, 
12mo,  2d  edit.,  1855,  12mo;  Lectures  on  the 
Characters  of  Our  Lord's  Apostles,  Lond., 
1851,  12mo  ;  Cautions  for  the  Times,  Lond., 
1853,  8vo,   3d  edit,,   1868,  8vo;    Principles 
of  Elocution,  1854,  12mo;  Bacon's  Essays: 
•with    Annotations,    Lond.,    1856,    8vo,   6th 
edit.,  1864,  8vo  ;  Bacon's  Essays  :  a  Lecture, 
Lond.,  1856,  8vo  ;  Introductory  Lessons  o'n 
Mind,  Bost.,  1859,   12mo,  1868,  12mo;  In- 
troductory Lessons  on  Morals,  Lond.,  1860, 
12mo:  Paley's  Moral  Philosophy,  with  An- 
notations, Lond.,  1859,  8vo  ;  Paley's  View 
of  the  Evidences  of  Christianity,  with  An- 
notations, Lond.,  1859,  8vo,  1861,  8vo;  Dr. 
Paley's  Works  :  a  Lecture,  Lond.,  1859,  8vo  ; 
Introductory  Lessons  on  the  British  Consti- 
tution,   Lond..    1859,    l'2ino ;    Lectures    on 
some  of  the  Parables,  Lond.,  1859,  12mo; 
General   View  of  the  Rise,   Progress,   and 
Corruptions   of  Christianity    (from   Encyc. 
Brit.,  8th  edit.),  with   a  Sketch  of  the  Life 
of    the   Author,   and    a   Catalogue   of   his 
Writings,  New  York,  1860,  12mo;  Miscel- 
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collected,  Lond.,  1861,  demy  8vo.    See  also: 
Detached  Thoughts  and   Apophthegms  ex- 
tracted from  some  of  the  Writings  of  Arch- 
bishop Whately,  First  Series,  Lond.,  1855, 
12mo  ;  Selections  from  the  Writings  of  Arch- 
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and   Apophthegms,    Lond.,    1856,  fp.   8vo, 

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ited by  Miss  E.  J.  Whately,  Lond.,  1864, 
crown  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1865,  crown  8vo ;  The 
Earlier   Remains  of  Archbishop   Whately, 
Lond.,   1864,   post  8vo ;  Memoirs  of  Arch- 
bishop Whately.  by  W.  Fitzpatrick,  1864,  2 
vols.  crown  8vo ;  The  Life  and  Correspond- 
ence of  Archbishop  Whately,  by  [his  daugh- 
ter] E.  Jane  Whately,  with  two   portraits, 


Lond.,  1866,  2  vols.  8vo,  Papular  Edition, 
1866,  crown  8vo.  He  also  published  many 
pamphlets, — sermons,  charges,  etc., — and 
contributed  to  periodicals,  etc. 

"To  great  powers  of  argument  and  illustration, 
and  delightful  transparency  of  diction  and  style, 
h-e  adds  a  higher  quality  still, — and  a  very  rare 
quality  it  is, — an  evident  and  intense  honesty  01' 
purpose,  an  absorbing  desire  to  arrive  nt  the  exact 
truth  and  to  state  it  with  perfect  f;iirnoss  and  with 
the  just  limitations." — HENRY  ROGERS:  Edir 
liev.,  xc.  (Oct.  1849),  301,  n. 

FRIENDSHIPS  IN  HEAVEN. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  extension  and 
perfection  of  friendship  will  constitute  great 
part  of  the  future  happiness  of  the  blest. 
Many  have  lived  in  various  and  distant  ages 
and  countries,  perfectly  adapted  (I  mean  not 
merely  in  their  being  generally  estimable, 
but  in  the  agreement  of  their  tastes  ami 
suitableness  of  dispositions)  for  friendship 
with  each  other,  but  who,  of  course,  could 
never  meet  in  this  world.  Many  a  one  se- 
lects, when  he  is  reading  historv. — a  truly 
pious  Christian,  most  especially 'in  reading 
sacred  history, — some  one  or  two  favourite 
characters,  with  whom  he  feels  that  a  per- 
sonal acquaintance  would  have  been  pecu- 
liarly delightful  to  him.  Why  should  not 
such  a  desire  be  realized  in  a  future  state? 
A  wish  to  see  and  personally  know,  for  ex- 
ample, the  Apostle  Paul,  or  John,  is  the 
most  likely  to  arise  in  the  noblest  and  purest 
mind.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  such  a 
wish  absurd  and  presumptuous,  or  unlikely 
to  be  gratified.  The  highest  enjoyment, 
doubtless,  to  the  blest,  will  be  the  personal 
knowledge  of  their  divine  and  beloved  Mas- 
ter; yet  I  cannot  but  think  that  some  part 
of  their  happiness  will  consist  in  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  greatest  of  his  followers 
also;  and  of  those  of  them  in  particular 
whose  peculiar  qualities  are,  to  each,  the 
most  peculiarly  attractive. 

In  this  world,  again,  our  friendships  are 
limited  not  only  to  those  who  live  in  the 
same  age  and  country,  but  to  a  small  portion 
only  even  of  those  who  are  not  unknown  to 
us,  and  whom  we  know  to  be  estimable  and 
amiable,  and  who,  we  feel,  might  have  been 
among  our  dearest  friends.  Our  command  of 
time  and  leisure  to  cultivate  friendships  im- 
poses a  limittotheirextent:  they  are  bounded 
rather  by  the  occupation  of  our  thoughts  than 
of  our  affections.  And  the  removal  of  such 
impediments  in  a  better  world  seems  to  me  a 
most  desirable  and  a  most  probable  change. 

I  see  no  reason,  again,  why  those  who 
have  been  dearest  friends  on  earth  should  not, 
when  admitted  to  that  happy  state,  continue 
to  be  so,  with  full  knowledge  and  recollec- 
tion of  their  former  friendship.  If  a  man  is 


CHARLES  PHILLIPS. 


387 


still  to  continue  (as  there  is  every  reason  to 
suppose)  a  social  being  and  capable  of 
friendship,  it  seems  contrary  to  all  proba- 
bility that  he  should  cast  off  or  forget  his 
former  friends,  who  are  partakers  with  him 
of  the  like  exaltation.  He  will,  indeed,  be 
greatly  changed  from  what  he  was  on  earth, 
and  unfitted,  perhaps,  for  friendship  with 
such  a  being  as  one  of  us  is  Now  ;  but  his 
friend  will  have  undergone  (by  supposition) 
a  corresponding  change.  And  as  we  have 
seen  those  who  have  been  loving  playfellows 
in  childhood,  grow  up,  if  they  grow  up  with 
good,  and  with  like,  dispositions,  into  still 
closer  friendship  in  riper  years,  so  also  it  is 
probable  that  when  this  our  state  of  child- 
hood shall  be  perfected,  in  the  maturity  of  a 
better  world,  the  like  attachment  will  con- 
tinue between  those  companions  who  have 
trod  together  the  Christian  path  to  glory, 
and  have  "  taken  sweet  counsel  together, 
and  walked  in  the  house  of  God  as  friends." 
A  change  to  indifference  towards  those  who 
have  fixed  their  hearts  on  the  same  objects 
with  ourselves  during  this  earthly  pilgrim- 
age, and  have  given  and  received  mutual  aid 
during  their  course,  is  a  change  as  little,  I 
trust,  to  be  expected,  as  it  is  to  be  desired. 
It  certainly  is  not  such  a  change  as  the 
Scriptures  teach  us  to  prepare  for. 


CHARLES   PHILLIPS, 

born  at  Sligo,  Ireland,  1787,  admitted  to 
the  University  of  Dublin,  1802,  entered  the 
Middle  Temple,  1807.  called  to  the  Irish 
bar,  1811,  and  to  the  English  bar  1821,  Com- 
missioner of  Bankruptcy  at  Liverpool,  1842, 
and  a  Commissioner  of  the  Court  of  Insol- 
vent Debtors,  1846,  until  his  death,  1859. 
He  acquired  great  reputation  at  the  bar  for 
impassioned,  flowery  eloquence.  The  Conso- 
lations of  Erin,  a  Poem,  1811,  4to,  Lond., 
1818,  4to ;  The  Loves  of  Celestine  and  St. 
Aubert,  a  Romantic  Tale,  Lond.,  1811,  2 
vols.  12mo;  The  Emerald  Isle,  a  Poem, 
Lond.,  1812,  4to,  New  York,  1813,  ]2mo. 
Lond.,  1818,  8vo  ;  Historical  Character  of 
Napoleon,  Lond.,  1817,  8vo  ;  The  Lament 
of  the  Emerald  Isle  [for  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte], 1817,  8vo,  6th  edit.,  Lond.,  1818,  8vo  : 
Speeches  Delivered  at  the  Bar  and  on  Sev- 
eral Public  Occasions  in  Ireland  and  Eng- 
land, Lond.,  1817,  8vo,  1822,  8vo,  1839,  8vo, 
New  York,  1817.  8vo,  Phila.,  1818,  8vo; 
Recollections  of  John  Philpot  Curran  and 
some  of  his  Contemporaries,  Lond.,  1818, 
8vo,  5th  edit.,  1857,  post  8vo,  New  York, 
1818,  8vo  ;  Specimens  of  Irish  Eloquence, 
etc.  [with  Biographical  Notices  of  Burke, 
Curran,  Plunkett,  Flood],  Lond.,  1819,  8vo, 


New  York,  1820,  8vo  ;  The  Queen's  Case 
Stated  in  an  Address  to  the  King,  Lond., 
1820,  8vo;  Historical  Sketch  of  "Arthur, 
Duke  of  Wellington,  Brighton,  1852,  8vo  ; 
Napoleon  the  Third.  Lond.,  1854,  8vo ; 
Thoughts  on  Capital  Punishments,  Lond., 
1857,  8vo,  4th  edit.,  1859,  8vo,  new  edit., 
1866,  demy  8vo  (see  Brief  Reply  to,  etc.,  by 
Rev.  J.  W.  Watkin,  Lond.,  1858,  8vo).  See 
Speeches  of  Phillips,  Curran,  and  Grattan, 
Phila.,  1831,  8vo,  1846,  8vo;  Lond.  Gent. 
Mag.,  1859,  i.434  (Obituary),  and  Allibone's 
Grit.  Dictionary  of  English  Lit.,  ii.  1581 
(Phillips's  Defence  of  Courvoisier). 

"  O'Garnish's  style  is  pitiful  to  the  last  degree. 
He  ought  by  common  consent  to  be  driven  from  the 
bar." — SIR  JAMES  MACKINTOSH  TO  A.  H.  EVERETT: 
N.  Amei:  Review,  Oct.  1832,  448,  n. 

"  Charles  Phillips  was  worth  a  gross  of  Shells. 
There  were  frequent  flashes  of  fine  imagination, 
and  strains  of  genuine  feeling  in  his  speeches,  that 
showed  Nature  intended  him  for  an  orator.  In  the 
midst  of  his  most  tedious  and  tasteless  exaggera- 
tions, you  still  feel  that  Charles  Phillips  had  a 
heart,"  etc. — CHRISTOPHER  NORTH:  Noctes  Am- 
bros.,  Dee.  1828:  Bla-'kio.  Mag.,  xxiv.  703,  See 
alsoxii.  58  ;  Moore's  Memoirs,  etc.,  vii.  1856,  44. 

CHARACTER  OP  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE. 

He  is  fallen  !  We  may  now  pause  be- 
fore that  splendid  prodigy,  which  towered 
amongst  us  like  some  ancient  ruin,  whose 
frown  terrified  the  glance  its  magnificence 
attracted. 

Grand,  gloomy,  and  peculiar,  he  sat  upon 
the  throne,  a  sceptred  hermit,  wrapt  in  the 
solitude  of  his  own  originality. 

A  mind  bold,  independent,  and  decisive, — 
a  will  despotic  in  its  dictates, — an  energy 
that  distanced  expedition,  and  a  conscience 
pliable  to  every  touch  of  interest,  marked 
the  outline  of  this  extraordinary  character, — 
the  most  extraordinary,  perhaps,  that,  in  the 
annals  of  this  world,  ever  rose,  or  reigned, 
or  fell. 

Flung  into  life  in  the  midst  of  a  Revolu- 
tion that  quickened  every  energy  of  a  people 
who  acknowledged  no  superior,  he  com- 
menced his  course,  a  stranger  by  birth,  and 
a  scholar  by  charity  ! 

With  no  friend  but  his  sword,  and  no 
fortune  but  his  talents,  he  rushed  into  the 
lists  where  rank,  and  wealth,  and  genius 
had  arrayed  themselves,  .and  competition 
fled  from  him  as  from  the  glance  of  destiny. 
He  knew  no  motive  but  interest, — he  ac- 
knowledged no  criterion  but  success, — he 
worshipped  no  God  but  ambition,  and  with 
an  eastern  devotion  he  knelt  at  the  shrine  of 
his  idolatry. 

Subsidiary  to  this,  there  was  no  creed  that 
he  did  not  profess,  there  was  no  opinion  that 
he  did  not  promulgate  ;  in  the  hope  of  a  dy- 
nasty, he  upheld  the  Crescent;  for  the  sake 


388 


CHARLES  PHILLIPS. 


of  a  divorce,  he  bowed  before  the  Cross  :  the 
orphan  of  St.  Louis,  he  became  the  adopted 
child  of  the  Republic:  and  with  a  parricidal 
ingratitude,  on  the  ruins  both  of  the  throne 
and  the  tribune,  he  reared  the  fabric  of  his 
despotism. 

A  professed  Catholic,  he  imprisoned  the 
Pope  ;  a  pretended  patriot,  he  impoverished 
the  country  ;  and  in  the  name  of  Brutus,  he 
grasped  without  remorse,  and  wore  without 
shame,  the  diadem  of  the  Coesars  I 

Through  this  pantomime  of  his  policy, 
Fortune  played  the  crown  to  his  caprices. 
At  his  touch,  crowns  crumbled,  beggars 
reigned,  systems  vanished,  the  wildest  theo- 
ries took  the  colour  of  his  whim,  and  all 
that  was  venerable,  and  all  that  was  novel, 
changed  places  with  the  rapidity  of  a  drama. 
Even  apparent  defeat  assumed  the  appear- 
ance of  victory, — his  flight  from  Egypt  con- 
firmed his  destiny — ruin  itself  only  elevated 
him  to  empire. 

But  if  his  fortune  was  great,  his  genius 
was  transcendent ;  decision  flashed  upon  his 
councils ;  and  it  was  the  same  to  decide  and 
perform.  To  inferior  intellects  his  combina- 
tions appeared  perfectly  impossible,  his 
plans  perfectly  impracticable :  but  in  his 
hands,  simplicity  marked  their  development, 
and  success  vindicated  their  adoption. 

His  person  partook  the  character  of  his 
mind, — if  the  one  never  yielded  in  the  cab- 
inet, the  other  never  bent  in  the  field. 

Nature  had  no  obstacles  that  he  did  not 
surmount,  space  no  opposition  that  he  did 
not  spurn  ;  and  whether  amid  Alpine  rocks, 
Arabian  sands,  or  polar  snows,  he  seemed 
proof  against  peril,  and  empowered  with 
ubiquity  !  The  whole  continent  of  Europe 
trembled  at  beholding  the  audacity  of  his 
designs,  and  the  miracle  of  their  execution. 
Scepticism  bowed  to  the  prodigies  of  his 
performance  ;  romance  assumed  the  air  of 
history  ;  nor  was  there  aught  too  incredible 
for  belief,  or  too  fanciful  for  expectation, 
Avhen  the  world  saw  a  subaltern  of  Corsica 
waving  his  imperial  flag  over  her  most  an- 
cient capitals.  All  the  visions  of  antiquity 
became  common  places  in  his  contemplation  ; 
kings  were  his  people — nations  were  his  out- 
posts ;  and  he  disposed  of  courts,  and  crowns, 
and  camps,  and  churches,  and  cabinets  as 
if  they  were  the  titular  dignitaries  of  the 
chess-board  ! 

Amidst  all  these  changes  he  stood  immut- 
able as  adamant.  It  mattered  little  whether 
in  the  field  or  the  drawing-room, — with  the 
mob  or  the  levee, — wearing  the  Jacobin  bon- 
net or  the  iron  crown. — banishing  a  Bra- 
ganza  or  espousing  a  Ilapsburg, — dictating 
peace  on  a  raft  to  the  Czar  of  Russia  or 
contemplating  defeat  at  the  gallows  of  Leip- 
<*ic, — he  was  still  the  same  military  despot ! 


Cradled  in  the  camp,  he  Avas  to  the  last 
hour  the  darling  of  the  army  ;  and  whether 
in  the  camp  or  the  cabinet,  lie  never  forsook 
a  friend  or  forgot  a  favour.  Of  all  his  sol- 
diers, not  one  abandoned  him,  till  affection 
was  useless,  and  their  first  stipulation  was 
for  the  safety  of  their  favourite. 

They  knew  well  that  if  he  was  lavish  of 
them,  he  was  prodigal  of  himself  5  and  that 
if  he  exposed  them  to  peril,  he  repaid  them 
with  plunder.  For  the  soldier  he  subsidized 
every  body ;  to  the  people  he  made  even 
pride  pay  tribute.  The  victorious  veteran 
glittered  with  his  gains;  and  the  capital, 
gorgeous  with  the  spoils  of  art,  became  the 
miniature  metropolis  of  the  universe.  In 
this  wonderful  combination,  his  affectation 
of  literature  must  not  be  omitted.  The 
goaler  of  the  press,  he  affected  the  patron- 
age of  letters, — the  proscriber  of  books,  he 
encouraged  philosophy. — the  persecutor  of 
authors,  and  the  murderer  of  printers,  he 
yet  pretended  to  the  protection  of  learning! 
— the  assassin  of  Palm,  the  silencer  of  l)e 
Stael,  and  the  denouncer  of  Kotzebue,  he 
was  the  friend  of  David,  the  benefactor  of 
De  Lille,  and  sent  his  academic  prize  to  the 
philosopher  of  England. 

Such  a  medley  of  contradictions,  and  at 
the  same  time  such  an  individual  consist- 
ency, were  never  united  in  the  same  char- 
acter. A  Royalist — a  Republican — and  an 
Emperor — a  Mahometan — a  Catholic  and  a 
patron  of  the  Synagogue — a  subaltern  and 
a  Sovereign — a  Traitor  and  a  Tyrant — a 
Christian  and  an  Infidel — he  was,  through  all 
his  vicissitudes,  the  same  stern,  impatient, 
inflexible  original, — the  same  mysterious  in- 
comprehensible self, — the  man  without  a 
model,  and  without  a  shadow. 

His  fall,  like  his  life,  baffled  all  specula- 
tion. In  short,  his  whole  history  was  like 
a  dream  to  the  world,  and  no  man  can  tell 
how  or  why  he  was  awakened  from  the  rev- 
erie. 

Such  is  a  faint  and  feeble  picture  of  Na- 
poleon Bonaparte,  the  first  Emperor  of  the 
French. 

That  he  has  done  much  evil  there  is  little 
doubt;  that  he  has  been  the  origin  of  much 
good,  there  is  just  as  little.  Through  his 
means,  intentional  or  not,  Spain,  Portugal, 
and  France  have  risen  to  the  blessings  of  a 
free  constitution ;  Superstition  has  found 
her  grave  in  the  ruins  of  the  Inquisition, 
and  the  feudal  system,  with  its  whole  train 
of  tyrannic  satellites,  has  fled  forever.  Kings 
may  learn  from  him  that  their  safest  study, 
as  well  as  their  noblest,  is  the  interest  of  the 
people  ;  the  people  are  taught  by  him  that 
there  is  no  despotism  so  stupendous  against 
which  they  have  not  a  resource ;  and  to 
those  who  would  rise  upon  the  ruins  of 


FRANCOIS  PIERRE   GUILLAUME   GUIZOT. 


389 


both,  he  is  a  living  lesson  that  if  aml>ition 
can  raise  them  from  the  lowest  station,  it 
can  also  prostrate  them  from  the  highest. 
Speeches  Delivered  at  the  Bar,  etc.,  edit. 
1822,  8vo. 


FRANCOIS    PIERRE    GUIL- 
LAUME    GUIZOT, 

horn  at  Nismes,  France,  1787,  hecame  Min- 
ister of  Foreign  Affairs  under  Louis  Phil- 
ippe in  1840,  and  retained  his  power  until 
the  revolution  of  February,  1848,  of  which 
his  obstinacy  in  opposing  electoral  reform 
was  one  of  the  chief  causes.  Died  Sept.  13, 
1874. 

Among  his  works  are  the  following:  Es- 
sai  sur  1'IIistoire  de  France:  complement 
mix  Observations  de  Mably,  Paris,  1823. 
8vo  ;  Histoire  Generate  de  la  Civilisation  en 
Europe  et  en  France  depuis  la  Chute  de 
1'Erapire  Remain  jusqu'a  la  Revolution  Fran- 
caise,  7e  [8eJ  edit.,  1859  et  1860,  5  vols. 
8vo.  et  12mo;  Histoire  de  Charles  I.  (1625- 
49).  5e  edit.,  1854,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  Ilistoire  de 
la  llepublique  d'Angleterre  et  de  Cromwell 
(1649-58),  1854,  2  vols.  8vo  ;  Ilistoire  du 
Protectorat  de  Richard  Cromwell  et  du  Re- 
tablissement  des  Stuarts  (1659-69),  1856,  2 
vols.  8vo  ;  Monk  :  Chute  de  la  Republique 
et  Retablissement  de  la  Monarchic  en  An- 
gleterre  en  1660:  Etudes  llistorique,  1853, 
8vo ;  Portraits  Politiques  des  Principaux 
Personnages  des  divers  Parties,  Parlemen- 
taires,  Cavaliers,  Republicains,  Nivelenrs: 
Etudes  Historiques,  1853,  8vo;  Etudes  sur 
1'IIistoire  de  la  Revolution  d'Angleterre, 
1854,  2  vols.  8vo ;  Corneille  et  son  Temps: 
Etude  Litteraire,  1852,  8vo  :  Shakspeare  et 
son  Temps  :  Etude  Litte>aire,  1852,  8vo  ;  Sir 
Robert  Peel :  Etude  llistorique  Contempo- 
raine,  etc.,  1856,  8vo  ;  Memoirs  pour  servir  a 
1'IIistoire  de  inon  Temps,  8vo  (in  English, 
Lond.,  1858-61,  4  vols.  8vo)  ;  Collection  des 
Memoires  relatifs  a  1'IIistoire  de  France, 
jusqu'au  13c  Siecle,  Paris,  1823-35,  31  vols. 
8vo;  Collection  des  M6moires  relatifs  a  la 
Revolution  d'Angleterre,  Paris,  1827,  25 
vols.  8vo.  For  notices  of  Guizot  and  his 
works,  see  Nouvelle  Biog.  G6nerale,  lloefer, 
xxii.  (1859),  807-831  (by  Lerminier)  ;  Que- 
rard's  La  France  Litteraire. 

"  Among  this  band  of  great  and  honourable  men 
we  think  that  M.  Guizot  will  retain  in  history,  as 
he  has  occupied  in  life,  the  first  and  highest  place. 
.  .  .  But  in  the  depth  and  variety  of  his  literary 
labours,  which  have  enlarged  the  philosophy  of 
history,  in  the  force  and  precision  of  his  oratory, 
which  at  one  swoop  could  bend  an  assembly  or 
crush  a  foe,  and  in  the  systematic  consistency  of 
his  whole  political  life,  .  .  .  M.  Guizot  has  had  no 
equal,  either  in  his  own  country  or,  as  far  as  we 
know,  in  any  other." — Edin.  Review,  Oct.  1858. 


CIVILIZATION. 

For  a  long  period,  and  in  many  countries, 
the  word  civilization  has  been  in  use  ;  people 
have  attached  to  the  word  ideas  more  or  less 
clear,  more  or  less  comprehensive  ;  hut  there 
it  is  in  use,  and  those  who  use  it.  attach 
some  meaning  or  other  to  it.  It  is  the  gen- 
eral, human,  popular  meaning  of  this  word 
that  we  must  study.  There  is  almost  always 
in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  most  general 
terms,  more  accuracy  than  in  the  definitions, 
apparently  more  strict,  more  precise,  of  sci- 
ence. It  is  common  sense  which  gives  to 
words  their  ordinary  signification,  and  com- 
mon sense  is  the  characteristic  of  humanity. 
The  ordinary  signification  of  a  word  is 
formed  by  gradual  progress,  and  in  the  con- 
stant presence  of  facts  ;  so  that  when  a  fact 
presents  itself  which  seems  to  come  within 
the  meaning  of  a  known  term,  it  is  received 
into  it,  as  it  were,  naturally;  the  significa- 
tion of  the  term  extends  itself,  expands,  and 
by  degrees,  the  various  facts,  the  various 
ideas  which  from  the  nature  of  the  things 
themselves  men  should  include  under  this 
word,  are  included. 

When  the  meaning  of  a  word,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  determined  by  science,  this  deter- 
mination, the  work  of  one  individual,  or  of 
a  small  number  of  individuals,  takes  place 
under  the  influence  of  some  particular  fact 
which  has  struck  upon  the  mind.  Thus, 
scientific  definitions  are,  in  general,  much 
more  narrow,  and  hence,  much  less  accurate, 
much  less  true,  at  bottom,  than  the  popular 
meanings  of  the  terms.  In  studying  as  a 
fact  the  meaning  of  the  word  civilization,  in 
investigating  all  the  ideas  which  are  com- 
prised within  it,  according  to  the  common 
sense  of  mankind,  we  shall  make  greater 
progress  towards  a  knowledge  of  the  fact 
itself,  than  by  attempting  to  give  it  ourselves 
a  scientific  definition,  however  more  clear 
and  precise  the  latter  might  appear  at  first. 

I  will  commence  this  investigation  by  en- 
deavouring to  place  before  you  some  hy- 
potheses:  I  will  describe  a  certain  number 
of  states  of  society,  and  we  will  then  inquire 
whether  general  instinct  would  recognize 
in  them  the  condition  of  a  people  civilizing 
itself:  whether  we  recognize  in  them  the 
meaning  which  mankind  attaches  to  the 
word  civilization  ? 

First,  suppose  a  people  whose  external 
life  is  easy,  is  full  of  physical  comfort ;  they 
pay  few  taxes,  they  are  free  from  suffering  ; 
justice  is  well  administered  in  their  private 
relations, — in  a  word,  material  existence  is 
for  them  altogether  happy,  and  happily  reg- 
ulated. But  at  the  same  time,  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  existence  of  this  people  is 
studiously  kept  in  a  state  of  torpor  and  in 


390 


FRANCOIS  PIERRE   GUILLAUME   GUIZOT. 


activity  ;  of,  I  will  not  say,  oppression,  for 
they  do  not  understand  the  feeling,  but  of 
compression.  We  are  not  without  instances 
of  this  state  of  things.  There  has  been  a 
great  number  of  small  aristocratic  repub- 
lics in  which  the  people  have  been  thus 
treated  like  flocks  of  sheep,  well  kept  and 
materially  happy,  but  without  moral  and  in- 
tellectual activity.  Is  this  civilization?  Is 
this  a  people  civilizing  itself? 

Another  hypothesis:  here  is  a  people 
whose  material  existence  is  less  easy,  less 
comfortable,  but  still  supportable.  On  the 
other  hand,  moral  and  intellectual  wants 
have  not  been  neglected,  a  certain  amount 
of  mental  pasture  has  been  served  out  to 
them  ;  elevated,  pure  sentiments  are  culti- 
vated in  them  ;  their  religious  and  moral 
views  have  attained  a  certain  degree  of  de- 
velopment ;  but  great  care  is  taken  to  stifle 
in  them  the  principle  of  liberty;  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  wants,  as  in  the  former 
case  the  material  wants,  .are  satisfied:  each 
man  has  meted  out  to  him  his  portion  of 
truth  ;  no  one  is  permitted  to  seek  it  for 
himself.  Immobility  is  the  characteristic 
of  moral  life  ;  it  is  the  state  into  which  have 
fallen  most  of  the  populations  of  Asia ; 
wherever  theocratic  dominations  keep  hu- 
manity in  check  ;  it  is  the  state  of  the  Hin- 
doos, for  example.  I  ask  the  same  question 
here  as  before :  is  this  a  people  civilizing 
itself? 

I  change  altogether  the  nature  of  the 
hypothesis :  here  is  a  people  among  whom 
is  a  great  display  of  individual  liberties,  but 
where  disorder  and  inequality  are  excessive: 
it  is  the  empire  of  force  and  of  chance; 
every  man,  if  he  is  not  strong,  is  oppressed, 
suffers,  perishes ;  violence  is  the  predomi- 
nant feature  of  the  social  state.  No  one  is 
ignorant  that  Europe  has  passed  through 
this  state.  Is  this  a  civilized  state?  It  may, 
doubtless,  contain  principles  of  civilization 
which  will  develop  themselves  by  successive 
degrees ;  but  the  fact  which  dominates  in 
such  a  society  is,  assuredly,  not  that  which 
the  common  sense  of  mankind  calls  civil- 
ization. 

I  take  a  fourth  and  last  hypothesis  :  the 
liberty  of  each  individual  is  very  great,  in- 
equality amongst  them  is  rare,  and  at  all 
events,  very  transient.  Every  man  does 
very  nearly  just  what  he  pleases,  and  differs 
little  in  power  from  his  neighbour;  but 
there  are  very  few  general  interests,  very 
few  public  ideas,  very  little  society, — in  a 
word,  the  faculties  and  existence  of  individ- 
uals appear  and  then  pass  away,  wholly 
apart  and  without  acting  upon  each  other, 
or  leaving  any  trace  behind  them  ;  the  suc- 
cessive generations  leave  society  at  the  same 
point  at  which  they  found  it :  this  is  the 


state  of  savage  tribes :  liberty  and  equality 
are  there,  but  assuredly  not  civilization. 

I  might  multiply  these  hypotheses,  but  I 
think  we  have  before  us  enough  to  explain 
what  is  the  popular  and  natural  meaning  of 
the  word  civilization. 

It  is  clear  that  none  of  the  states  I  have 
sketched  corresponds,  according  to  the  na- 
tural good  sense  of  mankind,  to  this  term. 
Why?  It  appears  to  me  that  the  first  fact 
comprised  in  the  word  civilization  (and  this 
results  from  the  different  examples  I  have 
rapidly  placed  before  you),  is  the  fact  of 
progress,  of  development:  it  presents  at 
once  the  idea  of  a  people  marching  onward, 
not  to  change  its  place,  but  to  change  its 
condition  ;  of  a  people  whose  culture  is  con- 
dition itself,  and  ameliorating  itself.  The 
idea  of  progress,  of  development,  appears  to 
me  the  fundamental  idea  contained  in  the 
word,  civilization.  What  is  this  progress  ? 
What  this  development?  Herein  is  the 
greatest  difficulty  of  all. 

The  etymology  of  the  word  would  seem 
to  answer  in  a  clear  and  satisfactory  man- 
ner: it  says  that  it  is  the  perfecting  of  civil 
life,  the  development  of  society,  properly 
so  called,  of  the  relations  of  men  among 
themselves. 

Such  is,  in  fact,  the  first  idea  which  pre- 
sents itself  to  the  understanding  when  the 
word  civilization  is  pronounced  :  we  at  once 
figure  forth  to  ourselves  the  extension,  the 
greatest  activity,  the  best  organization  of 
the  social  relations  :  on  the  one  hand,  an 
increasing  production  of  the  means  of  giv- 
ing strength  and  happiness  to  society  ;  on 
the  other,  a  more  equitable  distribution, 
amongst  individuals,  of  the  strength  and 
happiness  produced. 

Is  this  all?  Have  we  then  exhausted  all 
the  natural,  ordinary  meaning  of  the  word 
civilization?  Does  the  fact  contain  nothing 
more  than  this? 

It  is  almost  as  if  we  asked  :  Is  the  human 
species  after  all  a  mere  ant-hill,  a  society  in 
which  all  that  is  required  is  order  and  phys- 
ical happiness,  in  which  the  greater  the 
amount  of  labour,  and  the  more  equitable 
the  division  of  the  fruits  of  labour,  the  more 
surely  is  the  object  attained,  the  progress 
accomplished? 

Our  instinct  at  once  feels  repugnant  to  so 
narrow  a  definition  of  human  destiny.  It 
feels  at  the  first  glance,  that  the  word  civil- 
ization comprehends  something  more  exten- 
sive, more  complex,  something  superior  to 
the  simple  perfection  of  the  social  relations, 
of  social  power  and  happiness. 

Fact,  public  opinion,  the  generally  re- 
ceived meaning  of  the  term,  are  in  accord- 
ance with  this  instinct. 

Take  Rome  in  the  palmy  days  of  the  re- 


FRANCOIS  PIERRE   GUILLAUME   GUIZOT. 


391 


public,  after  the  second  Punic  war,  at  the 
time  of  its  greatest  virtues,  when  it  was 
marching  to  the  empire  of  the  world,  when 
its  social  state  was  evidently  in  progress. 
Then  take  Rome  under  Augustus,  at  the 
epoch  when  her  decline  began,  when,  at  all 
events,  the  progressive  movement  of  society 
was  arrested,  when  evil  principles  were  on 
the  eve  of  prevailing:  yet  there  is  no  one 
Avho  does  not  think  and  say  that  the  Koine 
of  Augustus  was  more  civilized  than  the 
Home  of  Fabricius  or  of  Cincinnatus. 

Let  us  transport  ourselves  beyond  the 
Alps :  let  us  take  the  France  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  eighteenth  centuries:  it  is  evi- 
dent that  in  a  social  point  of  view,  consider- 
ing the  actual  amount  and  distribution  of 
happiness  amongst  individuals,  the  France 
of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
was  inferior  to  some  other  countries  of  Eu- 
rope, to  Holland  and  to  England,  for  ex- 
ample. I  believe  that  in  Holland  and  in 
England  the  social  activity  was  greater,  was 
increasing  more  rapidly,  distributing  its 
fruit  more  fully,  than  in  France;  yet  fisk 
general  good  sense,  and  it  will  say  that  the 
France  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries  was  the  most  civilized  country  in 
Europe.  Europe  has  not  hesitated  in  her 
affirmative  reply  to  the  question  :  traces  of 
this  public  opinion,  as  to  France,  are  found  in 
all  the  monuments  of  European  literature. 

We  might  point  out  many  other  states  in 
•which  the  prosperity  is  greater,  is  of  more 
rapid  growth,  is  better  distributed  amongst 
individuals  than  elsewhere,  and  in  which, 
nevertheless,  by  the  spontaneous  instinct,  the 
general  good  sense  of  men,  the  civilization 
is  judged  inferior  to  that  of  countries  not  so 
well  portioned  out  in  a  purely  social  sense. 

What  does  this  mean?  What  advantages 
do  these  latter  countries  possess?  What  is 
it  gives  them,  in  the  character  of  civilized 
countries,  this  privilege?  What  so  largely 
compensates  in  the  opinion  of  mankind  for 
what  they  so  lack  in  other  respects? 

A  development  other  than  that  of  social 
life  has  been  gloriously  manifested  by  them  ; 
the  development  of  the  individual,  internal 
life,  the  development  of  man  himself,  of  his 
faculties,  his  sentiments,  his  ideas.  If  so- 
ciety with  them  be  less  perfect  than  else- 
Avhere,  humanity  stands  forth  in  more  gran- 
deur and  power.  There  remain,  no  doubt, 
many  social  conquests  to  be  made ;  but  im- 
mense intellectual  and  moral  conquests  are 
accomplished;  worldly  goods,  social  rights, 
are  wanting  to  many  men  ;  but  many  great 
men  live  and  shine  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
Letters,  sciences,  the  arts,  display  .all  their 
splendour.  Wherever  mankind  beholds  these 
great  signs,  these  signs  glorified  by  human 
nature,  wherever  it  sees  created  these  treas- 


ures of  sublime  enjoyment,  it  there  recognizes 
and  names  civilization.  Two  facts,  then,  are 
comprehended  in  this  great  fact;  it  subsists 
on  two  conditions,  and  manifests  itself  by 
two  symptoms:  the  development  of  social 
activity,  and  that  of  individual  activity  ;  the 
progress  of  society  and  the  progress  of  hu- 
manity. Wherever  the  external  condition 
of  man  extends  itself,  vivifies,  ameliorates 
itself;  wherever  the  internal  nature  of  man 
displays  itself  with  lustre,  with  grandeur; 
at  these  two  signs,  and  often  despite  the 
profound  imperfection  of  the  social  state, 
mankind  with  loud  applause  proclaims  civ- 
ilization. 

Such,  if  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  is  the  re- 
sult of  simple  and  purely  common-sense  ex- 
amination of  the  general  opinion  of  man- 
kind. If  we  interrogate  history,  properly 
so  called,  if  we  examine  what  is  the  nature 
of  the  great  crises  of  civilization,  of  those 
facts  which,  by  universal  consent,  have  pro- 
pelled it  onward,  we  shall  constantly  recog- 
nize one  or  other  of  the  two  elements  I  have 
just  described.  They  are  always  crises  of 
individual  or  social  development,  facts  which 
have  changed  the  internal  man,  his  creed, 
his  manners,  or  his  external  condition,  his 
position  in  his  relation  with  his  fellows. 
Christianity,  for  example,  not  merely  on  its 
first  appearance,  but  during  the  first  stages 
of  its  existence,  Christianity  in  no  degree 
addressed  itself  to  the  social  state  ;  it  an- 
nounced aloud  that  it  would  not  meddle 
with  the  social  state;  it  ordered  the  slave 
to  obey  his  master;  it  attacked  none  of  the 
great  evils,  the  great  wrongs,  of  the  society 
of  that  period.  Yet  who  will  deny  that 
Christianity  was  a  great  crisis  of  civiliza- 
tion? Why  was  it  so?  Because  it  changed 
the  internal  man,  creeds,  sentiments;  be- 
cause it  regenerated  the  moral  man,  the 
intellectual  man. 

We  have  seen  a  crisis  of  another  nature, 
a  crisis  which  addressed  itself,  not  to  the 
internal  man,  but  to  his  external  condition  ; 
one  which  changed  and  regenerated  society. 
This  also  was  assuredly  one  of  the  decisive 
crises  of  civilization.  Look  through  all  his- 
tory,'you  will  find  everywhere  the  same  re- 
sult; you  will  meet  with  no  important  fact 
instrumental  in  the  development  of  civiliza- 
tion, which  has  not  exercised  one  or  other  of 
the  two  sorts  of  influence  I  have  spoken  of. 

Such,  if  I  mistake  not,  is  the  natural  and 
popular  meaning  of  the  term  ;  you  have 
here  the  fact,  I  will  not  say  defined,  but  de- 
scribed, verified  almost  completely,  or,  at 
all  events,  in  its  general  features.  We  have 
here  before  us  the  two  elements  of  civiliza- 
tion. Now  comes  the  question,  Would  one 
of  these  two  suffice  to  constitute  it;  would 
the  development  of  the  social  state,  the  de- 


392 


GEORGE   COMBE. 


velopment  of  the  individual  man,  separately 
presented,  be  civilization?  Would  the  hu- 
man race  recognize  it  as  such  ?  or  have  the 
two  facts  so  intimate  and  necessary  a  rela- 
tion between  them,  that  if  they  are  not 
simultaneously  produced,  they  are  notwith- 
standing inseparable,  and  sooner  or  later 
one  brings  on  the  other? 

We  might,  as  it  appears  to  me,  approach 
this  question  on  three  several  sides.  We 
might  examine  the  nature  itself  of  the  two 
elements  of  civilization,  and  ask  ourselves, 
whether  by  that  alone,  they  are  or  are  not 
closely  united  with,  and  necessary  to  each 
other.  We  might  inquire  of  history  whether 
they  had  manifested  themselves  isolately, 
apart  the  one  from  the  other,  or  whether 
they  had  invariably  produced  the  one  the 
other.  We  may,  lastly,  consult  upon  this 
question  the  common  opinion  of  mankind — 
common  sense. 

History  of  Civilization  in  Europe,  trans- 
lated Inj  William  Hazlilt,  edit.  Bohn, 
1856,  i.  11-13. 

OLIVER  CROMWELL. 

Cromwell  died  in  the  plenitude  of  his 
power  and  greatness.  lie  had  succeeded  be- 
yond all  expectation,  far  more  than  any 
other  of  those  men  has  succeeded,  who,  by 
their  genius,  have  raised  themselves,  as  he 
had  done,  to  supreme  authority ;  for  he  had 
attempted  and  accomplished,  with  equal  suc- 
cess, the  most  opposite  designs.  During 
eighteen  years  that  he  had  been  an  ever- 
victorious  actor  on  the  world's  stage,  he  had 
alternately  sown  disorder  and  established 
order,  effected  and  punished  revolution, 
overthrown  and  restored  government,  in  his 
country.  At  every  moment,  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, he  had  distinguished  with  ad- 
mirable sagacity  the  dominant  interests  and 
passions  of  his  time,  so  as  to  make  them 
the  instruments  of  his  own  rule, — careless 
whether  he  belied  his  antecedent  conduct, 
so  long  as  he  triumphed  in  concert  with  the 
popular  instinct,  and  explaining  the  incon- 
sistencies of  his  conduct  by  the  ascendant 
unity  of  his  power.  He  is,  perhaps,  the 
only  example  which  history  affords  of  one 
man  having  governed  the  most  opposite 
events,  and  proved  sufficient  for  the  most 
various  destinies.  And  in  the  course  of  his 
violent  and  changeful  career,  incessantly  ex- 
posed to  all  kinds  of  enemies  and  conspira- 
cies, Cromwell  experienced  this  crowning 
favour  of  Fortune,  that  his  life  was  never 
actually  attacked :  the  sovereign  against 
W7hom  Killing  had  been  declared  to  be  No 
Murder,  never  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  an  assassin.  The  world  has  never 
known  another  example  of  success  at  once 


so  constant  and  so  various,  or  of  fortune  so 
invariably  favourable,  in  the  midst  of  such 
manifold  conflicts  and  perils. 

Yet  Cromwell's  death-bed  was  clouded 
with  gloom.  He  was  unwilling,  not  only  to 
die,  but  also,  and  most  of  all,  to  die  without 
having  attained  his  real  and  final  object. 
However  great  his  egotism  may  have  been, 
his  soul  was  too  great  to  rest  satisfied  with 
the  highest  fortune,  if  it  were  merely  per- 
sonal, and,  like  himself,  of  ephemeral, 
earthly  duration.  Weary  of  the  ruin  he 
had  caused,  it  was  his  cherished  wish  to 
restore  to  his  country  a  regular  and  stable 
government, — the  only  government  which 
was  suited  to  its  wants,  a  monarchy  under 
the  control  of  Parliament.  And  at  the  same 
time,  with  an  ambition  which  extended  be- 
yond the  grave,  under  the  influence  of  that 
thirst  for  permanence  which  is  the  stamp  of 
true  greatness,  he  aspired  to  leave  his  name 
and  race  in  possession  of  the  throne.  He 
failed  in  both  designs  :  his  crimes  had  raised 
up  obstacles  against  him,  which  neither  his 
prudent  genius  nor  his  persevering  will  could 
surmount-,  and  though  covered,  as  far  as  he 
was  himself  concerned,  with  power  and 
glory,  he  died  with  his  dearest  hopes  frus- 
trated, and  leaving  behind  him,  as  his  suc- 
cessors, the  two  enemies  whom  he  had  so  ar- 
dently combated, — anarchy  and  the  Stuarts. 

God  does  not  grant  to  those  great  men, 
who  have  laid  the  foundations  of  their  great- 
ness amidst  disorder  and  revolution,  the 
power  of  regulating  at  their  pleasure,  and 
for  succeeding  ages,  the  government  of 
nations. 

History  of  Oliver  Cromwell  and  the  English 
Commonwealth,  etc.,  Vol.  ii.  Hook  viii. 


GEORGE  COMBE, 

a  brother  of  Andrew  Combe,  M.D.,  infra, 
and  born  in  1788  in  Edinburgh,  where  for 
twenty-five  years  he  practised  law,  in  1816 
became  a  hearer,  and  soon  after  a  disciple, 
of  Spurzheim,  and  advocated  phrenology 
with  great  zeal  in  the  United  States  (1838- 
40)  and  elsewhere;  died  1858.  Essays  on 
Phrenology,  Edin.,  1819,  8vo,  5th  edit.,— A 
System  of  Phrenology, — 1843,  2  vols.  8vo ; 
Outlines  of  Phrenology,  4th  edit.,  Edin., 
1859,  8vo ;  The  Constitution  of  Man  con- 
sidered in  Relation  to  External  Objects, 
Edin.,  1828,  12mo,  8th  edit.,  1848,  post  8vo 
(also  in  French,  German,  and  Swedish)  ; 
Letters  on  the  Prejudices  of  the  Great  in 
Science  and  Philosophy  against  Phrenology, 
Edin.,  1829,  8vo ;  Elements  of  Phrenology, 
7th  edit.,  Edin.,  1849,  12mo;  Lectures  on 
Popular  Education,  Bost.,  1834,  12mo,  3d 


GEORGE   COMBE. 


393 


edit.,  1848,  p.  8vo ;  On  the  Functions  of  the 
Cerebellum,  from  the  French,  Edin.,  1838, 
8vo ;  Notes  on  the  United  States  of  North 
America,  1838-40,  1841,  3  vols.  p.  8vo  ;  Lec- 
tures on  Phrenology,  etc.,  New  York,  1839, 
12mo,  new  edit.,  1847,  post  8vo  ;  Lectures 
on  Moral  Philosophy,  3d  edit.,  1846,  p.  8vo  ; 
llemarks  on  the  Principles  of  Criminal  Legis- 
lation, etc.,  Lond.,  1854,  8vo;  Phrenology 
Applied  to  Painting  and  Sculpture,  Lond. 
and  Edin.,  8vo;  Science  and  Religion,  1857, 
8vo.  lie  also  published  a  pamphlet  on  Cur- 
rency, etc.  See  Edin.  Review,  Sept.  1826, 
North  Brit.  Review,  May,  1852 ;  Fraser's 
Mag.,  Nov.  1840. 

DISTINCTION  BETWEEN  POWER  AND  ACTIVITY. 

There  is  a  great  distinction  between  power 
and  activity  of  mind  ;  and  it  is  important  to 
keep  this  difference  in  view.  Power,  strictly 
speaking,  is  the  capability  of  thinking,  feel- 
ing, or  perceiving,  however  small  in  amount 
that  capability  may  be;  and  in  this  sense  it 
i.s  synonymous  with  faculty :  action  is  the 
exercise  of  power ;  while  activity  denotes 
the  quickness,  great  or  small,  with  which 
the  action  is  performed,  and  also  the  degree 
of  proneness  to  act.  The  distinction  between 
power,  action,  and  activity  of  the  mental 
facilities  is  widely  recognized  by  describers 
of  human  nature.  Thus  Cowper  says  of  the 
more  violent  affective  faculties  of  man  : — 

"  His  passions,  like  the  watery  stores  that  sleep 
Beneath  the  smiling  surface  of  the  deep, 
AVait  but  the  lashes  of  a  wintry  storm, 
To  frown,  and  roar,  and  shake  his  feeble  form." 

Hope. 
Again  : — 

"  In  every  heart 

Are  sown  the  sparks  that  kindle  fiery  war; 
Occasion  needs  but  fan  them,  and  they  blaze." 
The  Tank,  B.  5. 

Dr.  Thomas  Brown,  in  like  manner,  speaks 
of  latent  propensities  ;  that  is  to  say,  powers 
not  in  action.  "  Vice  already  formed,"  says 
lie,  "  is  almost  beyond  our  power:  it  is  only 
in  the  state  of  latent  propensity  that  we  can 
with  much  reason  expect  to  overcome  it  by 
the  moral  motives  which  we  are  capable  of 
presenting:"  and  he  alludes  to  the  great  ex- 
tent of  knowledge  of  human  nature  requisite 
to  enable  us  "  to  distinguish  this  propensity 
before  it  has  expanded  itself,  and  even  be- 
fore it  is  known  to  the  very  mind  in  which 
it  exists,  and  to  tame  those  passions  which 
are  never  to  rage."  In  Crabbe's  Tales  of 
the  Hall  a  character  is  thus  described  : — 

"  He  seemed  without  a  passion  to  proceed, 
Or  one  whose  passions  no  correction  need  ; 
Yet  some  believed  those  passions  only  slept, 
And  were  in  bounds  by  early  habits  kept.'' 


"Nature,"  says  Lord  Bacon,  "will  be 
buried  a  great  time,  and  yet  revive  upon  the 
occasion  or  temptation  ;  like  as  it  was  with 
.iEsop's  damsel,  turned  from  a  cat  to  a  woman, 
who  sat  very  demurely  at  the  board's  end 
till  a  mouse  ran  before  her."  In  short,  it  is 
plain  that  we  may  have  the  capability  of 
feeling  an  emotion, — as  anger,  fear,  or  pity, 
— and  that  yet  this  power  may  be  inactive, 
insomuch  that,  at  any  particular  time  these 
emotions  may  be  totally  absent  from  the 
mind  ;  and  it  is  no  less  plain,  that  we  may 
have  the  capability  of  seeing,  tasting,  calcu- 
lating, reasoning,  and  composing  music, 
without  actually  performing  these  opera- 
tions. 

It  is  equally  easy  to  distinguish  activity 
from  action  and  power.  When  power  is  ex- 
ercised, the  action  may  be  performed  with 
very  different  degrees  of  rapidity.  Two 
individuals  may  each  be  solving  a  problem 
in  arithmetic,  but  one  may  do  so  with  far 
greater  quickness  than  the  other ;  in  other 
words,  his  faculty  of  Number  may  be  more 
easily  brought  into  action.  He  who  solves 
abstruse  problems  slowly,  manifests  much 
power  with  little  activity ;  while  he  who 
can  quickly  solve  easy  problems,  and  them 
alone,  has  much  activity  with  little  power. 
The  man  who  calculates  difficult  problems 
with  great  speed,  manifests  in  a  high  degree 
both  power  and  activity  of  the  faculty  of 
Number. 

As  commonly  employed,  the  word  power 
is  synonymous  with  strength,  or  much 
power,  instead  of  denoting  mere  capacity, 
whether  much  or  little,  to  act ;  while  by 
activity  is  usually  understood  much  quick- 
ness of  action,  and  great  proneness  to  act. 
As  it  is  desirable,  however,  to  avoid  every 
chance  of  ambiguity,  I  shall  employ  the 
words  power  and  activity  in  the  sense  first 
before  explained ;  and  to  high  degrees  of 
power  I  shall  apply  the  terms  energy,  in- 
tensity, strength,  or  vigour  :  while  to  great 
activity  I  shall  apply  the  terms  vivacity, 
agility,  rapidity,  or  quickness. 

In  physics,  strength  is  quite  distinguish- 
able from  quickness.  The  balance-wheel  of 
a  watch  moves  with  much  rapidity,  but  so 
slight  is  its  impetus,  that  a  hair  would  suf- 
fice to  stop  it ;  the  beam  of  a  steam-engine 
progresses  slowly  and  massively  through 
space,  but  its  energy  is  prodigiously  great. 

In  muscular  action  these  qualities  are 
recognized  with  equal  facility  as  different. 
The  greyhound  bounds  over  hill  and  dale 
with  animated  agility;  but  a  slight  ob- 
stacle would  counterbalance  his  momentum, 
and  arrest  his  progress.  The  elephant,  on 
the  other  hand,  rolls  slowly  and  heavily 
along;  but  the  impetus  of  his  motion  would 
sweep  away  an  impediment  sufficient  to  re- 


394 


GEORGE   COMBE. 


sist  fifty  greyhounds  at  the  summit  of  their 
speed. 

In  mental  manifestations  (considered 
apart  from  organization),  the  distinction 
between  energy  and  vivacity  is  equally  pal- 
pable. On  the  stage  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Mr. 
John  Kemble  were  remarkable  for  the  sol- 
emn deliberation  of  their  manners,  both  in 
declamation  and  in  action,  and  yet  they  were 
splendidly  gifted  with  energy.  They  carried 
captive  at  once  the  sympathies  and  the  un- 
derstandings of  the  audience,  and  made  every 
man  feel  his  faculties  expanding,  and  his 
whole  mind  becoming  greater  under  the  in- 
fluence of  their  power.  Other  performers, 
again,  are  remarkable  for  agility  of  action 
and  elocution,  who,  nevertheless,  are  felt 
to  be  feeble  and  ineffective  in  rousing  an 
audience  to  emotion.  Vivacity  is  their  dis- 
tinguishing attribute,  with  an  absence  of 
vigour.  At  the  bar,  in  the  pulpit,  and  in 
the  senate,  the  same  distinction  prevails. 
Many  members  of  the  learned  professions 
display  great  fluency  of  elocution  and  felicity 
of  illustration,  surprising  us  with  the  quick- 
ness of  their  parts,  who,  nevertheless,  are 
felt  to  be  neither  impressive  nor  profound. 
They  exhibit  acuteness  without  depth,  and 
ingenuity  without  comprehensiveness  of 
understanding.  This  also  proceeds  from 
vivacity  with  little  energy.  There  are  other 
public  speakers,  again,  who  open  heavily  in 
debate, — their  faculties  acting  slowly  but 
deeply,  like  the  first  heave  of  a  mountain 
wave.  Their  words  fall  like  minute-guns 
upon  the  ear,  and  to  the  superficial  they  ap- 
pear about  to  terminate  ere  they  have  begun 
their  efforts.  But  even  their  first  accent  is 
one  of  power ;  it  rouses  and  arrests  atten- 
tion ;  their  very  pauses  are  expressive,  and 
indicate  gathering  energy  to  be  embodied  in 
the  sentence  that  is  to  come.  When  fairly 
animated  they  are  impetuous  as  the  torrent, 
brilliant  as  the  lightning's  beam,  and  over- 
whelm and  take  possession  of  feebler  minds, 
impressing  them  irresistibly  with  a  feeling 
of  gigantic  power. 

The  distinction  between  vivacity  and  en- 
ergy is  well  illustrated  by  Cowper  in  one  of 
his  letters  :  "  The  mind  and  body,"  says  he, 
"  have  in  this  respect  a  striking  resemblance 
of  each  other.  In  childhood  they  are  both 
nimble,  but  not  strong ;  they  can  skip  and 
frisk  about  with  wonderful  agility,  but  hard 
labour  spoils  them  both.  In  maturer  years 
they  become  less  active  but  more  vigorous, 
more  capable  of  fixed  application,  and  can 
make  themselves  sport  with  that  which  a 
little  earlier  would  have  affected  them  with 
intolerable  fatigue."  Dr.  Cliarlton  also,  in 
bis  Brief  Discourse  Concerning  the  Different 
Wits  of  Men,  has  admirably  described  two 
characters,  in  one  of  which  strength  is  dis- 


played without  vivacity,  and  in  the  other 
vivacity  without  strength  :  the  latter  he  calls 
the  man  of  "nimble  wit,'1  the  former  the 
man  of  "slow  but  sure  wit."  In  this  re- 
spect the  French  character  may  be  con- 
trasted with  the  Scotch. 

As  a  general  rule,  the  largest  organs  in 
each  head  have  naturally  the  greatest,  and 
the  smallest  the  least,  tendency  to  act,  and 
to  perform  their  functions  with  rapidity. 

The  temperaments  also  indicate  the 
amount  of  this  tendency. 

The  nervous  is  the  most  vivacious,  next 
the  sanguine,  then  the  bilious,  while  the 
lymphatic  is  characterized  by  proneness  to 
inaction. 

In  a  lymphatic  brain,  great  size  may  be 
present  and  few  manifestations  occur 
through  sluggishness  ;  but  if  a  strong  ex- 
ternal stimulus  be  presented,  energy  often 
appears.  If  the  brain  be  very  small,  no  de- 
gree of  stimulus,  either  external  or  internal, 
will  cause  great  power  to  be  manifested. 

A  certain  combination  of  organs — name- 
ly, Combativeness,  Destructiveness,  Hope, 
Firmness,  Acquisitiveness,  and  Love  of  Ap- 
probation, all  large — is  favourable  to  general 
vivacity  of  mind  ;  and  another  combination 
— namely,  Combativeness,  Destructiveness, 
Hope,  Firmness,  and  Acquisitiveness,  small 
or  moderate,  with  Veneration  and  Benevo- 
lence large — is  frequently  attended  with 
sluggishness  of  the  mental  character;  but 
the  activity  of  the  whole  brain  is  constitu- 
tionally greater  in  some  individuals  than  in 
others,  as  already  explained.  It  may  even 
happen  that,  in  the  same  individual,  one 
organ  is  naturally  more  active  than  another, 
without  reference  to  size,  just  as  the  optic 
nerve  is  sometimes  more  irritable  than  the 
auditory  ;  but  this  is  by  no  means  a  common 
occurrence.  Exercise  greatly  increases  ac- 
tivity as  well  as  power,  and  hence  arise  the 
benefits  of  education.  Dr.  Spurzheiin  thinks 
that  >;  long  fibres  produce  more  activity, 
and  thick  fibres  more  intensity." 

The  doctrine  that  size  is  a  measure  of 
power,  is  not  to  be  held  as  implying  that 
much  power  is  the  only  or  even  the  most 
valuable  quality  which  a  mind  in  all  circum- 
stances can  possess.  To  drag  artillery  over 
a  mountain,  or  a  ponderous  wagon  through 
the  streets  of  London,  we  would  prefer  an 
elephant  or  a  horse  of  great  size  and  muscu- 
lar power;  while  for  graceful  motion,  ngility, 
and  nimbleness,  we  would  select  an  Arabian 
palfrey.  In  like  manner,  to  lead  men  in 
gigantic  and  difficult  enterprises, — to  com 
mand  by  native  greatness,  in  perilous  times, 
when  law  is  trampled  under  foot, — to  call 
forth  the  energies  of  a  people,  and  direct 
them  against  a  tyrant  at  home,  or  an  alliance 
of  tyrants  abroad, — to  stamp  the  impress  of 


GEORGE   GORDON  NOEL  BYRON. 


395 


a  single  mind  upon  a  nation, — to  infuse 
strength  into  thoughts,  and  depth  into  feel- 
ings, which  shall  command  the  homage  of 
enlightened  men  in  evei-y  age, — in  short,  to 
be  a  Bruce,  Bonaparte,  Luther,  Knox,  De- 
mosthenes, Shakspeare,  Milton,  or  Cromwell, 
— a  large  brain  is  indispensably  requisite. 
But  to  display  skill,  enterprise,  and  fidelity 
in  the  various  professions  of  civil  life, — 
to  cultivate  with  success  the  less  arduous 
branches  of  philosophy, — to  excel  in  acute- 
ness,  taste,  and  felicity  of  expression, — to 
acquire  extensive  erudition  and  refined  man- 
ners,— a  brain  of  a  moderate  size  is  perhaps 
more  suitable  than  one  that  is  very  large  :  for 
wherever  the  energy  is  intense,  it  is  rare  that 
delicacy,  refinement,  and  taste  are  present  in 
an  equal  degree.  Individuals  possessing 
moderate-sized  brains  easily  find  their  proper 
sphere,  and  enjoy  in  it  scope  for  all  their  en- 
ergy. In  ordinary  circumstances  they  dis- 
tinguish themselves,  but  they  sink  when  dif- 
ficulties accumulate  around  them.  Persons 
with  large  brains,  on  the  other  hand,  do  not 
readily  attain  their  appropriate  place ;  com- 
mon occurrences  do  not  rouse  or  call  them 
forth,  and,  while  unknown,  they  are  not 
trusted  with  great  undertakings.  Often, 
therefore,  such  men  pine  and  die  in  ob- 
scurity. When,  however,  they  attain  their 
proper  element,  they  are  conscious  of  great- 
ness, and  glory  in  the  expansion  of  their 
powers.  Their  mental  energies  rise  in  pro- 
portion to  the  obstacles  to  be  surmounted, 
and  blaze  forth  in  all  the  magnificence  of  self- 
sustaining  energetic  genius,  on  occasions 
when  feebler  minds  would  sink  in  despair. 
System  of  Phrenology. 


GEORGE  GORDON  NOEL 
BYRON,  LORD  BYRON, 

the  only  child  of  Captain  John  Byron,  of  the 
Guards,  and  Catherine  Gordon,  of  Gight, 
Abenleenshire,  was  born  in  London,  Jan. 
22,  1788  ;  succeeded  to  the  title  1798  ;  mar- 
ried Miss  Annie  Isabella  Millbanke,  Jan.  2, 
1815,  who  left  him  Jan.  1816;  left  England, 
never  to  return  in  life,  April  25,  1816;  died 
at  Missolonghi,  Western  Greece,  April  19, 
1824.  As  Byron  appears  in  this  volume 
only  as  a  prose  writer,  we  must  refer  for 
notices  of  his  poetical  works  to  Allibone's 
Every -Day  Book  of  Poetry. 

ALBANIA. 

PREVISA,  November  12,  1809. 
MY  DEAR  MOTHER, — I  have  now  been  some 
time  in  Turkey:  this  place  is  on  the  coast, 
but  I  have  traversed  the  interior  of  the  prov- 
ince of  Albania  on  a  visit  to  the  pacha.     I 


left  Malta  in  the  Spider,  a  brig  of  war,  on 
the  21st  of  September,  and  arrived  in  eight 
days  at  Previsa.  I  thence  have  been  about 
150  miles,  as  far  as  Tepaleen,  his  highness's 
country  palace,  where  I  staid  three  days. 
The  name  of  the  pacha  is  Ali,  and  he  is  con- 
sidered a  man  of  the  first  abilities ;  he  gov- 
erns the  wThole  of  Albania  (the  ancient  II- 
lyricum),  Epirus,  and  part  of  Macedonia. 
His  son,  Velly  Pacha,  to  whom  he  has  given 
me  letters,  governs  the  More-a,  and  he  has 
great  influence  in  Egypt ;  in  short,  he  is  one 
of  the  most  powerful  men  in  the  Ottoman 
empire.  W'hen  I  reached  Yanina,  the  cap- 
ital, after  a  journey  of  three  days  over  the 
mountains,  through  a  country  of  the  most 
'picturesque  beauty,  I  found  that  Ali  Pacha 
was  with  his  army  in  Illyricum,  besieging 
Ibrahain  Pacha  in  the  castle  of  Berat.  He 
had  heard  that  an  Englishman  of  rank  was 
in  his  dominions,  and  had  left  orders  in 
Yanina,  with  the  commandant,  to  provide  a 
horse,  and  supply  me  with  every  kind  of 
necessary  gratis;  and,  though  I  have  been 
allowed  to  make  presents  to  the  slaves,  etc., 
I  have  not  been  permitted  to  pay  for  a  single 
article  of  household  consumption.  I  rode 
out  on  the  vizier's  horses,  and  saw  the  pal- 
aces of  himself  and  grandsons :  they  are 
splendid,  but  too  much  ornamented  with 
silk  and  gold.  I  then  went  over  the  moun- 
tains through  Zitza,  a  village  with  a  Greek 
monastery  (where  I  slept  on  my  return),  in 
the  most  beautiful  situation  (always  except- 
ing Cintra,  in  Portugal)  I  ever  beheld.  In 
nine  days  I  reached  Tepaleen.  Our  journey 
was  much  prolonged  by  the  torrents  that  had 
fallen  from  the  mountains,  and  intersected 
the  roads.  I  shall  never  forget  the  singular 
scene  on  entering  Tepaleen  at  five  in  the  af- 
ternoon, as  the  sun  was  going  down :  it 
brought  to  my  mind  (with  some  change  of 
dress,  however)  Scott's  description  of  Brank- 
some  Castle  in  his  Lay,  and  the  feudal  sys- 
tem. The  Albanians  in  their  dresses  (the 
most  magnificent  in  the  world,  consisting  of 
a  long  white  kilt,  gold-worked  cloak,  crimson 
velvet  gold-laced  jacket  and  waistcoat,  silver- 
mounted  pistols  and  daggers),  the  Tartars 
with  their  high  caps,  the  Turks  in  their  vast 
pelisses  and  turbans,  the  soldiers  and  black 
slaves  with  the  horses,  the  former  in  groups 
in  an  immense  large  open  gallery  in  front  of 
the  palace,  the  latter  placed  in  a  kind  of  clois- 
ter below  it,  two  hundred  steeds  ready  ca- 
parisoned to  move  in  a  moment,  couriers 
entering  or  passing  out  with  despatches,  the 
kettle-drums  beating,  boys  calling  the  hour 
from  the  minaret  of  the  mosque,  altogether, 
with  the  singular  appearance  of  the  building 
itself,  formed  a  new  and  delightful  spectacle 
to  a  stranger.  I  was  conducted  to  a  very 
handsome  apartment,  and  my  health  in- 


396 


GEORGE   GORDON  NOEL  BYRON. 


quired  after  by  the  vizier's  secretary,  "a  la 
mode  Turque."  The  next  day  I  was  intro- 
duced to  Ali  Pacha.  I  was  dressed  in  a  full 
suit  of  staff  uniform,  with  a  very  magnificent 
sabre,  etc.  The  vizier  received  me  in  a  large 
room  paved  with  marble;  a  fountain  was 
playing  in  the  centre;  the  apartment  was 
surrounded  by  scarlet  ottomans,  lie  re- 
ceived me  standing,  a  wonderful  compli- 
ment from  a  Mussulman,  and  made  me  sit 
down  on  his  right  hand.  I  have  a  Greek  in- 
terpreter for  general  use,  but  a  physician  of 
Ali's.  named  Temlario,  who  understands 
Latin,  acted  for  me  on  this  occasion.  His 
first  question  was,  why,  at  so  early  an  age,  I 
left  my  country  (the  Turks  have  no  idea  of 
travelling  for  amusement)  ?  lie  then  said, 
the  English  minister,  Captain  Leake,  had 
told  him  I  was  of  a/great  family,  and  desired 
his  respects  to  my  mother:  which  I  now,  in 
the  name  of  Ali  Pacha,  present  to  you.  He 
said  he  was  certain  I  was  a  man  of  birth, 
because  I  had  small  ears,  curling  hair,  and 
little,  white  hands,  and  expressed  himself 
pleased  with  my  appearance  and  garb.  lie 
told  me  to  consider  him  as  a  father  whilst  I 
was  in  Turkey,  and  said  he  looked  on  me  as 
his  son.  Indeed,  he  treated  me  like  a  child, 
sending  me  almonds  and  sugared  sherbet, 
fruit  and  sweetmeats,  twenty  times  a  day, 
lie  begged  me  to  visit  him  often,  and  at 
night,  when  he  was  at  leisure.  I  then,  after 
coffee  and  pipes,  retired  for  the  first  time. 
I  saw  him  thrice  afterwards.  It  is  singular 
that  the  Tm-ks,  who  have  no  hereditary  dig- 
nities, and  few  great  families,  except  the 
sultans',  pay  so  much  respect  to  birth;  for 
I  found  my  pedigree  more  regarded  than  my 
title. 

His  highness  is  sixty  years  old,  very  fat, 
and  not  tall,  but  with  a  fine  face,  light  blue 
eyes,  and  a  white  beard.  His  manner  is 
very  kind,  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  pos- 
sesses that  dignity  which  I  find  universal 
among  the  Turks.  He  has  the  appearance 
of  any  thing  but  his  real  character:  for  he 
is  a  remorseless  tyrant,  guilty  of  the  most 
horrible  cruelties,  very  brave,  and  so  good  a 
general,  that  they  call  him  the  Mahometan 
Buonaparte.  Napoleon  has  twice  offered  to 
make  him  king  of  Epirus  ;  but  he  prefers  the 
English  interest,  and  abhors  the  French,  as 
he  himself  told  me.  He  is  of  so  much  con- 
sequence, that  he  is  much  courted  by  both  ; 
the  Albanians  beine;  the  most  warlike  sub- 
jects of  the  Sultan,  though  Ali  is  only  nomi- 
nally dependent  on  the  Porte.  He  has  been 
a  mighty  warrior  ;  but  is  as  barbarous  as  he 
is  successful,  roasting  rebels,  etc.,  etc.  Buo- 
naparte sent  him  a  snuff-box,  with  his  pic- 
ture ;  he  said  the  snuff-box  was  very  well, 
but  the  picture  he  could  excuse,  as  he  neither 
liked  it  nor  the  original.  His  ideas  of  judg- 


ing of  a  man's  birth  from  ears,  hands,  etc., 
were  curious  enough.  To  me  he  was  indeed 
a  father,  giving  me  letters,  guards,  and  every 
possible  accommodation.  Our  next  conversa- 
tions were  of  war  and  travelling,  politics  and 
England.  He  called  my  Albanian  soldier, 
who  attends  me,  and  told  him  to  protect  me 
at  all  hazard.  His  name  is  Viscillie,  and, 
like  all  the  Albanians,  he  is  brave,  rigidly 
honest,  and  faithful;  but  they  are  cruel, 
though  not  treacherous ;  and  have  several 
vices,  but  no  meannesses.  They  are,  perhaps, 
the  most  beautiful  race,  in  point  of  counte- 
nance, in  the  world  ;  their  women  are  some- 
times handsome  also,  but  they  are  treated 
like  sLaves,  beaten,  and,  in  short,  complete 
beasts  of  burthen  :  they  plough,  dig,  and  sow. 
I  found  them  carrying  wood,  and  actually 
repairing  the  highways.  The  men  are  all 
soldiers,  and  war  and  the  chase  their  sole 
occupation.  The  women  are  the  labourers, 
which,  after  all,  is  no  great  hardship  in  so 
delightful  a  climate.  Yesterday,  the  llth  of 
November,  I  bathed  in  the  sea;  to-day  it  is 
so  hot  that  I  am  writing  in  a  shady  room  of 
the  English  consul's,  with  three  doors  wide 
open,  no  fire,  or  even  fireplace  in  the  house, 
except  for  culinary  purposes. 

To  day  I  saw  the  remains  of  the  town  of 
Actium,  near  which  Antony  lost  the  world, 
in  a  small  bay,  where  two  frigates  could 
hardly  manoeuvre;  a  broken  wall  is  the 
sole  remnant.  On  another  part  of  the  gulf 
stand  the  ruins  of  Nicopolis,  built  by  Au- 
gustus in  honour  of  his  victory.  Last  night 
I  was  at  a  Greek  marriage  ;  but  this,  and  a 
thousand  things  more,  I  have  neither  time 
nor  space  to  describe.  I  am  going  to-morrow, 
with  a  guard  of  fifty  men,  to  Patras  in  the 
Morea,  and  thence  to  Athens,  where  I  shall 
winter.  Two  days  ago,  I  was  nearly  lost  in 
a  Turkish  ship  of  war,  owing  to  the  igno- 
rance of  the  captain  and  crew,  though  the 
storm  was  not  violent.  Fletcher  yelled  after 
his  wife,  the  Greeks  called  on  all  the  saints, 
the  Mussuhnans  on  Alia,  the  captain  burst 
into  tears,  and  ran  below  deck,  telling  us  to 
call  on  God  ;  the  sails  were  split,  the  main 
yard  shivered,  the  wind  blowing  fresh,  the 
night  setting  in,  and  all  our  chance  was  to 
make  Corfu,  which  is  in  possession  of  the 
French,  or  (as  Fletcher  pathetically  termed 
it)  "a  watery  gi-ave."  I  did  what  I  could  to 
console  Fletcher  ;  but,  finding  him  incorrigi- 
ble, wrapped  myself  up  in  my  Albanian 
capote  (an  immense  cloak)  and  lay  down  on 
deck  to  wait  the  worst.  I  have  learnt  to 
philosophize  in  my  travels,  and,  if  I  had  not, 
complaint  was  useless.  Luckily,  the  wind 
abated,  and  only  drove  us  on  the  coast  of 
Suli,  on  the  main  land,  where  we  landed, 
and  proceeded,  by  the  help  of  the  natives,  to 
Previsa  again :  but  I  shall  not  trust  Turkish 


GEORGE   GORDON  NOEL  BYRON. 


397 


sailors  in  future,  though  the  pacha  had  or- 
dered one  of  his  own  galliots  to  take  me  to 
Patras.  I  am,  therefore,  going  as  fur  as 
Missolonghi  by  land,  and  there  have  only  to 
cross  a  small  gulf  to  get  to  Patras.  Fletch- 
ers next  epistle  will  be  full  of  marvels;  we 
were  one  night  lost  for  nine  hours  in  the 
mountains  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  since 
nearly  wrecked.  In  both  cases  Fletcher  was 
sorely  bewildered,  from  apprehensions  of 
famine  and  banditti  in  the  first,  and  drown- 
ing in  the  second  instance.  His  eyes  were  a 
little  hurt  by  the  lightning  or  crying  (I  don't 
know  which),  but  are  now  recovered.  When 
you  write,  address  to  me  at  Mr.  Strane's, 
English  consul,  Patras,  Morea. 

I  could  tell  you  I  know  not  how  many  in- 
cidents, that  I  think  would  amuse  you,  but 
they  crowd  on  my  mind  as  much  as  they 
would  swell  my  paper;  and  I  can  neither 
arrange  them  in  the  one,  nor  put  them  down 
in  the  other,  except  in  the  greatest  confu- 
sion. I  like  the  Albanians  much  :  they  are 
not  all  Turks:  some  tribes  are  Christians;  but 
their  religion  makes  little  difference  in  their 
manner  or  conduct:  they  are  esteemed  the 
best  troops  in  the  Turkish  service.  I  lived 
on  my  route,  two  days  at  once,  and  three 
days  again,  in  a  barrack  at  Salora,  and 
never  found  soldiers  so  tolerable,  though  I 
have  been  in  the  garrisons  of  Gibraltar 
and  Malta,  and  seen  Spanish,  French,  Sicil- 
ian, and  British  troops  in  abundance.  I 
have  had  nothing  stolen  ;  and  was  always 
•welcome  to  their  provision  and  milk.  Not 
a  week  ago  an  Albanian  chief  (every  village 
has  its  chief,  who  is  called  primate),  after 
helping  us  out  of  the  Turkish  galley  in  her 
distress,  feeding  us,  and  lodging  my  suite, 
consisting  of  Fletcher,  a  Greek,  two  Athe- 
nians, a  Greek  priest,  and  my  companion 
Mr.  llobhouse,  refused  any  compensation 
but  a  written  paper  stating  that  I  was  well 
received ;  and  when  I  pressed  him  to  accept 
a  few  sequins,  "  No,"  he  replied,  ''  I  wish 
you  to  love  me,  not  to  pay  me."  These  are 
his  words.  It  is  astonishing  how  far  money 
goes  in  this  country.  While  I  was  in  the 
capital  I  had  nothing  to  pay.  by  the  vizier's 
order;  but  since,  though  I  have  generally 
had  sixteen  horses,  and  generally  six  or 
seven  men,  the  expense  has  not  been  half  as 
much  as  staying  only  three  weeks  at  Malta, 
though  Sir  A.  Ball,  the  governor,  gave  me 
a  house  for  nothing,  and  I  had  only  one 
servant.  By  the  by,  I  expect  II.  ...  to  re- 
mit regularly  ;  for  I  am  not  about  to  stay  in 
this  province  for  ever.  Let  him  write  to  me 
at  Mr.  Strane's,  English  consul,  Patras. 
The  fact  is,  the  fertility  of  the  plains  is  won- 
derful, and  specie  is  scarce,  which  makes 
this  remarkable  cheapness.  I  am  going  to 
Athens  to  study  modern  Greek,  which  dif- 


fers much  from  the  ancient,  though  radi- 
cally similar.  I  have  no  desire  to  return  to 
England,  nor  shall  I,  unless  compelled  by 
absolute  want  and  II.  ...  's  neglect;  but 
I  shall  not  enter  into  Asia  for  a  year  or  two, 
as  I  have  much  to  see  in  Greece,  and  I  may 
perhaps  cross  into  Africa,  at  least  the  Egyp- 
tian part.  Fletcher,  like  all  Englishmen,  is 
very  much  dissatisfied,  though  a  little  rec- 
onciled to  the  Turks  by  a  present  of  eighty 
piastres  from  the  vizier,  which,  if  you  con- 
sider every  thing,  and  the  value  of  specie 
here,  is  nearly  worth  ten  guineas  English. 
He  has  suffered  nothing  but  from  cold,  heat, 
and  vermin,  which  those  who  lie  in  cottages, 
and  cross  mountains  in  a  cold  country,  must 
undergo,  and  of  which  I  have  equally  par- 
taken with  himself;  but  he  is  not  valiant, 
and  is  afraid  of  robbers  and  tempests.  I 
have  no  one  to  be  remembered  to  in  Eng- 
land, and  wish  to  hear  nothing  from  it,  but 
that  you  are  well,  and  a  letter  or  two  on 
business  from  II.  .  .  .  ,  whom  you  may  tell 
to  write.  I  will  write  you  when  I  can,  and 
beg  you  to  believe  me  your  affectionate  son, 

BYRON. 

P.S. — I  have  some  very  "  magnifique"  Al- 
banian dresses,  the  only  expensive  article  in 
this  country.  They  cost  fifty  guineas  each, 
and  have  so  much  gold,  they  would  cost  in 
England  two  hundred.  I  have  been  intro- 
duced to  Hussim  Bey  and  Mahmout  Pacha, 
both  little  boys,  grandchildren  of  Ali,  at 
Yanina.  They  are  totally  unlike  our  lads, 
have  painted  complexions,  like  rouged  dow- 
agers, large  black  eyes,  and  features  per- 
fectly regular.  They  are  the  prettiest  little 
animals  I  ever  saw,  and  are  broken  into  the 
court  ceremonies  already.  The  Turkish  sa- 
lute is  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head,  with 
the  hand  on  the  breast.  Intimates  always  kiss. 
Mahmout  is  ten  years  old,  and  hopes  to  see 
me  again.  We  are  friends  without  under- 
standing each  other,  like  many  other  folks, 
though  from  a  different  cause.  He  has 
given  me  a  letter  to  his  father  in  the  Morea, 
to  whom  I  have  also  letters  from  Ali  Pacha. 

LETTERS  ON  CHILDE  HAROLD. 

FROM  LETTERS  TO  R.  C.  DALLAS,  ESQ. 
NEWSTEAD,  August  21,  1811. 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  return  to  London 
immediately,  and  shall  therefore  accep* 
freely  what  is  offered  courteously, — your 
mediation  between  me  and  Murray.  I  don't 
think  my  name  will  answer  the  purpose,  and 
you  must  be  aware  that  my  plaguy  Satire 
will  bring  the  North  and  South  Grub-streets 
down  upon  the  "  Pilgrimage"  ; — but,  never- 
theless, if  Murray  makes  a  point  of  it,  and 
you  coincide  with  him,  I  will  do  it  daringly  ; 
so  let  it  be  entitled,  "  by  the  Author  of  Eng- 


398 


GEORGE   GORDON  NOEL  BYRON. 


lish  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers."  My  re- 
marks on  the  Romaic,  &c.,  once  intended  to 
accompany  the  "  Hints  from  Horace,"  shall 
go  along  with  the  other,  as  being  indeed 
more  appropriate  ;  also  the  smaller  poems 
now  in  my  possession,  with  a  few  selected 
from  those  published  in  II.  ...  's  Miscel- 
lany. I  have  found,  amongst  my  poor 
mother's  papers,  all  my  letters  from  the 
east,  and  one,  in  particular,  of  some  length, 
from  Albania.  From  this,  if  necessary,  I 
can  work  up  a  note  or  two  on  that  subject. 
As  I  kept  no  journal,  the  letters  written  on 
the  spot  are  the  best.  But  of  this  anon, 
when  we  have  definitely  arranged.  Has 
Murray  shown  the  work  to  anyone?  He 
may  ;  but  I  will  have  no  traps  for  applause. 
Of  course  there  are  little  things  I  would 
wish  you  to  alter,  and  perhaps  the  two 
stanzas  of  a  buffooning  cast  on  London's 
Sunday  are  as  well  left  out.  I  much  wish 
to  avoid  identifying  Childe  Harold's  char- 
acter with  mine,  and  that,  in  sooth,  is  my 
second  objection  to  my  name  appearing  in 
the  title-page.  When  you  have  made  ar- 
rangements as  to  time,  size,  type,  &c.,  favour 
me  with  a  reply.  I  am  giving  you  a  uni- 
verse of  trouble  which  thanks  cannot  atone 
for.  I  made  a  kind  of  prose  apology  for  my 
skepticism,  at  the  head  of  the  MS.,  which, 
on  recollection,  is  so  much  more  like  an 
attack  than  a  defence,  that  haply  it  might 
better  be  omitted.  Perpend,  pronounce. 
After  all,  I  fear  Murray  will  be  in  a  scrape 
with  the  orthodox  ;  but  I  cannot  help  it, 
though  I  wish  him  well  through  it.  As  for 
me,  "  I  have  supped  full  of  criticism,"  and 
I  don't  think  that  the  "most  dismal  treatise" 
will  stir  and  rouse  my  "  fell  of  hair"  till 
"  Birnam  wood  do  come  to  Dunsinane." 

I  shall  continue  to  write  at  intervals,  and 
hope  you  will  pay  me  in  kind. 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  Sept.  7,  1811. 

As  Gifford  has  been  ever  my  "  Magnus 
Apollo,"  any  approbation,  such  as  you  men- 
tion, would,  of  course,  be  more  welcome 
than  "  all  Bokara's  vaunted  gold,  than  all 
the  gems  of  Samarkand."  But  I  am  sorry 
the  MS.  was  shown  to  him  in  such  a  manner, 
and  had  written  to  Murray  to  say  as  much, 
before  I  was  aware  that  it  was  too  late. 

Your  objection  to  the  expression  "central 
line,"  I  can  only  meet  by  saying  that,  before 
Childe  Harold  left  England,  it  was  his  full 
intention  to  traverse  Persia,  and  return  by 
India,  which  he  could  not  have  done  with- 
out passing  the  equinoctial. 

The  other  errors  you  mention  I  must  cor- 
rect in  the  progress  through  the  press.  I 
feel  honoured  by  the  wish  of  such  men  that 
the  poem  should  be  continued ;  but,  to  do 
that,  I  must  return  to  Greece  and  Asia ;  I 


must  have  a  warm  sun  and  a  blue  sky.  I 
cannot  describe  scenes  so  dear  to  me  by  a 
sea-coal  fire.  I  had  projected  an  additional 
canto  when  I  was  in  the  Troad  and  Con- 
stantinople, and  if  I  saw  them  again  it 
would  go  on  ;  but,  under  existing  circum- 
stances and  sensations,  I  have  neither  harp, 
"  heart  nor  voice,"  to  proceed.  I  feel  that 
you  are  all  right  as  to  the  metaphysical  part, 
but  I  also  feel  that  I  am  sincere,  and  that,  if 
I  am  only  to  write  "  ad  captandum  vulgus," 
I  might  as  well  edite  a  magazine  at  once,  or 
spin  canzonettas  for  Vauxhall.  .  .  .  My 
work  must  make  its  way  as  well  as  it  can. 
I  know  I  have  every  thing  against  me, — 
angry  poets  and  prejudices  ;  but  if  the  poem 
is  a  poem,  it  will  surmount  these  obstacles, 
and  if  not,  it  deserves  its  fate.  ...  I  am 
very  sensible  of  your  good  wishes,  and,  in- 
deed, I  have  need  of  them.  My  whole  life 
has  been  at  variance  with  propriety,  not  to 
say  decency  ;  my  circumstances  are  becom- 
ing involved  ;  my  friends  are  dead  or  es- 
tranged ;  and  my  existence  a  dreary  void. 
In  M  ...  I  have  lost  my  "  guide,  philoso- 
pher, and  friend;"' in  Wingfield  a  friend 
only,  but  one  whom  I  could  wish  to  have 
preceded  in  his  long  journey.  .  .  . 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  Sept.  26,  1811. 
In  a  stanza  towards  the  end  of  canto  first 
there  is,  in  the  concluding  line, 

"  Some  bitter  bubbles  up,  and  e'en  on  roses  stings." 

I  have  altered  it  as  follows  : — 

"  Full  from  the  heart  of  joy's  delicious  springs 
Some  bitter  o'er  the  flowers  its  bubbling  venom 
flings." 

If  you  will  point  out  the  stanzas  on  Cin- 
tra  which  you  wish  recast,  I  will  send  you 
mine  answer.  .  .  . 

Pray  do  you  think  any  alterations  should 
be  made  in  the  stanzas  on  VATHEK  ?  I 
should  bo  sorry  to  make  any  improper  allu- 
sion, as  I  merely  wish  to  adduce  an  example 
of  wasted  wealth,  and  the  reflection  which 
arose  in  surveying  the  most  desolate  man- 
sion in  the  most  beautiful  spot  I  ever  be- 
held. .  .  . 

I  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  your  meta- 
physics, and  allegories  of  rocks  and  beaches : 
we  shall  all  go  to  the  bottom  together ;  so 
"  let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow,"  &c. 
I  am  as  comfortable  in  my  creed  as  others, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  better  to  sleep  than  to  be 
awake. 

NEWSTEAD  ABBEY,  October  11,  1811. 

Your  objections  I  have  in  part  done  away 

by  alterations  which  I  hope  will  suffice  ;  and 

I  have  sent  two  or  three  additional  stanzas 

for    both   "Fyttes."     I  have    been    again 


CAPTAIN  BASIL  HALL. 


399 


shocked  with  a  death,  and  have  lost  one  very 
dear  to  me  in  happier  times  ;  but  "  I  have 
almost  forgot  the  taste  of  grief,"  and 
"supped  full  of  horrors"  till  I  have  become 
callous  ;  nor  have  I  a  tear  left  for  an  event 
which,  five  years  ago,  would  have  bowed 
down  my  head  to  the  earth.  It  seems  as 
though  I  were  to  experience,  in  my  youth, 
the  greatest  misery  of  age.  My  friends  fall 
around  me,  and  I  shall  be  left  a  lonely  tree 
before  I  am  withered.  Other  men  can  al- 
ways take  refuge  in  their  families:  I  have 
no  resource  but  my  own  reflections,  and  they 
present  no  prospect,  here  or  hereafter,  ex- 
cept the  selfish  satisfaction  of  surviving 
my  betters.  I  am  indeed  very  wretched, 
and  you  Avill  excuse  my  saying  so,  as  you 
know  I  am  not  apt  to  cant  of  sensibility. 
.  .  .  Instruct  Mr.  Murray  not  to  allow  his 
shopman  to  call  the  work  "  Child  of  liar- 
row's  Pilgrimage"  !!!!!!  as  he  has  done  to 
some  of  my  astonished  friends,  who  wrote 
to  inquire  after  my  sanity  on  the  occasion, 
as  well  they  might.  I  have  heard  nothing 
of  Murray,  whom  I  scolded  heartily. — Must 
I  write  more  notes  ? 


CAPTAIN    BASIL  HALL,  R.N., 

an  author  of  great  merit,  son  of  Sir  James 
Hall,  fourth  baronet  of  Dunglass,  was  born 
in  Edinburgh  in  1788,  and  died  in  confine- 
ment from  insanity  in  1844.  Account  of  a 
Voyage  of  Discovery  to  the  West  Coast  of 
Corea,  and  the  Great  Loo  Choo  Island  in  the 
Japan  Sea,  Lond.,  1818,  4to ;  Occasional 
Poems  and  Miscellanies,  12mo;  Extracts 
from  a  Journal  written  on  the  Coasts  of 
Chili,  Peru,  and  Mexico,  in  the  Years  1820, 
1821,  and  1822,  Lond.,  1824,  2  vols.  p.  8vo, 
4th  edit,  Edin.,  1825,  2  vols.  sm.  8vo,  5th 
edit.,  Lond.,  1848,  8vo  ;  Travels  in  North 
America  in  1827  and  1828,  Edin.,  1829,  3 
vols.  p.  8vo;  Forty  Etchings  from  Sketches 
made  with  the  Camera  Lucida  in  North 
America,  in  1827-28,  Lond.,  1829,  r.  4to  ; 
Fragments  of  Voyages  and  Travels,  three 
Series,  Edin.,  1831-33,9  vols.  12mo;  new 
edits.,  each  in  1  vol.  roy.  8vo,  1840,  1846, 
1850,  1856;  Schloss  Ilainfeld,  or,  A  Winter 
in  Lower  Styria,  Edin.,  1836,  p.  8vo ;  Spain 
and  the  Seat  of  War  in  Spain,  Lond.,  1837, 
p.  8vo ;  Narrative  of  a  Voyage  to  Java, 
China,  and  the  Great  Loo  Choo  Island, 
Lond.,  1840,  8vo  :  Voyages  and  Travels, 

1840,  r.  8vo  (in  conjunction  with  Ellis  and 
Pringle)  ;  Patchwork,  or  Travels  in  Stories, 
etc.,  Lond.,  1840,  3  vols.  p.  8vo ;  2d  edit., 

1841,  3   vols.    18mo,   and   in   1  vol.   12mo; 
Travels  in  South  America,  1841,  r.  8vo. 

"  Few  writers  lay  themselves  more  open  to  quiz- 
zing :  few  can  prose  and  bore  more  successfully 


than  he  now  and  then  does ;  but  the  Captain's  merit 
is  real  and  great.  .  .  .  Captain  Basil  Hall  imparts 
a  freshness  to  whatever  spot  he  touches,  and  carries 
the  reader  with  untiring  good-humour  cheerily 
along  with  him.  Turn  where  we  will  we  have 
posies  of  variegated  flowers  presented  to  us,  and 
we  are  sure  to  find  in  every  one  of  them,  whether 
sombre  or  gny,  a  sprig  of  Basil." — (London)  Quar- 
terly Review.  See  also  North  Amer.  Reniew,  xlv. 
11,  by  W.  H.  Prescott,  and  in  his  Miscellanies; 
LocJchart'i  Life  of  Scott ;  Captain  Hall  in  America, 
Philadelphia,  1830,  8vo. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  years  hence,  when  his 
works  have  become  old  classical  authorities, 
it  may  interest  some  fervent  lover  of  his 
writings  to  know  what  this  great  genius  was 
about  on  Saturday,  the  10th  of  June,  1826, 
— five  months  after  the  total  ruin  of  his  pe- 
cuniary fortunes,  and  twenty-six  days  after 
the  death  of  his  wife. 

In  the  days  of  his  good  luck  he  used  to  live 
at  No.  39  North  Castle  Street,  in  a  house 
befitting  a  rich  baronet:  but  on  reaching 
the  door,  I  found  the  plate  on  it  covered  with 
rust  (so  soon  is  glory  obscured),  the  window, 
shuttered  up,  dusty,  and  comfortless;  and 
from  the  side  of  one  projected  a  board,  with 
this  inscription, — "  To  Sell ;"  the  stairs  were 
unwashed,  and  not  a  foot-mark  told  of  the 
ancient  hospitality  which  reigned  within. 
In  all  nations  with  which  I  am  acquainted 
the  fashionable  world  move  westward,  in 
imitation,  perhaps,  of  the  great  tide  of  civil- 
ization ;  and,  vice  versa,  those  persons  who 
decline  in  fortune,  which  is  mostly  equiva- 
lent to  declining  in  fashion,  shape  their 
course  eastward.  Accordingly,  by  an  invol- 
untary impulse,  I  turned  my  head  that  way, 
and  inquiring  at  the  clubs  in  Prince's  Street, 
learned  that  he  now  resided  in  David  Street, 
No.  6. 

I  was  rather  glad  to  recognize  my  old 
friend  the  Abbotsford  butler,  who  answered 
the  door, — the  saying  about  heroes  and 
valets-de-chambre  comes  to  one's  recollec- 
tion on  such  occasions ;  and  nothing,  we 
may  be  sure,  is  more  likely  to  be  satisfac- 
tory to  a  man  whose  fortune  is  reduced  than 
the  stanch  adherence  of  a  mere  servant, 
whose  wages  must  be  altered  for  the  worse. 
At  the  top  of  the  stair  we  saw  a  small  tray, 
with  a  single  plate  and  glasses  for  one  soli- 
tary person's  dinner.  Some  few  months  ago 
Sir  Walter  was  surrounded  by  his  family, 
and  wherever  he  moved,  his  head-quarters 
were  the  focus  of  fashion.  Travellers  from 
all  nations  crowded  round,  and,  like  the 
recorded  honours  of  Lord  Chatham,  "  thick- 
ened over  him."  Lady  and  Miss  Scott  were 
his  constant  companions ;  the  Lockharts 
were  his  neighbours  both  in  town  and  in 
Roxburghshire;  his  eldest  son  was  his  fre- 


400 


SIR  JOHN  FREDERICK    WILLIAM  NERSCHEL. 


quent  guest ;  and,  in  short,  what  with  his 
own  family  and  the  clouds  of  tourists,  who. 
like  so  many  hordes  of  Cossacks,  pressed 
upon,  there  was  riot,  perhaps,  out  of  a  palace, 
any  man  so  attended,  I  had  almost  said  over- 
powered, by  company.  His  wife  is  now  dead, 
— his  son-in-law  and  favourite  daughter  gone 
to  London,  and  his  grandchild,  1  fear,  just 
staggering,  poor  little  fellow,  on  the  edge  of 
the  grave,  which,  perhaps,  is  the  securest 
refuge  for  him, — his  eldest  son  is  married, 
and  at  a  distance,  and  report  speaks  of  no 
probability  of  the  title  descending  ;  in  short, 
all  are  dispersed,  and  the  tourists,  those 
''  curiosos  impertinentes,"  drive  past  Abbots- 
ford  gate,  and  curse  their  folly  in  having  de- 
layed for  a  year  too  late  their  long-projected 
jaunt  to  the  north.  Meanwhile,  not  to  mince 
the  matter,  the  great  man  had,  somehow  or 
other,  managed  to  involve  himself  with 
printers,  publishers,  bankers,  gasmakers, 
wool-staplers,  and  all  the  fraternity  of  specu- 
lators, accommodation-bill  manufacturers, 
land-jobbers,  and  so  on,  till,  at  a  season  of 
distrust  in  money  matters,  the  hour  of  reck- 
oning came,  like  a  thief  in  the  night;  and 
as  our  friend,  like  the  unthrifty  virgins,  had 
no  oil  in  his  lamp,  all  his  affairs  went  to 
wreck  and  ruin,  and  landed  him,  after  the 
gale  was  over,  in  the  predicament  of  Robin- 
son Crusoe,  with  little  more  than  a  shirt  to 
his  back.  But,  like  that  able  navigator,  he 
is  not  cast  away  upon  a  barren  rock.  The 
tide  has  ebbed,  indeed,  and  left  him  on  the 
beach,  but  the  hull  of  his  fortune  is  above 
water  still,  and  it  will  go  hard  indeed  with 
him  if  he  does  not  shape  a  raft  that  shall 
bring  to  shore  much  of  the  cargo  that  an 
ordinary  mind  would  leave  in  despair,  to  be 
swept  away  by  the  next  change  of  the  moon. 
The  distinction  between  man  and  the  rest  of 
the  living  creation,  certainly,  is  in  nothing 
more  remarkable  than  in  the  power  which 
he  possesses  over  them,  of  turning  to  varied 
account  the  means  with  which  the  world  is 
stocked.  But  it  has  always  struck  me  that 
there  is  a  far  greater  distinction  between 
man  and  man  than  between  many  men  and 
most  other  animals;  and  it  is  from  a  famil- 
iarity with  the  practical  operation  of  this 
marvellous  difference  that  I  venture  to  pre- 
dict that  our  Crusoe  will  cultivate  his  own 
island,  and  build  himself  a  bark  in  which, 
in  process  of  time,  he  will  sail  back  to  his 
friends  and  fortune  in  greater  triumph  than 
if  he  had  never  been  driven  amongst  the 
breakers. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  then,  was  sitting  at  a 
writing-desk  covered  with  papers,  and  on 
the  top  was  a  pile  of  bound  volumes  of  the 
Moniteur, — one,  which  he  was  leaning  over 
as  my  brother  and  I  entered,  was  open  on  a 
chair,  and  two  others  were  lying  on  the  floor. 


As  he  rose  to  receive  us,  he  closed  the  vol- 
ume which  he  had  been  extracting  from,  and 
came  forward  to  shake  hands,  lie  was,  of 
course,  in  deep  mourning,  with  weepers  ;md 
the  other  trappings  of  woe  ;  but  his  counte- 
nance, though  certainly  a  little  woe-be- 
gonish,  was  not  cast  into  any  very  deep 
furrows.  His  tone  and  manner  were  as 
friendly  as  heretofore  ;  and  when  he  saw 
that  we  had  no  intention  of  making  any 
attempt  at  sympathy  or  moanification,  but 
spoke  to  him  as  of  old.  he  gradually  con- 
tracted the  length  of  his  countenance,  and 
allowed  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to  curl 
almost  imperceptibly  upwards,  and  a  re- 
newed lustre  came  into  his  eye,  if  not  ex- 
actly indicative  of  cheerfulness,  at  all  events 
of  well-regulated,  patient.  Christian  resig- 
nation. My  meaning  will  be  misunderstood 
if  it  be  imagined  from  this  picture  that  I 
suspected  any  hypocrisy,  or  an  affectation 
of  grief,  in  the  first  instance.  I  have  no 
doubt,  indeed,  that  he  feels,  and  most 
acutely,  the  bereavements  which  have  come 
upon  him  ;  but  we  may  very  fairly  suppose, 
that  among  the  many  visitors  he  must  have, 
there  may  be  some  who  cannot  understand 
that  it  is  proper,  decent,  or  even  possible,  to 
hide  those  finer  emotions  deep  in  the  heart. 
He  immediately  began  conversing  in  his 
usual  style, — the  chief  topic  being  Captain 
Denham  (whom  I  had  recently  seen  in  Lon- 
don) and  his  book  of  African  Travels,  which 
Sir  Walter  had  evidently  read  with  much 
attention.  .  .  .  After  sitting  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  we  came  away,  well  pleased  to  see  our 
friend  quite  unbroken  in  spirit, — and  though 
bowed  down  a  little  by  the  blast,  and  here 
and  there  a  branch  the  less,  as  sturdy  in  the 
trunk  as  ever,  and  very  possibly  all  the  bet- 
ter for  the  discipline, — better,  I  mean,  for  the 
public,  inasmuch  as  he  has  now  a  vast  addi- 
tional stimulus  for  exertion,  and  one  which 
all  the  world  must  admit  to  be  thoroughly 
noble  and  generous. 

Captain  HalVs  Diary  in  Lockharfs  Life 
of  Scott. 


SIR   JOHN    FREDERICK    "WIL- 
LIAM  HERSCHEL,  D.C.L., 

only  son  of  Sir  William  Herschel,  the  distin- 
guished astronomer,  born  at  Slough,  near 
Windsor,  179U,  and  educated  at  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge,  was  made  a  baronet  in 
1838,  D.C.L.  of  Oxford,  1839,  and  elected 
Lord-Rector  of  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen, 
1842;  Master  of  the  Mint  from  1850  until 
1855,  when  he  resigned  on  account  of  ill- 
health:  died  1871. 

A  Collection  of  Examples  of  the  Applica- 
tion of  the  Calculus  to  Finite  Differences, 


SIR  JOHN  FREDERICK   WILLIAM  HERSCHEL. 


401 


1813  :  A  Preliminary  Discourse  on  the  Study 
of  Natural  Philosophy,  Lond.,  1830,  12mo 
(Lardner's  Cab.  Cyc.),"  1831,  1842,  1851;  A 
Treatise  on  Astronomy,  Lond.,  1833,  12mo 
(Lardner's  Cab.  Cyc.,  43),  enlarged  as  Out- 
lines of  Astronomy,  1849,  8vo  ;  Results  of 
Astronomical  Observations  made  during  the 
Years  1834,  '35,  '36,  '37,  '38,  at  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  being  the  Completion  of  a  Tele- 
scopic Survey  of  the  Whole  Survey  of  the 
Visible  Heavens,  Commenced  in  1825.  Lond., 
1S47,  4 to  ;  A  Treatise  on  Physical  Astron- 
omy, Lond.,  1848,  4 to,  1849,  4 to  (in  Encyclo- 
paedia of  Astronomy)  ;  edited  and  contributed 
to  A  Manual  of  Scientific  Enquiry,  Lond., 
1849.  p.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1851,  p.  8vo:  Essays 
from  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews, 
with  Addresses  and  other  Pieces,  Lond.,  1857, 
8vo.  He  also  contributed  to  Edin.  Philos. 
Journal,  Edin.  Trans.,  Cambridge  Trans.. 
Philos.  Trans.,  Astronom.  Trans.,  Encyc. 
Britannica  and  Encyc.  Metropolitana.  See 
also  Bonn's  Lowndes's  Bibl.  Manual,  iii. 
(1869)  1295. 

"  There  are  few  philosophers  of  the  present  day 
who  have  attained  to  the  same  distinction.  His 
mathematical  acquirements  and  his  discoveries  in 
astronomy,  optics,  chemistry,  and  photography  are 
of  a  very  high  order,  and  have  secured  for  him  a 
wide  and, well-earned  reputation,  while  his  various 
popular  writings  have  greatly  contributed  to  the 
diffusion  of  scientific  knowledge  among  his  coun- 
trymen."— Imperial  Diet,  of  Univ.  Biography,  iv. 
(1866)  889. 

INFLUENCE  OF  SCIENCE. 

The  difference  of  the  degrees  in  which  the 
individuals  of  a  great  community  enjoy  the 
good  things  of  life  has  been  a  theme  of 
declamation  and  discontent  in  all  ages;  and 
it  is  doubtless  our  paramount  duty,  in  every 
state  of  society,  to  alleviate  the  pressure  of 
the  purely  evil  part  of  this  distribution  as 
much  as  possible,  and,  by  all  the  means  we 
can  devise,  secure  the  lower  links  in  the 
chain  of  society  from  dragging  in  dishonour 
and  wretchedness :  but  there  is  a  point  of 
view  in  which  the  picture  is  at  least  materi- 
ally altered  in  its  expression.  In  comparing 
society  on  its  present  immense  scale  with 
its  infant  or  less  developed  state,  we  must 
at  least  take  care  to  enlarge  every  feature  in 
the  same  proportion.  If,  on  comparing  the 
very  lowest  states  in  civilized  and  savage 
life,  we  admit  a  difficulty  in  deciding  to 
which  the  preference  is  due,  at  least  in  every 
superior  grade  we  cannot  hesitate  a  moment ; 
and  if  we  institute  a  similar  comparison  in 
every  different  stage  of  its  progress,  we  can- 
not fail  to  be  struck  with  the  rapid  rate  of 
dilatation  which  eve7-y  degree  upward  of  the 
scale,  so  to  speak,  exhibits,  and  which,  in  an 
estimate  of  averages,  gives  an  immense  pre- 


ponderance  to  the  present  over  every  former 
condition  of  mankind,  and,  for  aught  we  can 
see  to  the  contrary,  will  place  succeeding 
generations  in  the  same  degree  of  superior 
relation  to  the  present  that  this  holds  to  those 
passed  away.  Or  we  may  put  the  same 
proposition  in  other  words,  and,  admitting 
the  existence  of  every  inferior  grade  of  ad- 
vantage in  a  higher  state  of  civilization  which 
subsisted  in  the  preceding,  we  shall  find, 
first,  that,  taking  state  for  state,  the  pro- 
portional numbers  of  those  who  enjoy  the 
higher  degrees  of  advantage  increases  with 
a  constantly-accelerated  rapidity  as  society 
advances  ;  and,  secondly,  that  the  superior 
extremity  of  the  scale  is  constantly  enlarg- 
ing by  the  addition  of  new  degrees.  The 
condition  of  a  European  prince  is  now  as  far 
superior,  in  the  command  of  real  comforts 
and  conveniences,  to  that  of  one  in  the  mid- 
dle ages,  as  that  to  the  condition  of  one  of 
his  own  dependants. 

The  advantages  conferred  by  the  augmen- 
tation of  our  physical  resources  through  the 
medium  of  increased  knowledge  and  im- 
proved art  have  this  peculiar  and  remark- 
able property, — that  they  are  in  their  nature 
diffusive,  and  cannot  be  enjoyed  in  any  ex- 
clusive manner  by  a  few.  An  Eastern  despot 
may  extort  the  riches  and  monopolize  the 
art  of  his  subjects  for  his  own  personal  use; 
he  may  spread  around  him  an  unnatural 
splendour  and  luxury,  and  stand  in  strango 
and  preposterous  contrast  with  the  general 
penury  of  his  people ;  he  may  glitter  in 
jewels  of  gold  and  raiment  of  needlework  ; 
but  the  wonders  of  well  contrived  and  ex- 
ecuted manufacture  which  we  use  daily,  and 
the  comforts  which  have  been  invented,  tried, 
and  improved  upon  by  thousands,  in  every 
form  of  domestic  convenience,  and  for  every 
ordinary  purpose  of  life,  can  never  be  en- 
joyed by  him.  To  produce  a  state  of  things 
in  which  the  physical  advantages  of  civilized 
life  can  exist  in  a  high  degree,  the  stimulus 
of  increasing  comforts  and  constantly-ele- 
vated desires  must  have  been  felt- by  mil- 
lions: since  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  a  few 
individuals  to  create  that  wide  demand  for 
useful  and  ingenious  applications,  which 
alone  can  lead  to  great  and  rapid  improve- 
ments, unless  backed  by  that  arising  from 
the  speedy  diffusion  of  the  same  advantages 
among  the  mass  of  mankind. 

If  this  be  true  of  physical  advantages,  it 
applies  with  still  greater  force  to  intellec- 
tual. Knowledge  can  neither  be  adequately 
cultivated  nor  adequately  enjoyed  by  a  few  ; 
and  although  the  conditions  of  our  existence 
on  earth  may  be  such  as  to  preclude  an 
abundant  supply  of  the  physical  necessities 
of  all  who  may  be  born,  there  is  no  such 
law  of  nature  in  force  against  that  of  our 


402 


SIR  JOHN  FREDERICK   WILLIAM  HERSCIIEL. 


intellectual  and  moral  wants.  Knowledge 
is  not,  like  food,  destroyed  by  use,  but 
rather  augmented  and  perfected.  It  ac- 
quires not,  perhaps,  a  greater  certainty,  but 
at  least  a  confirmed  authority  and  a  prob- 
able duration,  by  universal  assent;  and 
there  is  no  body  of  knowledge  so  complete 
but  that  it  may  acquire  accession,  or  so  free 
from  error  but  that  it  may  receive  correction 
in  passing  through  the  minds  of  millions. 
Those  who  admire  and  love  knowledge  for 
its  own  sake,  ought  to  wish  to  see  its  ele- 
ments made  accessible  to  all,  were  it  only 
that  they  may  be  the  more  thoroughly  ex- 
amined into,  and  more  effectually  developed 
in  their  consequences,  and  receive  that  duc- 
tility and  plastic  quality  which  the  pressure 
of  minds  of  all  descriptions,  constantly 
moulding  them  to  their  purposes,  can  alone 
bestow.  But  to  this  end  it  is  necessary 
that  it  should  be  divested,  as  far  as  possible, 
of  artificial  difficulties,  and  stripped  of  all 
such  technicalities  as  tend  to  place  it  in  the 
light  of  a  craft  and  a  mystery,  inaccessible 
without  a  kind  of  apprenticeship.  Science, 
of  course,  like  everything  else,  has  its  own 
peculiar  terms,  and,  so  to  speak,  its  idioms 
of  language;  and  these  it  would  be  unwise, 
were  it  even  possible,  to  relinquish :  but 
everything  that  tends  to  clothe  it  in  a 
strange  and  repulsive  garb,  and  especially 
everything  that,  to  keep  up  an  appearance 
of  superiority  in  its  professors  over  the  rest 
of  mankind,  assumes  an  unnecessary  guise 
of  profundity  and  obscurity,  should  be  sac- 
rificed without  mercy.  Not  to  do  this  is 
deliberately  to  reject  the  light  which  the 
natural  unencumbered  good  sense  of  man- 
kind is  capable  of  throwing  on  every  sub- 
ject, even  in  the  elucidation  of  principles; 
but  where  principles  are  to  be  applied  to 
practical  uses,  it  becomes  absolutely  neces- 
sary ;  as  all  mankind  have  then  an  interest 
in  their  being  so  familiarly  understood  that 
no  mistakes  shall  arise  in  their  application. 
A  Prelim.  Discourse  on  the  Study  of  Nat- 
ural Philosophy. 

Ox  THE  ARTS. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  arts.  They 
cannot  be  perfected  till  their  whole  processes 
are  laid  open,  and  their  language  simplified 
and  rendered  universally  intelligible.  Art 
is  the  application  of  knowledge  to  a  prac- 
tical end.  If  the  knowledge  be  merely  ac- 
cumulated experience,  the  art  is  empirical; 
but  if  it  be  experience  reasoned  upon  and 
brought  under  general  principles,  it  assumes 
a  higher  character,  and  becomes  a  scientific 
art.  In  the  progress  of  mankind  from  bar- 
barism to  civilized  life,  the  arts  necessarily 
precede  science.  The  wants  and  cravings 


of  our  animal  constitution  must  be  satisfied  ; 
the  comforts  and  some  of  the  luxuries  of 
life  must  exist.  Something  must  be  given 
to  the  vanity  of  show,  and  more  to  the 
pride  of  power  ;  the  round  of  baser  pleas- 
ure must  have  been  tried  and  found  insuffi- 
cient before  intellectual  ones  can  gain  a 
footing ;  and  when  they  have  obtained  it, 
the  delights  of  poetry  and  its  sister  arts  still 
take  precedence  of  contemplative  enjoy- 
ments, and  the  severer  pursuits  of  thought ; 
and  when  these  in  time  begin  to  charm  from 
their  novelty,  and  sciences  begin  to  arise, 
they  will  at  first  be  those  of  pure  specula- 
tion. The  mind  delights  to  escape  from  the 
trammels  which  had  bound  it  to  earth,  and 
luxuriates  in  its  newly-found  powers.  Hence, 
the  abstractions  of  geometry, — the  properties 
of  numbers, — the  movements  of  the  celestial 
spheres, — whatever  is  abstruse,  remote,  and 
extra  mundane, — become  the  first  objects  of 
infant  science.  Applications  come  late:  the 
arts  continue  slowly  progressive,  but  their 
realm  remains  separated  from  that  of  sci- 
ence by  a  wide  gulf  which  can  only  be 
passed  by  a  powerful  spring.  They  form 
their  own  language  and  their  own  conven- 
tions, which  none  but  artists  can  under- 
stand. The  whole  tendency  of  empirical 
art  is  to  bury  itself  in  technicalities-,  ami  to 
place  its  pride  in  particular  short  cuts  and 
mysteries  known  only  to  adepts;  to  surprise 
and  astonish  by  results,  but  conceal  pro- 
cesses. The  character  of  science  is  the 
direct  contrary.  It  delights  to  lay  itself 
open  to  inquiry  ;  and  is  not  satisfied  with 
its  conclusions  till  it  can  make  the  road  to 
them  broad  and  beaten  :  and  in  its  applica- 
tions it  preserves  the  same  character ;  its 
whole  aim  being  to  strip  away  all  technical 
mystery,  to  illuminate  every  dark  recess, 
with  a  view  to  improve  them  on  rational 
principles. 

It  would  seem  that  a  union  of  two  qual- 
ities almost  opposite  to  each  other — a  going 
forth  of  the  thoughts  in  two  directions.  ami 
a  sudden  transfer  of  ideas  from  a  remote 
station  in  one  to  an  equally  distant  one  in 
the  other — is  required  to  start  the  first  idea 
of  applying  science.  Among  the  Greeks  this 
point  was  attained  by  Archimedes,  but  at- 
tained too  late,  on  the  eve  of  that  great 
eclipse  of  science  which  was  destined  to 
continue  for  nearly  eighteen  centuries,  till 
Galileo  in  Italy,  and  Bacon  in  England,  at 
once  dispelled  the  darkness  :  the  one  by  his 
inventions  and  discoveries;  the  other  by  the 
irresistible  force  of  his  arguments  and  elo- 
quence. 

Finally,  the  improvement  effected  in  the 
condition  of  mankind  by  advances  in  physi- 
cal science  as  applied  to  the  useful  purposes 
of  life,  is  very  far  from  being  limited  to  their 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


403 


direct  consequences  in  the  more  abundant 
supply  of  their  physical  wants,  and  the  in- 
crease of  our  comforts.  Great  as  these  ben- 
efits are,  they  are  yet  but  steps  to  others  of  a 
still  higher  kind.  The  successful  results  of 
our  experiments  and  reasonings  in  natural 
philosophy,  and  the  incalculable  advantages 
which  experience,  systematically  consulted 
and  dispassionately  reasoned  on,  has  con- 
ferred in  matters  purely  physical,  tend  of 
necessity  to  impress  something  of  the  well- 
weighed  and  progressive  character  of  science 
on  the  more  complicated  conduct  of  our 
social  and  moral  relations.  It  is  thus  that 
legislation  and  politics  become  gradually  re- 
garded as  experimental  sciences,  and  history, 
not,  as  formerly,  the  mere  record  of  tyran- 
nies and  slaughters,  which,  by  immortalising 
the  execrable  actions  of  one  age,  perpetuates 
the  ambition  of  committing  them  in  every 
succeeding  one,  but  as  the  archive  of  ex- 
periments, successful  and  unsuccessful,  grad- 
ually accumulating  towards  the  solution  of 
the  grand  problem, — how  the  advantages  of 
government  are  to  be  secured  with  the  least 
possible  inconvenience  to  the  governed.  The 
celebrated  apophthegm,  that  nations  never 
profit  by  experience,  becomes  yearly  more 
and  more  untrue.  Political  economy,  at 
least,  is  found  to  have  sound  principles, 
founded  in  the  moral  .and  physical  nature 
of  man,  which,  however  lost  sight  of  in  par- 
ticular measures, — however  even  tempora- 
rily controverted  and  borne  down  by  clamour, 
— have  yet  a  stronger  and  stronger  testimony 
borne  to  them  in  each  succeeding  generation, 
by  which  they  must,  sooner  or  later,  prevail. 
The  idea  once  conceived  and  verified,  that 
great  and  noble  ends  are  to  be  achieved,  by 
which  the  condition  of  the  whole  human 
species  shall  be  permanently  bettered,  by 
bringing  into  exercise  a  sufficient  quantity 
of  sober  thoughts,  and  by  a  proper  adapta- 
tion of  means,  is  of  itself  sufficient  to  set  us 
earnestly  on  reflecting  what  ends  are  truly 
great  and  noble,  either  in  themselves,  or  as 
conducive  to  others  of  a  still  loftier  charac- 
ter ;  because  we  are  not  now,  as  heretofore, 
hopeless  of  attaining  them.  It  is  not  now 
equally  harmless  and  insignificant,  whether 
we  are  right  or  wrong  ;  since  we  are  no 
longer  supinely  and  helplessly  carried  down 
the  stream  of  events,  but  feel  ourselves  capa- 
ble of  buffeting  at  least  with  its  waves,  and 
perhaps  of  riding  triumphantly  over  them  : 
for  why  should  we  despair  that  the  reason 
which  has  enabled  us  to  subdue  all  nature 
to  our  purposes,  should  (if  permitted  and 
assisted  by  the  providence  of  God)  achieve 
a  far  more  difficult  conquest?  and  ulti- 
mately find  some  means  of  enabling  the  col- 
lective wisdom  of  mankind  to  bear  down 
those  obstacles  which  individual  short- 


sightedness, selfishness,  and  passion,  oppose 
to  all  improvements,  and  by  which  the 
highest  hopes  are  continually  blighted,  and 
the  fairest  prospects  marred. 

A  Prelim.  Discourse  on  the  Study  of  Natu- 
ral Philosophy. 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN,  D.D., 

youngest  son  of  Sir  Francis  Milman,  Bart., 
M.D.,  Physician  to  George  III.  and  the  Royal 
Household,  was  born  in  London,  1791,  and 
became  Fellow  of  Brazennose  College,  Ox- 
ford, 1815,  Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford,  1821,  Hector  of  St.  Mar- 
garet's, Westminster,  and  Canon  of  West- 
minster, 1835,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  1849, 
died  1868. 

The  Belvidere  Apollo,  a  Prize  Poem.  Oxf., 
1812,  8vo  ;  Alexander  tumulum,  Achilles  in- 
visens,  etc.,  Oxon.,  1813.  8vo ;  Fazio,  a  Tra- 
gedy, Oxf.,  1815,  8vo,  2d  edit.,  Oxf.,  1816, 
8vo ;  In  Historia  scribenda  quaenam  prae- 
cipua  inter  Anctores  Veteres  et  Noves  sit 
Differentia?  Oratio,  etc.,  Oxon.,  1816,  Svo; 
A  Comparative  Estimate  of  Sculpture  and 
Painting,  etc.,  Oxf.,  1816,  Svo,  Lond.,  1818  ; 
Samor,  Lord  of  the  Bright  City,  an  Heroic 
Poem,  Lond.,  1818,  Svo,  2d  edit.,  1818; 
The  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  a  Dramatic  Poem, 
Lond.,  1820,  Svo,  1853,  12mo:  Poems,  Lond., 
1821,  Svo;  The  Martyr  of  Antioch,  a  Dra- 
matic Poem,  Lond.,  1*822,  Svo;  Belshazzar, 
a  Dramatic  Poem,  Lond.,  1822,  Svo;  Anne 
Boleyn,  a  Dramatic  Poem,  Lond.,  1826,  Svo  ; 
The  Office  of  the  Christian  Teacher  Consid- 
ered, in  a  Visitation  Sermon  on  1  Cor.  xiv.  3, 
Oxf.,  1826,  Svo;  The  Character  and  Conduct 
of  the  Apostles  Considered  as  an  Evidence 
of  Christianity:  Eight  Sermons  at  the  Bamp- 
ton  Lecture  for  1827,  Lond.,  1827,  Svo :  The 
History  of  the  Jews,  Lond.,  1829,  3  vols. 
18mo,  2d  edit,  1830,  3  vols.  ISmo,  new  edit., 
1835,  3  vols.  18mo,  New  York,  1830-31,  3 
vols.  12mo,  1841,  3  vols.  ISmo;  Nala  and 
Damayanti,  and  other  Poems,  Translated 
from  the  Sanscrit,  Oxf.,  1834,  Svo;  History 
of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Em- 
pire, by  Edward  Gibbon,  with  the  Notes  of 
Guizot,  Wenck,  the  editor,  etc..  Lond.,  1838- 
39,  12  vols.  Svo.  2d  edit.,  1846,  6  vols.  Svo, 
3d  edit.,  by  William  Smith,  LL.D.,  with  ad- 
ditional Notes,  1854-55,  8  vols.  Svo:  Life 
of  Edward  Gibbon  [his  Autobiography], 
with  Selections  from  his  Correspondence, 
and  Illustrations,  Lond.,  1839,  Svo;  Poetical 
and  Dramatic  Works,  Lond.,  1839-40,  3  vols. 
fp.  Svo;  The  History  of  Christianity  from 
the  Birth  of  Christ  to  the  Abolition  of  Pa- 
ganism in  the  Roman  Empire,  Lond.,  1840, 
3  vols.  Svo,  Paris.  1840,  2  vols.  Svo,  with 


404 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN. 


Notes  by  James  Murdock,  D.D.,  New  York, 
1841,  8vo;  The  Works  of  Quintus  Horatius 
Flaccus,  Illustrated  chiefly  from  the  Remains 
of  Ancient  Art,  with  a  Life.  Lond.,  1849, 
roy.  8vo,  without  the  Life,  1852,  crown  8vo, 
new  edit.,  1856,  2  vols.  8vo ;  The  History  of 
Latin  Christianity,  including  that  of  the 
Popes  to  the  Pontificate  of  Nicholas  V., 
Loud.,  1854-55,  6  vols.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1857, 
C  vols.  8vo.  Dean  Milman  published  some 
other  sermons,  articles  in  the  (London) 
Quarterly  Review,  and  contributed  a  Memoir 
of  Lord  Macaulay  (also  published  separately, 
Lond.,  1862,  p.  8vo)  to  vol.  v.  (posthumous) 
of  Macaulay's  History  of  England. 

"We  are  always  impressed  with  a  conviction  of 
his  learning,  his  ability,  and  his  cultivated  taste, 
but  are  haunted  at  the  same  time  with  an  unsatis- 
factory feeling  that  his  poetry  is  rather  a  clever 
recasting  of  fine  things  already  familiar  to  us  than 
strikingly  fresh  and  original." — MOIR  :  Sketeket 
of  the  Poet.  Lit.  of  the  Paxt  Ha/f-Ce«lnry,  1851, 
]'2mo.  See  also  Edin.  lleview  (Oct.  1829),  47,  by 
Lord  Jeffrey. 

Mihnan's  History  of  Latin  Christianity  is 

"One  of  the  remarkable  works  of  the  present 
age,  in  which  the  author  reviews,  with  curious 
erudition  and  in  a  profoundly  religious  spirit,  the 
various  changes  that  have  taken  place  in  the  Ro- 
man hierarchy  :  and  while  he  fully  exposes  the 
manifold  errors  and  corruptions  of  the  system,  he 
shows,  throughout,  that  enlightened  charity  which 
is  the  most  precious  of  Christian  graces,  as  un- 
hnppily  the  rarest." — W.  II.  PKESCOTT  :  Philip  the 
Second,  1856,  ii.  500,  n.  69. 

''  If  it  seems  to  you  high  praise,  I  believe  no 
one  who  has  carefully  read  the  extraordinary  work 
to  which  it  refers  will  consider  it  higher  than  the 
book  deserves." — A\r.  II.  PRESCOTT  TO  S.  AUSTIN 
ALLIBOSE,  Jan.  1,  1858. 

SAINTT  PAUL  AT  ATHENS. 

At  Athens,  at  once  the  centre  and  capital 
of  the  Greek  philosophy  and  heathen  super- 
stition, takes  place  the  first  public  and  direct 
conflict  between  Christianity  and  Paganism. 
Up  to  this  time  there  is  no  account  of  any 
one  of  the  apostles  taking  his  station  in  the 
public  street  or  market-place,  and  addressing 
the  general  multitude.  Their  place  of  teach- 
ing had  invariably  been  the  synagogue  of 
their  nation,  or,  as  at  Philippi,  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  their  customary  place  of  wor- 
ship. Here,  however,  Paul  does  not  confine 
himself  to  the  synagogue,  or  to  the  society 
of  his  countrymen  and  their  proselytes.  He 
takes  his  stand  in  the  public  market-place 
(probably  not  the  Ceramicus,  but  the  Eretriac 
Forum),  which,  in  the  reign  of  Augustus, 
had  begun  to  be  more  frequented,  and  at  the 
top  of  which  was  the  famous  portico  from 
which  the  Stoics  assumed  their  name.  In 
Athens,  the  appearance  of  a  new  public 
teacher,  instead  of  offending  the  popular 


feelings,  was  too  familiar  to  excite  astonish- 
ment, and  was  rather  welcomed  as  promising 
some  fresh  intellectual  excitement.  In  Ath- 
ens, hospitable  to  all  religions  and  all  opin- 
ions, the  foreign  and  Asiatic  appearance,  and 
possibly  the  less  polished  tone  and  dialect  of 
Paul,  would  only  awaken  the  stronger  curi- 
osity. Though  they  affect  at  first  (probably 
the  philosophic  part  of  his  hearers)  to  treat 
him  as  an  idle  "  babbler,"  and  others  (the 
vulgar,  alarmed  for  the  honour  of  their  dei- 
ties) supposed  that  he  was  about  to  introduce 
some  new  religious  worship  which  might  en- 
danger the  supremacy  of  their  own  tutelar 
divinities,  he  is  conveyed,  not  without  re- 
spect, to  a  still  more  public  and  commodious 
place,  from  whence  he  may  explain  his  doc- 
trines to  a  numerous  assembly  without  dis- 
turbance. On  the  Areopagus  the  Christian 
leader  takes  his  stand,  surrounded  on  every 
side  with  whatever  was  noble,  beautiful,  and 
intellectual  in  the  older  world, — temples,  of 
which  the  materials  were  only  surpassed  by 
the  architectural  grace  and  majesty  ;  statues, 
in  which  the  ideal  anthropomorphism  of  the 
Greeks  had  almost  elevated  the  popular  no- 
tions of  the  Deity,  by  embodying  it  in  hu- 
man forms  of  such  exquisite  perfection  ; 
public  edifices,  where  the  civil  interests  of 
man  had  been  discussed  with  the  acuteness 
and  versatility  of  the  highest  Grecian  intel- 
lect, in  all  the  purity  of  the  inimitable  Attic 
dialect,  when  oratory  had  obtained  its  high- 
est triumphs  by  "wielding  at  will  the  fierce 
democracy;"  the  walks  of  the  philosophers, 
who  unquestionably,  by  elevating  the  human 
mind  to  an  appetite  for  new  and  nobler 
knowledge,  had  prepared  the  way  for  a  loftier 
and  purer  religion.  It  was  in  the  midst  of 
these  elevating  associations,  to  which  the 
student  of  Grecian  literature  in  Tarsus,  the 
reader  of  Menander  and  of  the  Greek  philo- 
sophical poets,  could  scarcely  be  entirely  dead 
or  ignorant,  that  Paul  stands  forth  to  proclaim 
the  lowly  yetauthoritative religion  of  Jesusof 
Nazareth.  His  audience  was  chiefly  formed 
from  the  two  prevailing  sects,  the  Stoics 
and  Epicureans,  with  the  populace,  the 
worshippers  of  the  established  religion.  In 
his  discourse,  the  heads  of  which  are  related 
by  St.  Luke,  Paul,  with  singular  felicity, 
touches  on  the  peculiar  opinions  of  eiich 
class  among  his  hearers ;  he  expands  the 
popular  religion  into  a  higher  philosophy, 
he  imbues  philosophy  with  a  profound  sen- 
timent of  religion. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  examine  with  the 
utmost  interest  the  whole  course  of  this  (if 
we  consider  its  remote  consequences,  and 
suppose  it  the  first  full  and  public  argument 
of  Christianity  against  the  heathen  religion 
and  philosophy)  perhaps  the  more  exten- 
sively and  permanently  effective  oration 


GEORGE   TICKNOR. 


405 


ever  uttered  by  man.  We  may  contemplate 
Paul  as  the  representative  of  Christianity, 
in  the  presence,  as  it  were,  of  the  concen- 
trated religion  of  Greece,  and  of  the  spirits, 
if  we  may  so  speak,  of  Socrates,  and  Plato, 
and  Zeno.  The  opening  of  the  apostle's 
speech  is  according  to  those  most  perfect 
rules  of  art  which  are  but  the  expressions 
of  the  general  sentiments  of  nature.  It  is 
calm,  temperate,  conciliatory.  It  is  no  fierce 
denunciation  of  idolatry,  no  contemptuous 
disdain  of  the  prevalent  philosophic  opinions; 
it  has  nothing  of  the  sternness  of  the  ancient 
Jewish  prophet,  nor  the  taunting  defiance 
of  the  later  Christian  polemic.  *'  Already 
the  religious  people  of  Athens  had,  unknow- 
ingly indeed,  worshipped  the  universal  De- 
ity, for  they  had  an  altar  to  the  unknown 
God.  The  nature,  the  attributes  of  this  sub- 
lime Being,  hitherto  adored  in  ignorant  and 
unintelligent  homage,  he  came  to  unfold. 
This  God  rose  far  above  the  popular  notion  ; 
He  could  not  be  confined  in  altar  or  temple, 
or  represented  by  any  visible  image.  He  was 
the  universal  Father  of  mankind,  even  of 
the  earth-born  Athenians,  who  boasted  that 
they  were  of  an  older  race  than  the  other 
families  of  man,  and  coeval  with  the  world 
itself.  He  was  the  fountain  of  life,  which 
pervaded  and  sustained  the  universe;  He 
had  assigned  their  separate  dwellings  to  the 
separate  families  of  man."  Up  to  a  certain 
point  in  this  higher  view  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  the  philosopher  of  the  Garden  as 
well  as  of  the  Porch  might  listen  with  won- 
der and  admiration.  It  soared,  indeed,  high 
above  the  vulgar  religion  :  but  in  the  lofty 
and  serene  Deity,  who  disdained  to  dwell  in 
the  earthly  temple,  and  needed  nothing  from 
the  hand  of  man,  the  Epicurean  might  al- 
most suppose  that  he  heard  the  language  of 
his  own  teacher.  But  the  next  sentence, 
which  asserted  the  providence  of  God  as  the 
active  creative  energy, — as  the  conservative, 
the  ruling,  the  ordaining  principle, — anni- 
hilated at  once  the  atomic  theory  and  the 
government  of  blind  chance,  to  whicli  Epi- 
curus ascribed  the  origin  and  preservation 
of  the  universe.  "  This  high  and  impressive 
Deity,  who  dwelt  aloof  in  serene  and  ma- 
jestic superiority  to  all  want,  was  percepti- 
ble in  some  mysterious  manner  by  man  ; 
His  all-pervading  providence  comprehended 
the  whole  human  race  ;  man  was  in  constant 
union  with  the  Deity,  as  an  offspring  with 
its  parent."  And  still  the  Stoic  might  ap- 
plaud with  complacent  satisfaction  the  ar- 
dent words  of  the  apostle  ;  he  might  approve 
the  lofty  condemnation  of  idolatry.  "  We, 
thus  of  divine  descent,  ought  to  think  more 
nobly  of  our  Universal  Father,  than  to  sup- 
pose that  the  godhead  is  like  unto  gold,  or 
wilver,  or  stone,  graven  by  art  or  man's  de- 


vice." But  this  divine  Providence  was  far 
different  from  the  stern  and  all-controlling 
necessity,  the  inexorable  fatalism,  of  the 
Stoic  system.  While  the  moral  value  of 
human  action  was  recognized  by  the  solemn 
retributive  judgment  to  be  passed  on  all 
mankind,  the  dignity  of  Stoic  virtue  was 
lowered  by  the  general  demand  of  repent- 
ance. The  perfect  man,  the  moral  king, 
was  deposed,  as  it  were,  and  abased  to  the 
general  level  :  he  had  to  learn  new  lessons 
in  the  school  of  Christ,  lessons  of  humility 
and  conscious  deficiency,  the  most  directly 
opposed  to  the  principles  and  the  sentiments 
of  his  philosophy.  The  great  Christian 
doctrine  of  the  resurrection  closed  the  speech 
of  Paul. 

The  History  of  Christianity. 


GEORGE  TICKNOR,  LL.D., 

born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts.  1791,  gradu- 
ated at  Dartmouth  College,  1807,  admitted 
to  the  bar  1813;  studied  and  travelled  in 
Europe,  1815-1819,  elected  Smith  Professor 
of  French  and  Spanish  Literature  in  Har- 
vard University,  1817,  and  discharged  the 
duties  of  this  office,  1820-35,  and  resided  in 
Europe,  1837-40,  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
Boston  Public  Library,  and,  1864-65,  Presi- 
dent of  the  Board  of  Trustees,  died  at  Bos- 
ton, January  26,  1871. 

Syllabus  of  a  Course  of  Lectures  on  the 
History  and  Criticism  of  Spanish  Literature, 
Camb.,  1823,  8vo;  Outlines  of  the  Principal 
Events  in  the  Life  of  General  Lafayette 
(from  N.  Amer.  Review,  Jan.  1825),  Bost., 

1825,  8vo,  Portland,  1825,  8vo,  Lond.,  1826, 
8vo,  in  French.  Paris,   1825,  8vo ;  Remarks 
on  Changes  lately  Proposed  or  Adopted  in 
Harvard  University.  Camb.,  1825,  8vo  ;   Re- 
port of  the  Board  of  Visitors  on  the  United 
States  Military  Academy  at  West  Point  for 

1826,  1826.  8vo;    The  Remains  of  Nathan 
Appleton  Haven,  with  a  Memoir  of  his  Life, 
Camb.,  1827,  8vo,  2d  edit..  Bost.,  1828,  8vo  ; 
Remarks  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Daniel 
Webster,  of  Massachusetts,  Phila.,  1831, 8vo  ; 
Lecture  on  the  Best  Methods  of  Teaching  the 
Living  Languages,   etc.,  Bost.,   1833,   8vo  ; 
Review  of  Memoirs  of  the  Rev.  Joseph  Buck- 
minster  and  the  Rev.  Joseph  Stevens  Buck- 
minster   (from  Chris.   Exam.,    Sept    1849), 
Camb.,  1849.  8vo  ;  History  of  Spanish  Liter- 
ature, New  York,  1849,  3  vols.  8vo,  Lond., 
1849,  3  vols.  8vo,  2d  Amer.  edit,  New  York, 
1854,  3  vols.  8vo,  3d  Amer.  edit.,  Corrected 
and  Enlarged,  Bost.,  1863,  3  vols.  12mo. 

For  notices  of  translations  (into  Spanish, 
Dutch,  and  French)  and  reviews  of  this 
great  work, — by  far  the  best  of  the  kind  in 


406 


GEORGE   TICKNOR. 


"any  language. — see  Allibone's  Critical  Dic- 
tionary of  English  Literature,  iii.  2416,  2417. 

"  This  work  is,  by  general  consent,  the  most 
complete  history  of  Spanish  Literature  in  any 
language;  full,  minute,  and  precise  in  informa- 
tion, and  eminently  fair  aud  candid  in  spirit.  The 
author  appears  in  his  researches  almost  to  have 
exhausted  existing  materials,  whether  bibliograph- 
ical or  biographical, — overlooking  nothing  and 
neglecting  nothing." — Kniyht's  tiny.  Uyc.,  Biay., 
vi.,  1858,  52. 

Mr.  Ticknor  subsequently  published  Life 
of  William  Ilickling  Prescott,  Bost.,  1864, 
4to,  8vo,  and  12mo,  Lond.,  1864,  8vo,  and 
contributed  notices  of  Prescott  and  Edward 
Everett  to  Proceedings  Massachusetts  His- 
torical Society,  1859,  8vo,  1865,  8vo.  In 
early  life  he  wrote  papers  for  The  Monthly 
Anthology  and  The  American  Quarterly 
Review  ;  nor  would  it  become  me  to  omit 
grateful  acknowledgment  of  his  contribu- 
tions to  the  articles  BYRON,  SIR  WALTER 
SCOTT,  and  RASPE  (Munchausen),  in  Alli- 
bone's Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Liter- 
ature. See  Life,  Letters,  and  Journals  of 
George  Ticknor  [partially  edited  by  G.  S. 
llillard],  Bost.,  1876,  2  vols.  8vo. 

THE  DEATH  OF  PRESCOTT. 

From  day  to  day,  after  New  Year  of  1859, 
he  seemed  more  to  miss  his  old  occupations. 
On  the  27th  of  January,  he  talked  decidedly 
of  beginning  again  in  good  earnest  on  the 
"  History  of  Philip  the  Second,"  and  specu- 
lated on  the  question  whether,  if  he  should 
h'nd  his  physical  strength  unequal  to  the 
needful  exertion,  he  might  venture  to  rein- 
force it  by  a  freer  diet.  On  the  following 
morning — the  fatal  day — he  talked  of  it 
again,  as  if  his  mind  were  made  up  to  the 
experiment,  and  as  if  he  were  looking  to  his 
task  as  to  the  opening  again  of  an  old  and 
sure  mine  of  content.  His  sister,  Mrs. 
Dexter,  was  happily  in  town  making  him  a 
visit,  and  was  sitting  that  forenoon  with 
Mrs.  Prescott  in  a  dressing-room,  not  far 
from  the  study  where  his  regular  work  was 
always  done.  He  himself,  in  the  early  part 
of  the  day,  was  unoccupied,  walking  about 
his  room  for  a  little  exercise;  the  weather 
being  so  bad  that  none  ventured  out  who 
could  well  avoid  it.  Mr.  Kirk,  his  ever- 
faithful  secretary,  was  looking  over  Sala's 
lively  book  about  Russia,  "A  Journey  due 
North,"  for  his  own  amusement,  merely,  but 
occasionally  reading  aloud  to  Mr.  Prescott 
such  portions  as  he  thought  peculiarly  inter- 
esting or  pleasant.  On  one  passage,  which 
referred  to  a  former  Minister  of  Russia  at 
AVashington,  he  paused,  because  neither 
could  recollect  the  name  of  the  person  alluded 
to;  and  Mr.  Prescott,  who  did  not  like  to 


find  his  memory  at  fault,  went  to  his  wife 
and  sister  to  see  if  either  of  them  could  re- 
call it  for  him.  After  a  moment's  hesitation, 
Mrs.  Prescott  hit  upon  it ;  a  circumstance 
which  amused  him  not  a  little,  as  she  so 
rarely  took  an  interest  in  anything  con- 
nected with  public  affairs,  that  he  had  rather 
counted  upon  Mrs.  Dexter  for  the  information. 
He  snapped  his  fingers  at  her,  therefore,  aa 
he  turned  away,  and,  with  the  merry  laugh 
so  characteristic  of  his  nature,  passed  out  of 
the  room,  saying,  as  he  went,  "  How  came 
you  to  remember?"  They  were  the  last 
words  she  ever  heard  from  his  loved  lips. 

After  reaching  his  study,  he  stepped  into 
an  adjoining  apartment.  While  there,  Mr. 
Kirk  heard  him  groan,  and,  hurrying  to 
him,  found  him  struck  with  apoplexy  and 
wholly  unconscious.  This  was  about  half- 
past  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon.  lie  was 
instantly  carried  to  his  chamber.  In  the 
shortest  possible  space  of  time  several  med- 
ical attendants  were  at  his  bedside,  and 
among  them — and  the  chief  of  them — was  his 
old  friend  and  his  father's  friend,  Dr.  Jack- 
son. One  of  their  number,  Dr.  Minot, 
brought  me  the  sad  intelligence,  adding  his 
own  auguries,  which  were  of  the  worst.  I 
hastened  to  the  house.  What  grief  and  dis- 
may I  found  there  need  not  be  told.  All 
saw  that  the  inevitable  hour  was  come. 
Remedies  availed  nothing.  He  never  spoke 
again,  never  recovered  an  instant  of  con- 
sciousness, and  at  half-past  two  o'clock  life 
passed  away  without  suffering. 

He  would  himself  have  preferred  such  a 
death,  if  choice  had  been  permitted  to  him. 
He  had  often  said  so  to  me  and  to  others  ; 
and  none  will  gainsay,  that  it  was  a  great 
happiness  thus  to  die,  surrounded  by  all 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  him,  except  one 
much-loved  son,  who  was  at  a  distance,  and 
.to  die,  too,  with  unimpaired  faculties,  and 
with  affections  not  only  as  fresh  and  true 
as  they  had  ever  been,  but  which,  in  his 
own  home  and  in  the  innermost  circle  of  his 
friends,  had  seemed  to  grow  stronger  and 
more  tender  to  the  last. 

Four  days  afterwards  he  was  buried  ;  two 
wishes,  however,  having  first  been  fulfilled, 
as  he  had  earnestly  desired  that  they  should 
be.  They  related  wholly  to  himself,  and 
were  as  simple  and  unpretending  as  he 
was. 

From  accidental  circumstances,  he  had 
always  entertained  a  peculiar  dread  of  being 
buried  alive ;  and  he  had,  therefore,  often 
required  that  measures  should  be  taken  to 
prevent  all  possibility  of  the  horrors  that 
might  follow  such  an  occurrence.  His  in- 
junctions were  obeyed.  Of  his  absolute 
death  it  was  not,  indeed,  permitted  to  doubt. 
It  had  occurred  under  circumstances  which 


HENRY  CHARLES   CAREY. 


407 


had  been  distinctly  foreseen,  and  by  a  blow 
only  too  obvious,  sure,  and  terrible.  But 
still,  as  had  been  promised  him.  a  principal 
vein  was  severed,  so  that,  if  life  should 
again  be  wakened,  it  might  ebb  silently 
away  without  any  possible  return  of  con- 
sciousness. 

His  other  request  was  no  less  natural  and 
characteristic.  He  desired  that  his  remains, 
before  they  should  be  deposited  in  the  house 
appointed  for  all  living,  might  rest,  for  a 
time,  in  the  cherished  room  where  were 
gathered  the  intellectual  treasures  amidst 
which  he  had  found  so  much  of  the  happi- 
ness of  his  life.  And  this  wish,  too,  was 
fulfilled.  Silently,  noiselessly,  he  was  car- 
vied  there.  Few  witnessed  the  solemn  scene, 
but  on  those  who  did,  it  made  an  impression 
not  to  be  forgotten.  There  he  lay,  in  that 
rich,  fair  room, — his  manly  form  neither 
shrunk  nor  wasted  by  disease;  the  features 
that  had  expressed  and  inspired  so  much 
love  still  hardly  touched  by  the  effacing 
fingers  of  death, — there  he  lay,  in  unmoved, 
inaccessible  peace  ;  and  the  lettered  dead  of 
all  ages  and  climes  and  countries  collected 
there  seemed  to  look  down  upon  him  in 
their  earthly  immortality,  and  claim  that 
his  name  should  hereafter  be  irnperishably 
associated  with  theirs. 

But  this  was  only  for  a  season.  At  the 
appointed  hour — his  family  and  none  else 
following — he  was  borne  to  the  church 
where  he  was  wont  to  worship.  No  cere- 
monies had  been  arranged  for  the  occasion. 
There  had  been  no  invitations.  There  was 
no  show.  But  the  church  was  full,  was 
crowded.  The  Representatives  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, then  in  session,  had  adjourned 
so  as  to  be  present;  the  members  of  the 
Historical  Society,  whose  honoured  wish  to 
take  official  charge  of  the  duties  of  the  occa- 
sion had  been  declined,  were  there  as  mourn- 
ers. The  whole  community  was  moved  ;  the 
poor  whom  he  had  befriended ;  the  men  of 
letters  with  whom  he  had  been  associated  or 
whom  he  had  aided  ;  the  elevated  by  place 
or  by  fortune,  whose  distinctions  and  happi- 
ness he  had  increased  by  sharing  them  : — 
they  were  all  there.  It  was  a  sorrowful 
gathering,  such  as  was  never  before  wit- 
nessed in  this  land  for  the  obsequies  of  any 
man  of  letters  wholly  unconnected,  as  he 
had  been,  with  public  affairs  and  the  parties 
or  passions  of  the  time ; — one  who  was  known 
to  the  most  of  the  crowd  collected  around 
his  bier  only  by  the  silent  teachings  of  his 
printed  works.  For,  of  the  multitude  as- 
sembled, few  could  have  known  him  per- 
sonally ;  many  of  them  had  never  seen  him. 
But  all  came  to  mourn.  All  felt  tli.it  an 
honour  had  been  taken  from  the  community 
and  the  country.  They  came  because  they 


felt  the  loss  they  had  sustained,  and  only 
for  that. 

And  after  the  simple  and  solemn  religious 
rites  befitting  the  occasion  had  been  per- 
formed [by  Mr.  Prescott's  clergyman,  the 
Rev.  Rut'us  Ellis,  pastor  of  the  First  Con- 
gregational Church  in  Boston. — Foot-note] , 
they  still  crowded  round  the  funeral  train 
and  through  the  streets,  following,  with  sad- 
ness and  awe,  the  hearse  that  was  bearing 
from  their  sight  all  that  remained  of  one 
who  had  been  watched  not  a  week  before  as 
he  trod  the  same  streets  in  apparent  happi- 
ness and  health.  It  was  a  grand  and  touch- 
ing tribute  to  intellectual  eminence  and  per- 
sonal worth. 

He  was  buried  with  his  father  and  mother, 
and  with  the  little  daughter  he  had  so  ten- 
derly loved,  in  the  family  tomb  under  St. 
Paul's  Church  ;  and,  as  he  was  laid  down 
beside  them,  the  audible  sobs  of  the  friends 
who  filled  that  gloomy  crypt  bore  witness  to 
their  love  for  his  generous  and  sweet  nature, 
even  more  than  to  their  admiration  for  his 
literary  distinctions,  or  to  their  sense  of  the 
honour  he  had  conferred  on  his  country. 

Life  of  William  Hickling  Prescott,  1864, 

4to,  443-440. 


HENRY    CHARLES    CAREY, 
LL.D., 

a  son  of  Matthew  Carey,  and  born  in  Phila- 
delphia 1793,  succeeded  his  father  in  the 
publishing  business  in  1817,  and  continued 
in  it  until  1838.  lie  has  acquired  great  repu- 
tation as  a  writer  on  political  economy,  and 
still  (1878),  at  an  advanced  age,  takes  a  lively 
interest  in  "  the  growth  of  human  power." 

Essay  on  the  Rate  of  Human  Wages, 
Phila.,  1835,  12mo;  Principles  of  Political 
Economy,  Phila.,  1837-40,  3  vols.  8vo  (pub- 
lished in  Italian  at  Turin  and  in  Swedish  at 
Upsal)  ;  The  Credit  System  in  France,  Great 
Britain,  and  the  United  States,  Phila.,  1838, 
8vo  ;  The  Past,  the  Present,  arid  the  Future, 
Phila.,  1848,  8vo  (in  Swedish,  at  Stock- 
holm) ;  The  Prospect,  etc.,  at  the  Opening 
of  1851,  8vo ;  The  Harmony  of  Interests, 
Agricultural,  Manufacturing,  and  Com- 
mercial, New  York,  1852,  8vo,  1856,  8vo : 
Letters  on  International  Copyright,  Phila., 
1853,  8vo;  The  Slave  Trade,  Domestic  and 
Foreign,  Phila.,  1853.  12mo,  1862,  12mo; 
Money:  a  Lecture,  New  York,  1857,  8vo, 
Phila.,  1860.  8vo ;  Letters  to  the  President, 
on  the  Foreign  and  Domestic  Policy  of  the 
Union,  etc.,  Phila.,  1858,  8vo  (published  in 
Russian)  ;  Principles  of  Social  Science, 
Phila.,  1858-59,  3  vols.  8vo  (published  in 
German);  The  French  and  American  Tariffs 
Compared,  Phila.,  1861,  8vo ;  Financial 


408 


HENRY  CHARLES   CAREY. 


Crises:  Their  Causes  and  Effects,  Phila., 
1863,  8vo  ;  The  Unity  of  Law;  as  Exhibited 
in  the  Relations  of  Physical,  Social,  Mental, 
and  Moral  Science,  Phila.,  1872,  8vo.  Also 
pamphlets  and  papers  in  periodicals. 

"  Mr.  Carey,  not  only  in  his  own  country,  but 
throughout  Europe,  where  his  writings  have  been 
extensively  studied,  both  in  their  original  lan- 
guage and  in  translations,  is  the  acknowledged 
founder  and  head  of  a  new  school  of  Political 
Economy.  We  can  only  indicate  the  fundamental 
difference  between  his  system  and  that  in  undis- 
puted supremacy  when  he  began  his  contributions 
to  social  science.  This,  however,  will  suffice  to 
show  how  eminently  hopeful,  progressive,  and 
democratic  are  the  doctrines  which  he  proclaimed, 
and  with  what  fulness  of  significance  those  who 
have  accepted  them  are  styled  the  American 
School." — E.  PESHINE  SMITH  :  Allibuiie's  Diction- 
ary of  Eny.  Lit.,  i.  339,  q.  v. 

Those  who  desire  a  convenient  compen- 
dium of  some  of  the  most  important  of  Dr. 
Carey's  views  are  referred  to  Manual  of 
Social  Science,  being  a  Condensation  of  the 
"Principles  of  Social  Science"  of  II.  C. 
Carey,  LL.D.,  bv  Kate  McKean,  Phila., 
1867,  12mo.  Dr.  Carey  died  Oct.  12,  1879. 

OF  SCIENCE  AND  ITS  METHODS. 

\  1.  The  first  man,  when  he  had  day  after 
day,  even  for  a  single  week,  witnessed  the 
rising  and  setting  of  the  sun,  and  had  seen 
that  the  former  had  invariably  been  accom- 
panied by  the  presence  of  light,  while  the 
latter  had  as  invariably  been  followed  by  its 
absence,  had  acquired  the  first  rude  elements 
of  positive  knowledge,  or  science.  The  cause 
• — the  sun's  rising — being  given,  it  would 
have  been  beyond  his  power  to  conceive 
that  the  effect  should  not  follow.  With 
further  observation  he  learned  to  remark 
that  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year  the  lumi- 
nary appeared  to  traverse  particular  por- 
tions of  the  heavens,  and  that  then  it  was 
always  warm,  and  the  trees  put  forth  leaves 
to  be  followed  by  fruit ;  whereas,  at  others, 
it  appeared  to  occupy  other  portions  of 
the  heavens,  and  then  the  fruit  disappeared 
and  the  leaves  fell,  as  a  prelude  to  the  win- 
ter's cold.  Here  was  a  further  addition  to 
his  stock  of  knowledge,  and  with  it  came 
foresight,  and  a  fooling  for  the  necessity  for 
action.  If  he  would  live  during  the  season 
of  cold,  he  could  do  so  only  by  preparing  for 
it  during  the  season  of  heat,  a  principle  as 
thoroughly  understood  by  the  wandering 
Esquimaux  of  the  shores  of  the  Arctic 
Ocean,  as  by  the  most  enlightened  and  emi- 
nent philosopher  of  Europe  or  America. 

Earliest  among  the  ideas  of  such  a  man 
would  be  those  of  space,  quantity,  and  form. 
The  sun  was  obviously  very  remote,  while 
of  the  trees  some  were  distant  and  others 
•were  close  at  hand.  The  moon  was  single, 


while  the  stars  were  countless.  The  tree 
wa»  tall,  while  the  shrub  was  short.  The 
hills  were  high,  and  tending  towards  a  point, 
while  the  plains  were  low  and  flat.  We  have 
here  the  most  abstract,  simple,  and  obvious 
of  all  conceptions.  The  idea  of  space  is  the 
same,  whether  we  regard  the  distance  be- 
tween the  sun  and  the  stars  by  which  he  is 
surrounded,  or  that  between  the  mountains 
and  ourselves.  So,  too,  with  number  and 
form,  which  apply  as  readily  to  the  sands 
of  the  sea-shore  as  to  the  gigantic  trees  of 
the  forest,  or  to  the  various  bodies  seen  to 
be  moving  through  the  heavens. 

Next  in  order  would  corne  the  desire,  or 
the  necessity,  for  comparing  distances,  num- 
bers, and  magnitude,  and  the  means  for  this 
would  be  at  hand  in  machinery  supplied  by 
nature,  and  always  at  his  command.  His 
finger,  or  his  arm,  would  supply  a  measure 
of  magnitude,  while  his  pace  would  do  the 
same  by  distance,  and  the  standard  with 
which  he  would  compare  the  weights  would 
be  found  in  some  one  among  the  most  ordi- 
nary commodities  by  which  he  was  sur- 
rounded. In  numerous  cases,  however,  dis- 
tances, velocities,  or  dimensions,  are  found 
to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  direct  measure- 
ment, and  thus  is  produced  a  necessity  for 
devising  means  of  comparing  distant  and 
unknown  quantities  writh  those  th.it  being 
near  can  be  ascertained,  and  hence  arises 
mathematics,  or  The  Science, — so  denomi- 
nated by  the  Greeks,  because  to  its  help  was 
due  nearly  all  the  positive  knowledge  of 
which  they  were  possessed. 

The  multiplication  table  enables  the 
ploughman  to  determine  the  number  of 
days  contained  in  a  given  number  of  weeks, 
and  the  merchant  to  calculate  the  number 
of  pounds  contained  in  his  cargo  of  cotton. 
By  help  of  his  rule,  the  carpenter  determines 
the  distance  between  the  two  ends  of  the 
plank  on  which  he  works.  The  sounding- 
line  enables  the  sailor  to  ascertain  the  depth 
of  water  around  his  ship,  and  by  help  of  the 
barometer  the  traveller  determines  the  height 
of  the  mountain  on  which  he  stands.  All 
these  are  instruments  for  facilitating  the  ac- 
quisition of  knowledge,  and  such,  too,  are 
the  formulae  of  mathematics,  by  help  of 
which  the  philosopher  is  enabled  to  deter- 
mine the  magnitude  and  weight  of  bodies 
distant  from  him  millions  of  millions  of 
miles,  and  is  thus  enabled  to  solve  innumer- 
able questions  of  the  highest  interest  to 
man.  They  are  the  key  of  science,  but  are 
not  to  be  confounded  with  science  itself, 
although  often  included  in  the  list  of  sci- 
ences, and  even  so  recently  as  in  M.  Comte's 
well-known  work.  That  such  should  ever 
have  been  the  case  has  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  so  much  of  what  is  really  physics  is 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


409 


discussed  under  the  head  of  mathematics ; 
as  is  the  case  with  the  great  laws  for  whose 
discovery  we  are  indebted  to  Kelper,  Galileo, 
and  Newton.  That  a  hody  impelled  by  a 
single  force  will  move  in  a  right  line  and 
with  a  velocity  that  is  invariable,  and  that 
action  and  reaction  are  equal  and  opposite, 
are  facts,  at  the  knowledge  of  which  we 
have  arrived  in  consequence  of  pursuing 
a  certain  mode  of  investigation  ;  but  when 
obtained,  they  are  purely  physical  facts,  ob- 
tained by  help  of  the  instrument  to  which 
we  apply  the  term  mathematics, — and  which 
is,  to  use  the  words  of  M.  Cornte,  simply 
"  an  immense  extension  of  natural  logic  to  a 
certain  order  of  deductions." — Positive  Phi- 
losophy, Martineau's  Translation,  vol.  i.,  33. 

Logic  is  itself,  however,  but  another  of  the 
instruments  devised  by  man  for  enabling 
him  to  obtain  a  knowledge  of  nature's  laws. 
To  his  eyes  the  earth  appears  to  be  a  plane, 
arid  yet  he  sees  the  sun  rising  daily  in  the 
east  and  setting  as  regularly  in  the  west, 
from  which  he  might  infer  that  it  would 
always  continue  so  to  do, — but  of  this  he 
can  feel  no  certainty  until  he  has  satisfied 
himself  why  it  is  that  it  does  so.  At  one 
time  he  sees  the  sun  to  be  eclipsed,  while  at 
another  the  moon  ceases  to  give  light,  and 
he  desires  to  know  why  such  things  are, — 
what  is  the  law  governing  the  movements 
of  those  bodies  ;  having  obtained  which  he 
is  enabled  to  predict  when  they  will  again 
cease  to  give  light,  and  to  determine  when 
they  must  have  done  so  in  times  that  are 
past.  At  one  moment  ice  or  salt  melts  ;  at 
another  gas  explodes  ;  and  at  a  third,  walls 
are  shattered  and  cities  are  hurled  to  the 
ground  ;  and  he  seeks  to  know  why  these 
things  are, — what  is  the  relation  of  cause 
and  effect?  In  the  effort  to  obtain  answers 
to  all  these  questions,  he  observes  and  re- 
cords facts,  and  these  he  arranges  with  a 
view  to  deduce  from  them  the  laws  by  virtue 
of  which  they  occur, — and  he  invents  barom- 
eters, thermometers,  and  other  instruments 
to  aid  him  in  his  observation, — but  the  ulti- 
mate object  of  all  is  that  of  obtaining  an 
answer  to  the  questions  :  Why  are  all  these 
things?  Why  is  it  that  dew  falls  on  one  day 
and  not  on  another?  Why  is  it  that  corn 
grows  abundantly  in  this  field  and  fails  alto- 
gether in  that  one?  Why  is  it  that  coal 
burns  and  granite  will  not?  What,  in  a 
word,  are  the  laws  instituted  by  the  Creator 
for  the  government  of  matter?  The  an- 
swers to  these  questions  constitute  science, 
— and  mathematics,  logic,  and  all  other  of 
the  machinery  in  use  are  but  instruments 
used  by  him  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
them. 

Principles  of  Social  Science,  Chap.  i.  : 
Of  Science  and  its  Methods. 


EDWARD  EVERETT,    D.C.L., 

an  eminent  orator  and  scholar,  born  at  Dor- 
chester, Massachusetts,  1794  ;  graduated  at 
Harvard  University,  181 1,  and  Tutor  of  Latin 
there,  1812;  ordained  a  Unitarian  minister, 
1814,  elected  Professor  of  the  Greek  Lan- 
guage and  Literature  in  Harvard  University 
whilst  absent  in  Europe,  in  1815,  and  on 
his  return,  in  1819,  entered  upon  his  duties, 
which  terminated  in  1825;  editor  of  the  N. 
Amer.  Review  (to  which  he  contributed  in 
all  one  hundred  and  seventeen  papers),  Jan. 
1820  to  Oct.  1823;  M.  C.,  1825-35  ;  Governor 
of  Massachusetts,  1836-40;  Minister  Pleni- 
potentiary to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  1841-44; 
President  of  Harvard  University,  1846-49; 
Secretary  of  State  of  the  United  States,  Nov. 
1852-March,  1853;  United  States  Senator, 
1853-55  ;  candidate  for  the  Vice-Presidency 
of  the  United  States,  1860 ;  died  at  Boston, 
Jan.  15,  1865.  He  collected,  by  means  of 
orations,  writings,  etc.,  nearly  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  for  the  purchase  of  Mount 
Vernon,  that  the  American  people  might 
have  the  home  of  Washington  for  a  perpet- 
ual possession.  See  A  Memorial  of  Edward 
Everett  from  the  City  of  Boston,  1865,  rov. 
8vo,  pp.  315. 

A  .Defence  of  Christianity  against  the 
Work  of  George  B.  English,  Bost.,  1814, 
1 2mo  ;  Orations  and  Speeches  on  Various 
Occasions,  1825-36,  Boston,  1836,  8vo  ;  Im- 
portance of  Practical  Education  :  A  Selec- 
tion from  his  Orations  and  other  Discourses 
[1836,  8vo,  supra],  New  York,  1847,  12mo; 
Orations  and  Speeches  on  Various  Occasions 
from  1826  to  1850,  2d  edit.,  Bost.,  1850,  2 
vols.  8vo  [includes  all  that  were  in  the  edit, 
of  1836,  8voJ,  3d  edit.,  1853,  2  vols.  8vo, 
vol.  iii.  (with  Index  to  vols.  i.,  ii.,  in.,  by  S. 
Austin  Allibone),  1859,  8vo,  vol.  iv.,  1868, 
8vo ;  edited  The  Works  of  Daniel  Webster, 
with  a  Prefatory  Memoir  and  Notes,  Bost., 
1851,  6  vols.  8vo,  large  paper,  r.  8vo.  Also 
many  single  Speeches  and  Orations,  collected 
as  above  ;  The  Life  of  General  John  Stark, 
Bost.,  1834,  16mo  (Sparks's  Amer.  Biog.,  1st 
Series) ;  Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  Washing- 
ton Irving,  New  York,  1860,  12tno;  Mount 
Vernon  Papers,  New  York,  1861,  12mo ; 
Life  of  Washington,  New  York,  1860,  12mo. 

"  It  is  true  that  he  has  composed  no  independent 
historical  work,  nor  ever  published  any  volume  of 
biography  more  considerable  than  the  excellent 
memoir  of  Washington,  which  he  prepared  at  the 
suggestion  of  his  friend  Lord  Maoiiulay,  for  the 
new  [8th]  edition  of  the  Enc37clopanlia  Hritannica 
[also  published  separately.  New  York,  IStiO,  12mo]. 
But  there  is  no  great  epoch — there  is  hardly  a 
single  event — of  our  national  or  of  our  colonial 
history,  which  he  has  not  carefully  depicted  and 
brilliantly  illustrated  in  his  occasional  discourses. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  that  no  more  attractive 
or  more  instructive  history  of  our  country  could 


410 


EDWARD    EVERETT. 


be  presented  to  the  youth  of  our  land,  than  is 
found  in  the  series  of  anniversary  orations  which 
he  has  delivered  during  the  lost  forty  years.  .  .  . 
I  know  not  in  what  other  volume  the  j'oung  men, 
or  even  the  old  men,  of  our  land,  could  find  the 
history  of  the  glorious  past  more  accurately  or 
more  admirably  portrayed.  I  know  not  where 
they  could  find  the  toils  and  struggles  of  our 
colonial  or  revolutionary  fathers  set  forth  with 
greater  fulness  of  detail  or  greater  felicity  of  illus- 
tration. As  one  reads  these  orations  and  discourses 
at  this  moment,  they  might  almost  be  regarded  as 
successive  chapters  of  a  continuous  and  compre- 
hensive work  which  had  been  composed  and  recited 
on  our  great  national  anniversaries,  just  as  the 
chapters  of  Herodotus  are  said  to  have  been  recited 
at  the  Olympic  festivals  of  ancient  Greece." — RoB- 
EUT  C.  WlNTHROP,  LL.D. :  Proceed,  of  Massnchu- 
setta  Hintorical  Society,  Jan.  30,  1865,  and  in  A 
Memorial  of  Edward  Everett  from  the  City  of  lion- 
ton,  1865,  p.  131.  See  also  Memoirs  of  the  His- 
torical Society  of  Pennsylcania,  1865,  relative  to 
Edward  Everett,  by  S.  Austin  Allibone. 

Much  disappointment  was  felt  that  Mr. 
Everett  failed  to  give  to  the  world  a  great 
work  "  upon  some  broad  question,  with 
which  the  interests  of  humanity  are  suffi- 
ciently connected  to  insure  the  preservation 
of  the  fame  and  usefulness  of  the  author, 
with  the  vitality  of  the  subject."  It  is 
proper  that  Mr.  Everett's  own  explanations 
upon  this  subject  should  be  placed  upon 
record  : 

"  It  has  certainly  been  my  hope  and  desire 
to  produce  some  continuous  elaborate  work, 
not  unworthy  to  take  a  place  in  the  perma- 
nent literature  of  the  country.  Whether 
this  hope  is  to  be  realized  will  depend  on 
the  state  of  my  health,  which  was  deplorably 
shattered  last  year,  but  is  now  somewhat 
improved. 

"  Should  I  die  with  this  hope  unfulfilled,  I 
hope  those  who  may  take  a  kind  interest  in 
my  memory,  will  see  the  traces  of  willing 
and  conscientious  effort  in  my  occasional 
public  addresses  (some  of  which  embody  the 
results  of  no  little  research),  in  my  contri- 
butions to  the  N.  A.  Keview,  and  in  my 
various  official  speeches,  despatches,  and  re- 
ports ;  the  aggregate  of  which,  if  it  proves 
nothing  else,  will  prove  that  I  have  not  led 
an  idle  life.  .  .  .  Whether  I  am  able  to  exe- 
cute the  project,  long  meditated,  and  to  some 
extent  prepared  for,  of  a  work  on  the  Law 
of  Nations,  will  depend,  not  so  much  on  the 
difficulty  to  which  you  allude  of  satisfying 
an  ideal  standard,  as  on  the  state  of  my 
health  and  other  circumstances  which  pow- 
erfully influence  the  capacity  for  vigorous 
mental  effort.  I  have  for  some  years  been 
so  situated  as  to  require  nearly  all  the  forti- 
tude and  energy  I  can  command  to  go 
through  the  routine  of  daily  domestic  life. 
I  mention  this  with  reluctance;  but  it  is  of 
importance  to  my  good  name  hereafter, 
should  I  fall  below  the  reasonable  expecta- 


tions which  may  exist  relative  to  the  matter 
in  question,  that  the  true  reason  should  be 
known." 

Letters  to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  llth  Sept., 
1855,  and  19th  Dec.,  1855. 

AMERICAN  LITERATURE. 

This,  then,  is  the  theatre  on  which  the  in- 
tellect of  America  is  to  appear,  and  such  the 
motives  to  its  exertion  ;  such  the  mass  to  be 
influenced  by  its  energies ;  such  the  glory  to 
crown  its  success.  If  I  err  in  this  happy 
vision  of  my  country's  fortunes,  I  thank 
Heaven  for  an  error  so  animating.  If  this 
be  false,  may  I  never  know  the  truth.  Never 
may  you,  my  friends,  be  under  any  other 
feeling,  than  that  a  great,  a  growing,  an 
immeasurably  expanding  country  is  calling 
upon  you  for  your  best  services.  The  name 
and  character  of  our  Alma  Mater  have 
already  been  carried  by  some  of  our  breth 
ren  hundreds  of  miles  from  her  venerable 
walls ;  and  thousands  of  miles  still  farther 
westward,  the  communities  of  kindred  men 
are  fast  gathering,  whose  minds  and  hearts 
will  act  in  sympathy  with  yours. 

The  most  powerful  motives  call  on  us,  as 
scholars,  for  those  efforts  which  our  common 
country  demands  of  all  her  children.  Most 
of  us  are  of  that  class  who  owe  whatever 
of  knowledge  has  shone  into  our  minds  to 
the  free  and  popular  institutions  of  our  na- 
tive land.  There  are  few  of  us  who  may 
not  be  permitted  to  boast  that  we  have  been 
reared  in  an  honest  poverty,  or  a  frugal  com- 
petence, and  owe  every  thing  to  those  means 
of  education  which  are  equally  open  to  all. 
We  are  summoned  to  new  energy  and  zeal, 
by  the  high  nature  of  the  experiment  we  are 
appointed  in  providence  to  make,  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  theatre  on  which  it  is  to  be 
performed.  At  a  moment  of  deep  and  gen- 
eral agitation  in  the  Old  World,  it  pleased 
Heaven  to  open  this  last  refuge  of  humanity. 
The  attempt  has  begun,  and  is  going  on,  far 
from  foreign  corruption,  on  the  broadest 
scale,  and  under  the  most  benignant  pros- 
pects; and  it  certainly  rests  with  us  to  solve 
the  great  problem  in  human  society  ;  to  settle, 
and  that  forever,  the  momentous  question, 
— whether  mankind  can  be  trusted  with  a 
purely  popular  system  of  government. 

One  might  almost  think,  without  extrava- 
gance, that  the  departed  wise  and  good,  of 
all  places  and  times,  are  looking  down  from 
their  happy  seats  to  witness  what  shall  now 
be  done  by  us;  that  they  who  lavished  their 
treasures  and  their  blood,  of  old,  who  spake 
and  wrote,  who  labored,  fought,  and  perished, 
in  the  one  great  cause  of  Freedom  and  Truth, 
are  now  hanging  from  their  orbs  on  high, 
over  the  last  solemn  experiment  of  humanity. 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


411 


As  I  have  wandered  over  the  spots  once  the 
scene  of  their  labours,  and  mused  among 
the  prostrate  columns  of  their  senate  houses 
and  forums,  I  have  seemed  almost  to  hear  a 
voice  from  the  tombs  of  departed  ages;  from 
the  sepulchres  of  the  nations  which  died  be- 
fore tlie  sight.  They  exhort  us,  they  adjure 
us,  to  be  faithful  to  our  trust.  They  implore 
us  by  the  long  trials  of  struggling  humanity  ; 
by  the  blessed  memory  of  the  departed  ;  by 
the  dear  faith  which  has  been  plighted,  by 
pure  hands,  to  the  holy  cause  of  truth  and 
man  ;  by  the  awful  secrets  of  the  prison 
houses,  where  the  sons  of  freedom  have  been 
itiiinured  ;  by  the  noble  heads  which  have 
been  brought  to  the  block  ;  by  the  wrecks  of 
time,  by  the  eloquent  ruins  of  nations,  they 
conjure  us  not  to  quench  the  light  which 
is  rising  on  the  world.  Greece  cries  to 
us  by  the  convulsed  lips  of  her  poisoned, 
dying  Demosthenes;  and  Rome  pleads  with 
us  in  the  mute  persuasion  of  her  mangled 
Tully. 

The  Circumstances  Favourable  to  the  Pro- 
gress of  Literature  in  America :  An  Ora- 
tion delivered  at  Cambridge  before  the 
Society  of  Phi  Beta  Kappa,  on  the  26th 
of  August,  1824- 

THE  USES  OF  ASTRONOMY. 

There  is  much,  in  every  way,  in  the  city 
of  Florence,  to  excite  the  curiosity,  to  kindle 
the  imagination,  and  to  gratify  the  taste. 
Sheltered  on  the  north  by  the  vine-clad  hills 
of  Fiesole,  whose  Cyclopean  walls  carry  back 
the  antiquary  to  ages  before  the  Roman,  be- 
fore the  Etruscan,  power,  the  flowery  city 
(Fiorenza)  covers  the  sunny  banks  of  the 
Arno  with  its  stately  palaces.  Dark  and 
frowning  piles  of  mediaeval  structure,  a  ma- 
jestic dome  the  prototype  of  St.  Peter's, 
basilicas  which  enshrine  the  ashes  of  some 
of  the  mightiest  of  the  dead,  the  stone  where 
Dante  stood  to  gaze  on  the  campanile,  the 
house  of  Michael  Angelo,  still  occupied  by  a 
descendant  of  his  lineage  and  name, — his 
hammer,  his  chisel,  his  dividers,  his  manu- 
script poems,  all  as  if  he  had  left  them  but 
yesterday;  airy  bridges,  which  seem  not  so 
much  to  rest  on  the  earth  as  to  hover  over 
the  waters  they  span  ; — the  loveliest  crea- 
tions of  ancient  art,  rescued  from  the  grave 
of  ages  again  to  "  enchant  the  world  ;"  the 
breathing  marbles  of  Michael  Angelo,  the 
glowing  canvas  of  Raphael  and  Titian  ; — 
museums  filled  with  medals  and  coins  of 
every  age  from  Cyrus  the  younger,  and  gems 
and  amulets  and  vases  from  the  sepulchres 
of  Egyptian  Pharaohs  coeval  with  Joseph, 
and  Etruscan  Lucumons  that  swayed  Italy 
before  the  Romans ; — libraries  stored  with 
the  choicest  texts  of  ancient  literature ; — 


gardens  of  rose  and  orange  and  pomegranate 
and  myrtle; — the  very  air  you  breathe  lan- 
guid with  music  and  perfume, — such  is  Flor- 
ence. But  among  all  its  fascinations  ad- 
dressed to  the  sense,  the  memory,  and  the 
heart,  there  was  none  to  which  I  more  fre- 
quently gave  a  meditative  hour  during  a 
year's  residence,  than  to  the  spot  where  Gal- 
ileo Galilei  sleeps  beneath  the  marble  floor 
of  Santa  Croce :  no  building  on  which  I 
gazed  with  greater  reverence,  than  I  did 
upon  the  modest  mansion  at  Arcetri,  villa  at 
once  and  prison,  in  which  that  venerable 
sage,  by  command  of  the  Inquisition,  passed 
the  sad  closing  years  of  his  life  ;  the  beloved 
daughter  on  whom  he  had  depended  to  smooth 
his  passage  to  the  grave  laid  there  before 
him  ;  the  eyes  with  which  he  had  discovered 
worlds  before  unknown,  quenched  in  blind- 
ness : — 

"  Ahime  !  quegli  occhi  si  non  fatta  oscuri, 
Che  vider  piu  di  tutti  i  tempi  antiohi, 
E  luce  fur  dei  secoli  futuri." 

That  was  the  house  "  where,"  says  Milton 
(another  of  those  of  whom  the  world  was  not 
worthy),  "I  found  and  visited  the  famous 
Galileo,  grown  old, — a  prisoner  to  the  Inqui- 
sition, for  thinking  on  astronomy,  otherwise 
than  as  the  Dominican  and  Franciscan  li- 
censers thought."  Great  heavens!  what  a 
tribunal,  what  a  culprit,  what  a  crime  !  Let 
us  thank  God,  my  friends,  that  we  live  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  Of  all  the  wonders 
of  ancient  and  modern  art, — statues  and 
paintings,  and  jewels  and  manuscripts,  the 
admiration  and  the  delight  of  ages, — there 
was  nothing  which  I  beheld  with  more  affec- 
tionate awe,  than  that  poor  rough  tube,  a  few 
feet  in  length,  the  work  of  his  own  hands, 
that  very  ''  optic  glass"  through  which  the 
"  Tuscan  Artist"  viewed  the  moon, 

"At  evening  from  the  Fe.°ol6 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe:" 

that  poor  little  spy-glass  (for  it  is  scarcely- 
more)  through  which  the  human  eye  first 
distinctly  beheld  the  surface  of  the  moon, — 
first  discovered  the  phases  of  Venus,  the  sat- 
ellites of  Jupiter,  and  the  seeming  handles 
of  Saturn, — first  penetrated  the  dusky  depths 
of  the  heavens, — first  pierced  the  clouds 
of  visual  error,  which  from  the  creation  of 
the  world  involved  the  system  of  the  uni- 
verse. 

There  are  occasions  in  life  in  which  a  great 
mind  lives  years  of  rapt  enjoyment  in  a  mo- 
ment. I  can  fancy  the  emotions  of  Galileo, 
when  first  raising  the  newly-constructed  tel- 
escope to  the  heavens,  he  saw  fulfilled  the 
grand  prophecy  of  Copernicus,  and  beheld 
the  planet  Venus  crescent  like  the  moon.  .  .  . 


412 


EDWARD   EVERETT. 


Yes,  noble  Galileo,  thoti  art  right,  E pttr  si 
muove.  "  It  does  move."  Bigots  may  make 
thee  recant  it;  bin  it  moves  nevertheless. 
Yes,  the  earth  moves,  and  the  planets  move, 
and  the  mighty  waters  move,  and  the  great 
sweeping  tides  of  air  move,  and  the  empires 
of  men  move,  and  the  world  of  thought 
moves,  ever  onward  and  upward  to  higher 
thoughts  and  bolder  theories.  The  Inquisi- 
tion may  seal  thy  lips,  but  they  can  no  more 
stop  the  progress  of  the  great  truth  pro- 
pounded by  Copernicus  and  demonstrated 
by  thee,  than  they  can  stop  the  revolving 
earth  !  .  .  .  . 

Much,  however,  as  we  are  indebted  to  our 
observatories  for  elevating  our  conceptions 
of  the  heavenly  bodies,  they  present,  even 
to  the  unaided  sight,  scenes  of  glory  which 
words  are  too  feeble  to  describe.  I  had  occa- 
sion, a  few  weeks  since,  to  take  the  ecirly 
train  from  Providence  to  Boston  ;  and  for 
this  purpose  rose  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Every  thing  around  was  wrapt  in  dark- 
ness and  hushed  in  silence,  broken  only  by 
what  seemed  at  that  hour  the  unearthly  clank 
and  rush  of  the  train.  It  was  a  mild,  serene, 
midsummer's  night, — the  sky  was  without  a 
cloud, — the  winds  were  whist.  The  moon, 
then  in  the  last  quarter,  had  just  risen,  and 
the  stars  shone  with  a  spectral  lustre  but 
little  affected  by  her  presence.  Jupiter,  two 
hours  high,  was  the  herald  of  the  day  ;  the 
Pleiades  just  above  the  horizon,  shed  their 
sweet  influence  in  the  east;  Lyra  sparkled 
near  the  zenith;  Andromeda  veiled  her 
newly-discovered  glories  from  the  naked 
eye  in  the  south  ;  the  steady  pointers,  far 
beneath  the  pole,  looked  meekly  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  north  to  their  sovereign. 

Such  was  the  glorious  spectacle  as  I  en- 
tered the  train.  As  we  proceeded,  the  timid 
approach  of  twilight  became  more  percepti- 
ble ;  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  began  to 
soften  ;  the  smaller  stars,  like  little  children, 
went  first  to  rest;  the  sister-beams  of  the 
Pleiades  soon  melted  together;  but  the  bright 
constellations  of  the  west  and  north  remained 
unchanged.  Steadily  the  wondrous  transfig- 
uration went  on.  Hands  of  angels,  hidden 
from  mortal  eyes,  shifted  the  scenery  of  the 
heavens;  the  glories  of  night  dissolved  into 
the  glories  of  the  dawn.  The  blue  sky  now 
turned  more  softly  gray ;  the  great  watch- 
stars  shut  up  their  holy  eyes  ;  the  east  began 
to  kindle.  Faint  streaks  of  purple  soon 
blushed  along  the  sky  ;  the  whole  celestial 
concave  was  filled  with  the  inflowing  tides 
of  the  morning  light,  which  came  pouring 
down  from  above  in  one  great  ocean  of  ra- 
diance ;  till  at  length,  as  we  reached  the 
Blue  Hills,  a  flash  of  purple  fire  blazed  out 
from  above  the  horizon,  and  turned  the 
dewy  tear-drops  of  flower  and  leaf  into 


rubies  and  diamonds.  In  a  few  seconds, 
the  everlasting  gates  of  the  morning  were 
thrown  wide  open,  and  the  lord  of  day,  ar- 
rayed in  glories  too  severe  for  the  gaze  of 
man,  began  his  state. 

I  do  not  wonder  at  the  superstition  of  the 
ancient  Magians,  who  in  the  morning  of  the 
world  went   up   to  the  hill-tops  of  Central 
Asia,  and,  ignorant  of  the  true  God,  adored 
the  most  glorious  work  of  his  hands.     But 
I  am  filled  with  amazement,  when  1  am  told, 
that,  in  this  enlightened  age  and  in  the  heart 
of  the  Christian   world,   there  are  persons 
who  can  witness  this  daily  manifestation  of 
tiie  power  and  wisdom  of  the  Creator,  ami 
yet  say  in  their  hearts,  "  There  is  no  God." 
A  Discourse  delivered  at  AWam/,  on  Occa- 
sion of  the  Inauguration  of  the  Dudley 
Observatory,  in  that  citi/,  on  the  28th  of 
August,  1856. 

WASHINGTON  ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME. 

I  feel,  sir,  more  and  more,  as  I  advance  in 
life,  and  watch  with  mingled  confidence,  so- 
licitude, and  hope,  the  development  of  the 
momentous  drama  of  our  national  existence, 
seeking  to  penetrate  that  future  which  His 
Excellency  has  so  eloquently  foreshadowed, 
that  it  is  well  worth  our  while — that  it  is 
at  once  one  of  our  highest  social  duties  and 
important  privileges — to  celebrate  with 
ever-increasing  solemnity,  with  annually 
augmented  pomp  and  circumstance  of  festal 
commemoration,  the  anniversary  of  the  na- 
tion's birth,  were  it  only  as  affording  a  fitting 
occasion  to  bring  the  character  and  services 
of  Washington,  with  ever  fresh  recognition, 
to  the  public  attention,  as  the  great  cen- 
tral figure  of  that  unparalleled  group,  that 
"  noble  army"  of  chieftains,  sages,  and 
patriots,  by  whom  the  Revolution  was  ac- 
complished. 

This  is  the  occasion,  and  here  is  the  spot, 
and  this  is  the  day.  and  we  citizens  of  Bos- 
ton are  the  men,  if  any  in  the  land,  to  throw 
wide  open  the  portals  of  the  temple  of  mem- 
ory and  fame,  and  there  gaze  with  the  eyes 
of  a  reverent  and  grateful  imagination  on 
his  benignant  countenance  and  mnjestic 
form.  This  is  the  occasion  and  the  day ;  for 
who  needs  to  be  told  how  much  the  cause  of 
independence  owes  to  the  services  and  char- 
acter of  Washington;  to  the  purity  of  that 
stainless  purpose,  to  the  firmness  of  that 
resolute  soul  ?  This  is  the  spot,  this  immor- 
tal hall,  from  which  as  from  an  altar  went 
forth  the  burning  coals  that  kindled  into  a 
consuming  fire  at  Lexington  and  Concord,  at 
Bunker  Hill  and  Dorchester  Heights.  We 
citizens  of  Boston  are  the  men  ;  for  the  first 
great  success  of  Washington  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War  was  to  restore  to  our  fathers 


EDWARD  EVERETT. 


413 


their  ancient  and  beloved  town.  This  is  the 
time,  the  accepted  time,  when  the  voice  of 
the  Father  of  his  Country  cries  aloud  to  us 
from  the  sods  of  Mount  Vernon,  and  calls 
upon  us,  east  and  west,  north  and  south,  as 
the  brethren  of  one  great  household,  to  be 
faithful  to  the  dear-bought  inheritance  which 
he  did  so  much  to  secure  for  us. 

But  the  fame  of  Washington  is  not  con- 
fined to  our  own  country.  Bourdaloue,  in 
his  eulogy  on  the  military  saint  of  France, 
exclaims,  ''  The  other  saints  have  been  given 
by  the  church  to  France,  but  France  in  re- 
turn has  given  St.  Louis  to  the  church." 
Born  into  the  family  of  nations  in  these  lat- 
ter days,  receiving  from  foreign  countries 
and  inheriting  from  ancient  times  the  bright 
and  instructive  example  of  all  their  honoured 
sons,  it  is  the  glory  of  America,  in  the  very 
dawn  of  her  national  existence,  to  have  given 
back  to  the  world  many  names  of  which  the 
lustre  will  never  fade  ;  and  especially  one 
name  of  which  the  whole  family  of  Christen- 
dom is  willing  to  acknowledge  the  unenvied 
pre-eminence;  a  name  of  which  neither 
Greece  nor  Rome,  nor  republican  Italy, 
Switzerland,  nor  Holland,  nor  constitutional 
England  can  boast  the  rival.  "  A  charac- 
ter of  virtues  so  happily  tempei-ed  by  one 
another"  (I  use  the  language  of  Charles 
James  Fox),  "  and  so  wholly  unalloyed  by 
any  vices,  is  hardly  to  be  found  on  the  pages 
of  history." 

It  is  delightful  to  witness  the  generous 
recognition  of  Washington's  merits,  even  in 
countries  where,  from  political  reasons,  some 
backwardness  in  that  respect  might  have 
been  anticipated.  Notwithstanding  his  lead- 
ing agency  in  wresting  a  colonial  empire 
from  Great  Britain,  England  was  not  slow 
to  appreciate  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  his 
character.  Mr.  liufus  King,  our  minister  at 
that  time  to  the  court  of  St.  James,  writing 
to  General  Hamilton  in  1797,  says  :  "  No  one 
who  has  not  been  in  England  can  have  a  just 
idea  of  the  admiration  expressed  among  all 
parties  for  General  Washington.  It  is  a 
common  observation,  that  he  is  not  only  the 
most  illustrious,  but  the  most  meritorious 
character  which  has  yet  appeared."  Nor 
was  France  behind  England  in  her  admira- 
tion of  Washington.  Notwithstanding  the 
uneasy  relations  of  the  two  countries  at  the 
time  of  his  decease,  when  the  news  of  his 
death  reached  Paris,  the  youthful  and  fortu- 
nate soldier  who  had  already  reached  the 
summit  of  power  by  paths  which  Washing- 
ton could  never  have  trod,  commanded  the 
highest  honours  to  be  paid  to  his  memory. 
"Washington,"  he  immediately  exclaimed, 
in  the  orders  of  the  day,  "  is  dead  !  This 
great  man  fought  against  tyranny  ;  he  con- 
solidated the  liberty  of  his  country.  His 


memory  -will  be  ever  dear  to  the  French 
people,  as  to  all  freemen  in  both  hemi- 
spheres, and  especially  to  the  soldiers  of 
France,  who  like  him  and  the  American 
soldiers  are  fighting  for  liberty  and  equality. 
In  consequence,  the  First  Consul  orders  that 
for  ten  days  black  crape  shall  be  suspended 
from  all  the  standards  and  banners  of  the 
republic."  By  order  of  Napoleon  a  solemn 
funeral  service  was  performed  in  the  4<  In- 
valides,"  in  the  presence  of  all  that  was  most 
eminent  in  Paris.  "  A  sorrowful  cry,"  said 
Fontanes.  the  orator  chosen  for  the  occasion, 
"  has  reached  us  from  America,  which  he 
liberated.  It  belongs  to  France  to  yield  the 
first  response  to  the  lamentation  which  will 
be  echoed  by  every  great  soul.  These  august 
arches  have  been  well  chosen  for  the  apothe- 
osis of  a  hero." 

How  often  in  those  wild  scenes  of  her 
revolution,  when  the  best  blood  of  France 
was  shed  by  the  remorseless  and  ephemeral 
tyrants  who  chased  each  other,  dagger  in 
hand,  across  that  dismal  stage  of  crime  and 
woe,  during  the  reign  of  terror,  how  often 
did  the  thoughts  of  Lafayette  and  his  com- 
panions in  arms,  who  had  fought  the  battles 
of  constitutional  liberty  in  America,  call  up 
the  image  of  the  pure,  the  just,  the  humane, 
the  unambitious  Washington  !  How  differ- 
ent would  have  been  the  fate  of  France,  if 
her  victorious  chieftain,  when  he  had  reached 
the  giddy  heights  of  power,  had  imitated 
the  great  example  which  he  caused  to  be 
eulogized!  He  might  have  saved  his  coun- 
try from  being  crushed  by  the  leagued  hosts 
of  Europe ;  he  might  have  prevented  the 
names  of  Moscow  and  Waterloo  from  being 
written  in  letters  of  blood  on  the  pages  of 
history  ;  he  might  have  escaped  himself  the 
sad  significance  of  those  memorable  words 
of  Fontanes,  on  the  occasion  to  which  I 
have  alluded,  when,  in  the  presence  of  Na- 
poleon, he  spoke  of  Washington  as  a  man 
who,  "  by  a  destiny  seldom  shared  by  those 
who  change  the  fate  of  empires,  died  in 
peace  as  a  private  citizen,  in  his  native  land, 
where  he  had  held  the  first  rank,  and  which 
he  had  himself  made  free!" 

How  different  would  have  been  the  fate 
of  Spain,  of  Naples,  of  Greece,  of  Germany, 
of  Mexico  and  the  South  American  Repub- 
lics, had  their  recent  revolutions  been  con- 
ducted by  men  like  Washington  and  his  pa- 
triotic associates,  whose  prudence,  patriot- 
ism, probity,  and  disinterestedness  conducted 
our  Revolution  to  an  auspicious  and  honour- 
able result ! 

But  it  is,  of  course,  at  home  that  we  must 
look  for  an  adeqimte  appreciation  of  our 
Washington's  services  and  worth.  lie  is 
the  friend  of  the  liberties  of  other  coun- 
tries ;  he  is  the  father  of  his  own.  I  own, 


414 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


Mr.  Mayor,  that  it  has  been  to  me  a  source 
of  inexpressible  satisfaction,  to  find,  amidst 
all  the  bitter  dissensions  of  the  day,  that 
this  one  grand  sentiment,  veneration  for  the 
name  of  Washington,  is  buried — no,  planted 
— down  in  the  very  depths  of  the  American 
heart.  It  has  been  my  privilege,  within  the 
last  two  years,  to  hold  it  up  to  the  reverent 
contemplation  of  my  countrymen,  from  the 
banks  of  the  Penobscot  to  the  banks  of  the 
Savannah,  from  New  York  to  St.  Louis, 
from  Chesapeake  Bay  to  Lake  Michigan  ; 
and  the  same  sentiments,  expressed  in  the 
same  words,  have  everywhere  touched  a 
sympathetic  chord  in  the  American  heart. 

To  that  central  attraction  I  have  been  de- 
lighted to  find  that  the  thoughts,  the  affec- 
tions, the  memories  of  the  people,  in  what- 
ever part  of  the  country,  from  the  ocean  to 
the  prairies  of  the  West,  from  the  land  of 
granite  and  ice  to  the  land  of  the  palmetto  and 
the  magnolia,  instinctively  turn.  They  have 
their  sectional  loves  and  hatreds,  but  before 
the  dear  name  of  Washington  they  are  all 
absorbed  and  forgotten.  In  whatever  region 
of  the  country,  the  heart  of  patriotism 
warms  to  him  ;  as  in  the  starry  heavens, 
•with  the  circling  of  the  seasons,  the  point- 
ers go  round  the  sphere,  but  their  direction 
is  ever  toward  the  pole.  They  may  point 
from  the  east,  they  may  point  from  the 
west,  but  they  will  point  to  the  northern 
star.  It  is  not  the  brightest  luminary  in 
the  heavens,  as  men  account  brightness,  but 
it  is  always  in  its  place.  The  meteor,  kin- 
dled into  momentary  blaze  from  the  rank 
vapors  of  the  lower  sky,  is  brighter.  The 
comet  is  brighter  that  streams  across  the 
firmament, 

"  And  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war." 

But  the  meteor  explodes;  the  comet  rushes 
back  to  the  depths  of  the  heavens ;  while 
the  load-star  shines  steady  at  the  pole,  alike 
in  summer  and  in  winter,  in  seed-time  and 
in  harvest,  at  the  equinox  and  the  solstice.  It 
shone  for  Colurnbusat  the  discovery  of  Amer- 
ica; it  shone  for  the  pioneers  of  settlement, 
the  pilgrims  of  faith  and  hope,  at  Jamestown 
and  Plymouth ;  it  will  shine  for  the  mari- 
ner who  shall  enter  your  harbor  to-night; 
it  will  shine  for  the  navies  which  shall  bear 
the  sleeping  thunders  of  your  power,  while 
the  flag  of  the  Union  shall  brave  the  battle 
and  the  breeze.  So,  too,  the  character,  the 
counsels,  the  example  of  our  Washington, 
of  which  you  bid  me  speak :  they  guided 
our  fathers  through  the  storms  of  the  Revo- 
lution ;  they  will  guide  us  through  the 
doubts  and  difficulties  that  beset  us;  they 
will  guide  our  children  and  our  children's 
children  in  the  paths  of  prosperity  and 


peace,  while  America  shall  hold  her  place 

in  the  family  of  nations. 

Speech  at  the  Public  Dinner  in  Faneuil 
Hall,  on  Monday,  the  5th  of  July,  1858, 
his  Honor  F.  W.  Lincoln,  Jr.,  in  the 
Chair. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE, 

"  The  Censor  of  the  age,"  born  at  Eccle- 
fechan,  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  1795,  en- 
tered the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  1800, 
and  studied  there  for  seven  or  eight  years. 
distinguishing  himself  by  proficiency  in 
mathematics,  of  which  he  became  a  teacher 
after  relinquishing  his  intention  of  studying 
for  the  Scottish  ministry.  For  first  and  sub- 
sequent editions  of  his  works,  and  criticisms 
thereon,  see  Imperial  Dictionary  of  Uni- 
versal Biography,  Glasgow,  i.  904  (by  John 
Nichol,  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford),  Thomas'* 
Universal  Pronouncing  Dictionary  of  Biog- 
raphy and  Mythology,  Phila.,  i.,  1870,  521, 
and  Allibone's  Critical  Dictionary  of  Eng- 
lish Literature,  Phila.,  i.  342.  Editions  of 
Carlyle's  Works,  Chapman  &  Hall,  London  : 
Library  Edition,  Complete,  34 vols.  demy  8vo : 
vol.  i..  Sartor  Resartus  (1834);  ii.,  iii.,  iv., 
The  French  Revolution  :  A  History  (1837,  3 
vols.  cr.  8vo)  ;  v.,  Life  of  Frederick  Schiller 
and  Examination  of  his  Works  (1825),  with 
Supplement  of  1872;  vi.,  vii.,  viii.,  ix.,  x., 
xi.,  Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays  (3d 
edit.,  1847,  and  4th  edit.,  1857,  each  in  4 
vols.  p.  8vo)  ;  xii.,  On  Heroes,  Hero  Worship, 
and  the  Heroic  in  History  (1841,  12mo,  4th 
edit.,  1852,  12mo)  ;  xiii.,  Past  and  Present 
(1843,  p.  8vo) :  xiv.,  xv.,  xvi.,  xvii.,  xviii., 
Oliver  Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches 
(3d  edit.,  1857,  3  vols.  p.  8vo) ;  xix.,  Latter- 
Day  Pamphlets  (Nos.  1,2,  3,4,  1850,  post 
8vo) ;  xx.,  Life  of  John  Sterling  (1851,  p. 
8vo)  ;  xxi.,  xxii.,  xxiii.,  xxiv.,  xxv.,  xxvi., 
xxvii.,  xxviii.,  xxix.,  xxx.,  History  of  Fred- 
erick the  Second  (1858-64,  4  vols.  8vo) ; 
xxxi.,  xxxii.,  xxxiii.,  Translations  from  the 
German  ;  xxxiv.,  General  Index.  To  which 
add  Carlyle's  new  work,  Early  Kings  of  Nor- 
way, also  an  Essay  on  the  Portraits  of  John 
Knox,  cr.  8vo. 

Cheap  and  Uniform  Edition,  23  vols.  cr. 
8vo :  vols.  i.,  ii.,  The  French  Revolution  : 
A  History;  iii.,  iv.,  v.,  Oliver  Cromwell's 
Letters  and  Speeches,  with  Elucidations,  etc. ; 
vi.,  Lives  of  Schiller  and  John  Sterling; 
vii.,  viii.,  ix.,  x.,  Critical  and  Miscellaneous 
Essays ;  xi.,  Sartor  Resartus  and  Lectures 
on  Heroes :  xii.,  Latter-Day  Pamphlets; 
xiii.,  Chartism,  and  Past  and  Present;  xiv., 
Translations  from  the  German  of  Musaeus, 
Tieck,  and  Richter:  xv.,  xvi.,  Wilhelm 
Meister,  by  Go'the, — a  Translation ;  xvii., 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


415 


xviii.,  xix,,  xx.,  xxi.,  xxii.,  xxiii.,  History 
of  Frederick  the  Second.  Add :  Early  Kings 
of  Norway,  etc.,  1  vol.  People's  Edition,  37 
vols.,  sin.  cr.  8vo  :  vol.  i.,  Sartor  Resartus  ; 
ii.,  iii.,  iv.,  French  Revolution  ;  v.,  Life  of 
John  Sterling;  vi.,  vii.,  viii.,  ix.,  x.,  Oliver 
Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches  :  xi.,  On 
Heroes  and  Hero  Worship  ;  xii.,  Past  and 
Present ;  xiii.,  xiv.,  xv.,  xvi.,  xvii.,  xviii., 
xix.,  Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays  ;  xx., 
Latter- Day  Pamphlets;  xxi.,  Life  of  Schiller; 
xxii.,  xxiii.,  xxiv.,  xxv.,  xxvi.,  xxvii.,  xxviii., 
xxix.,  xxx.,  xxxi.,  History  of  Frederick  the 
Second  ;  xxxii.,  xxxiii.,  xxxiv.,  Wilhelm 
Meister  ;  xxxv.,  xxxvi.,  Translations  from 
Musaeus,  Tieck,  and  Richter;  xxxvii.,  Gen- 
eral Index.  Add  :  Early  Kings  of  Norway, 
etc.,  1  vol.,  and  Passages  Selected  from  the 
Writings  of  Thomas  Carlyle,  by  Thomas 
Ballantyne,  Lond.,  1855,  p.  8vo  ;  Carlyle: 
His  Life,  His  Books,  His  Theories,  by  A. 
II.  Guernsey,  New  York,  1879.  See  also 
Selection  from  the  Correspondence  of  the 
late  Macvey  Napier,  Esq.,  Lond.  1879,  Svo. 

"Carlyle  as  a  historian  is  notably  exact.  What 
he  himself  calls  a  transcendent  capacity  of  taking 
trouble,  and  a  genius  for  accuracy,  preserves  him 
from  being  carried  away  from  the  strict  confines 
of  fact,  lie  has  a  keen  eye  for  nature,  and  the 
reliance  we  come  to  have  on  their  fidelity  adds  a 
new  charm  to  his  pictures.  His  descriptions  of 
places  and  event?,  even  the  most  trivial,  have  a 
freshness  which  one  hardly  finds  anywhere  else 
out  of  Homer.  .  .  .  Much  of  the  power  of  this 
writing  is  connected  with  the  peculiar  fascination 
of  the  author's  later  style.  Questionable  as  a 
model  for  others,  his  own  manner  suits  him,  for  it 
is  emphatically  part  of  his  matter.  His  abruptness 
corresponds  with  the  abruptness  of  his  thought, 
which  proceeds  often  by  a  series  of  electric  shocks, 
as  if — to  borrow  a  simile  from  a  criticism  on  St. 
Paul — it  were  breaking  its  bounds  and  breaking 
the  sentence.  It  has  a  rugged  energy  which  sug- 
gests a  want  of  fluency  in  the  writer,  and  gives 
the  impression  of  his  being  compelled  to  write. 
He  is  at  all  hazards  determined  to  convey  his 
meaning :  willing  to  borrow  expressions  from  all 
lines  of  life  and  all  languages,  and  even  to  invent 
new  sounds  and  coin  new  words,  for  the  expression 
of  a  new  thought.  He  cares  as  little  for  rounded 
phrases  as  for  logical  arguments,  and  rather  con- 
vinces and  persuades  by  calling  up  a  succession  of 
feelings  tlinn  a  train  of  reasoning." — JoHxNiCHOL, 
of  Balliol  College,  Oxford  :  Imperial  Diet,  of  Univ. 
Bioy.,  i.  906. 

WORK. 

There  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and  even 
sacredness,  in  work.  Were  he  never  so  be- 
nighted, forgetful  of  his  high  calling,  there 
is  always  hope  in  a  man  that  actually  and 
earnestly  works ;  in  idleness  alone  is  there 
perpetual  despair.  Work,  never  so  Mam- 
monish, mean,  is  in  communication  with 
Nature ;  the  real  desire  to  get  work  done 


will  itself  lead  one  more  and  more  to  truth, 
to  Nature's  appointments  and  regulations, 
which  are  truth. 

The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is,  Know 
thy  work  and  do  it.  "Know  thyself!"  long 
enough  has  that  poor  "self"  of  thine  tor- 
mented thee :  thou  wilt  never  get  to  know 
it,  I  believe !  Think  it  not  thy  business, 
this  of  knowing  thyself;  thou  art  an  un- 
knowable individual ;  know  what  thou  canst 
work  at,  and  work  at  it  like  a  Hercules! 
That  will  be  thy  better  plan. 

It  has  been  written  "an  endless  signifi- 
cance lies  in  work  ;"  as  man  perfects  himself 
by  writing,  foul  jungles  are  cleared  away, 
fair  seed-fields  rise  instead,  and  stately  cities  ; 
and  withal  the  man  himself  first  ceases  to 
be  a  jungle  and  foul  unwholesome  desert 
thereby.  Consider  how,  even  in  the  meanest 
sorts  of  Labour,  the  whole  soul  of  a  man  is 
composed  into  a  kind  of  real  harmony,  the 
instant  he  sets  himself  to  work!  Doubt, 
Desire,  Sorrow,  Remorse,  Indignation,  De- 
spair itself,  all  these  like  hell-dogs  lie  be- 
leaguering the  soul  of  the  poor  day-worker, 
as  of  every  man  ;  but  as  he  bends  himself 
with  free  valour  against  his  task,  all  these 
are  stilled,  all  these  shrink  murmuring  afar 
oft'  into  their  caves.  The  man  is  now  a  man. 
The  blessed  glow  of  Labour  in  him,  is  it  not 
a  purifying  fire,  wherein  all  poison  is  burnt 
up,  and  of  sour  smoke  itself  there  is  made 
bright  blessed  fame? 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other  way 
of  cultivating  us.  A  formless  Chaos,  once 
set  it  revolving,  grows  round  and  ever 
rounder ;  ranges  itself  by  mere  force  of 
gravity,  into  strata,  spherical  courses;  is  no 
longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  round  compacted 
World.  What  would  become  of  the  Earth, 
did  she  cease  to  revolve?  In  the  poor  old 
Earth,  so  long  as  she  revolves,  all  inequali- 
ties, irregularities,  disperse  themselves;  all 
irregularities  are  incessantly  becoming  reg- 
ular. Hast  thou  looked  on  the  Potter's 
wheel,  one  of  the  venerablest  objects  ;  old 
as  the  prophet  Exekiel,  and  far  older  ?  Rude 
lumps  of  clay;  how  they  spin  themselves 
up,  by  mere  quick  whirling,  into  beautiful 
circular  dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  as- 
siduous  Potter,  hut  without  his  wheel,  re- 
duced to  make  dishes,  or  other  amorphous 
botches,  by  mere  kneading  and  baking! 
Even  such  a  Potter  were  Destiny,  with  a 
human  soul  that  would  rest  and  lie  at  ease, 
that  would  not  work  and  spin  !  Of  an  idle 
unrevolving  man,  the  kindest  Destiny,  like 
the  most  assiduous  Potter  without  wheel, 
can  bake  and  knead  nothing  other  than  a 
botch  ;  let  her  spend  on  him  what  expensive 
colouring,  what  gilding  and  enamelling  she 
will,  he  is  but  a  botch.  Not  a  dish  ;  no, 
a  bulging,  kneaded,  crooked,  shambling, 


416 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


squint-cornered,  amorphous  botch,  a  mere 
enamelled  vessel  of  dishonour  ! 

Let  the  idle  think  of  this. 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work  :  let 
him  ask  no  other  blessedness,  lie  has  u 
work,  a  life-purpose:  he  has  found  it,  and 
will  follow  it !  How,  as  the  free  flowing 
channel,  dug  and  torn  by  noble  force 
through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of  one's  ex- 
istence, like  an  ever-deepening  river  there, 
it  runs  and  flows ;  draining  off  the  sour  fes- 
tering water  gradually  from  the  root  of  the 
remotest  grass  blade ;  making,  instead  of 
pestilential  swamp,  a  green  fruitful  meadow 
with  its  clear  flowing  stream.  How  blessed 
for  the  meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its 
value  be  great  or  small!  Labour  is  life: 
from  the  inmost  heart  of  the  Worker  rises 
his  God-given  force,  the  sacred  celestial  life- 
essence,  breathed  into  him  by  Almighty 
God;  from  his  inmost  heart  awakens  him  to 
all  nobleness,  to  all  knowledge,  ''  self-knowl- 
edge" and  much  else,  so  soon  as  Work  fitly 
begins.  Knowledge !  the  knowledge  that 
will  hold  good  in  working,  cleave  thou  to 
that;  for  Nature  herself  accredits  that,  says 
Yea  to  that.  Properly  thou  hast  no  other 
knowledge  but  what  thou  hast  got  by  work- 
ing; the  rest  is  yet  all  an  hypothesis  of 
knowledge:  a  thing  to  be  argued  of  in 
schools,  a  thing  floating  in  the  clouds,  in 
endless  logic  vortices,  till  we  try  it  and  fix 
it.  "  Doubt,  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended 
by  Action  alone." 

And,  again,  hast  thou  valued  Patience, 
Courage,  Perseverance,  Openness  to  light; 
readiness  to  own  thyself  mistaken,  to  do 
better  next  time?  All  these,  all  virtues,  in 
wrestling  with  the  dim  brute  Powers  of 
fiict,  in  ordering  of  thy  fellows  in  such 
wrestle,  there,  and  elsewhere  not  at  all, 
thou  wilt  continually  learn.  Set  down  a 
brave  Sir  Christopher  in  the  middle  of  black 
ruined  stone  heaps,  of  foolish  unarchitectu- 
ral  Bishops,  red-tape  Officials,  idle  Nell 
Cwyn  Defenders  of  the  Faith;  and  see 
whether  he  will  ever  raise  a  Paul's  Cathe- 
dral out  of  all  that,  yea  or  no!  Rough, 
rude,  contradictory  are  all  things  and  per- 
sons, from  the  mutinous  masons  and  Irish 
hodmen,  up  to  the  idle  Nell  Gwyn  Defend- 
ers, to  blustering  red-tape  Officials,  foolish 
unarchitectural  Bishops.  All  these  things 
and  persons  are  there,  not  for  Christopher's 
sake  and  his  cathedrals  ;  they  are  there  for 
their  own  sake  mainly  !  Christopher  will 
have  to  conquer  arid  constrain  all  these,  if 
he  be  able.  All  these  are  against  him. 
Equitable  Nature  herself,  who  carries  her 
mathematics  and  architectonics  not  on  the 
face  of  her,  but  deep  in  the  hidden  heart  of 
her, — Nature  herself  is  but  part'ally  for 
him  ;  will  be  wholly  against  him,  if  he  con- 


strain her  not !  His  very  money,  where  is 
it  to  come  from  ?  The  pious  munificence  of 
England  lies  far  scattered,  distant,  unable  to 
speak,  and  say,  '•  I  am  here ;"  must  be 
spoken  to  before  it  can  speak.  Pious  mu- 
nificence, and  all  help,  is  so  silent,  invisible 
like  the  gods;  impediment,  contradictions 
manifold  are  so  loud  and  near!  O  brave 
Sir  Christopher,  trust  thou  in  those,  not- 
withstanding, and  front  all  these  ;  under- 
stand all  these;  by  valiant  patience,  noble 
effort,  insight,  vanquish  and  compel  all 
these,  and,  on  the  whole,  strike  down  vic- 
toriously the  last  topstone  of  that  Paul's 
edifice  :  thy  monument  for  certain  centuries, 
the  stamp  ''  Great  Man"  impressed  very 
legibly  in  Portland  stone  there  ! 

Yes,  all  manner  of  work,  and  pious  re- 
sponse from  Men  or  Nature,  is  always  what 
we  call  silent ;  cannot  speak  or  come  to  light 
till  it  be  seen,  till  it  be  spoken  to.  Every 
noble  work  is  at  first  "  impossible."  In  very 
truth,  for  every  noble  work  the  possibilities 
will  lie  diffused  through  immensity,  inartic- 
ulate, undiscoverable  except  to  faith.  Like 
Gideon,  thou  shalt  spread  out  thy  fleece  at 
the  door  of  thy  tent;  see  whether,  under 
the  wide  arch  of  Heaven,  there  be  any  boun- 
teous moisture  or  none.  Thy  heart  and  life- 
purpose  shall  be  as  a  miraculous  Gideon's 
fleece,  spread  out  in  silent  appeal  to  Heaven  ; 
and  from  the  kind  Immensities,  what  from  the 
poor  unkind  Localities  and  town  and  country 
Parishes  there  never  could,  blessed  dew- 
moisture  to  suffice  thee  shall  have  fallen  ! 

Work  is  of  a  religious  nature:  work  is 
of  a  brave  nature ;  which  it  is  the  aim  of 
all  religion  to  be.  "  All  work  of  man  is  as 
the  swimmer's:"  a  waste  ocean  threatens  to 
devour  him  ;  if  he  front  it  not  bravely,  it 
will  keep  its  word.  By  incessant  wise  de- 
fiance of  it,  lusty  rebuke  and  buffet  of  it, 
behold  how  it  loyally  supports  him,  bears 
him  as  its  conqueror  along.  "  It  is  so,"  saya 
Goethe,  "with  all  things  that  man  under- 
takes in  this  world." 

Brave  Sea-captain,  Norse  Sea-king, — Co- 
lumbus, my  hero,  royalist  Sea-king  of  all ! 
it  is  no  friendly  environment  this  of  thine,  in 
the  waste  deep  waters ;  around  thee  muti- 
nous discouraged  souls,  behind  thee  disgrace 
and  ruin,  before  thee  the  impenetrated  veil 
of  night.  Brother,  these  wild  water-moun- 
tains, bounding  from  their  deep  bases  (ten 
miles  deep,  I  am  told)  are  not  entirely  there 
on  thy  behalf!  Meseems  they  have  other 
work  than  floating  thee  forward  : — and 
the  huge  Winds  that  sweep  from  Ursa  Ma- 
jor to  the  Tropics  and  Equators,  dancing 
their  giant  waltz  through  the  kingdoms  of 
Chaos  and  Immensity,  they  care  little  about 
filling  rightly  or  filling  wrongly  the  small 
shoulder-of-mutton  sails  in  this  cockle  skiff 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


41? 


of  thine !  Thou  art  not  among  articulate 
speaking  friends,  my  brother ;  thou  art 
among  immeasurable  dumb  monsters,  tum- 
bling, howling  wide  as  the  world  here. 
Secret,  far  off,  invisible,  invisible  to  all 
hearts  but  thine,  there  lies  a  help  in  them  : 
see  how  thou  wilt  get  at  that.  Patiently 
thou  wilt  wait  till  the  mad  south-wester 
spend  itself,  saving  thyself  by  dexterous 
science  of  defence  the  while;  valiantly,  with 
swift  decision,  wilt  thou  strike  in,  when  the 
favouring  East,  the  Possible,  springs  up. 
Mutiny  of  men  thou  wilt  sternly  repress  ; 
weakness,  despondency,  thou  wilt  cheerily 
encourage ;  thou  wilt  swallow  down  com- 
plaint, unreason,  weariness,  weakness  of 
thyself  and  others  ; — how  much  wilt  thou 
swallow  down  !  There  shall  be  a  depth  of 
Silence  in  thee,  deeper  than  this  Sea,  which 
is  but  ten  miles  deep  ;  a  Silence  unsound- 
able ;  known  to  God  only.  Thou  shalt  be 
a  great  Man.  Yes,  my  World-Soldier,  thou 
of  the  world  Marine-Service, — thou  wilt  have 
to  be  greater  than  this  tumultuous  unmeas- 
ured World  here  round  thee  is :  thou,  in  thy 
strong  soul,  as  with  wrestler's  arms,  shalt 
embrace  it,  harness  it  down  ;  and  make  it 
bear  thee  on — to  new  Americas,  or  whither 
God  wills !  .  .  . 

Religion,  I  said  ;  for,  properly  speaking, 
all  true  Work  is  Religion  ;  and  whatsoever 
Religion  is  not  Work  may  go  and  dwell 
among  the  Brahmins,  Antinomians,  Spin- 
ning Dervishes,  or  where  it  will ;  with  me 
it  shall  have  no  harbour.  Admirable  was 
that  of  the  old  Monks,  "Laborare  est  Orare, 
Work  is  Worship." 

Older  than  all  preached  Gospels  was  this 
unpreached,  inarticulate,  but  ineradicable, 
for  ever-enduring  Gospel :  Work,  and  therein 
have  well-being.  Man,  Son  of  Earth  and  of 
Heaven,  lies  there  not,  in  the  innermost 
heart  of  thee,  a  Spirit  of  active  Method,  a 
Force  for  Work  ; — and  burns  like  a  painfully 
smouldering  fire,  giving  thee  no  rest  till  thou 
unfold  it,  till  thou  write  it  down  in  beneficent 
Facts  around  thee !  What  is  immethodic, 
waste,  thou  shalt  make  methodic,  regulated, 
arable;  obedient  and  productive  to  thee. 
Wheresoever  thou  findest  Disorder,  there  is 
thy  eternal  enemy:  attack  him  swiftly,  sub- 
due him  ;  make  Order  of  him,  the  subject,  not 
of  Chaos,  but  of  Intelligence,  Divinity,  and 
Thee !  The  thistle  that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig 
it  out  that  a  blade  of  useful  grass,  a  drop  of 
nourishing  milk,  may  grow  there  instead. 
The  waste  cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste 
white  down,  spin  it,  weave  it;  that  in  place 
of  idle  litter,  there  may  be  folded  webs,  and 
the  nuked  skin  of  man  be  covered. 

But  above  all,  where  thou  findest  Igno- 
rance, Stupidity,  Brute-mindedncss — attack 
it,  I  say  ;  smite  it  wisely,  unweariedly,  and 

—  / 


rest  not  while  thou  livest  and  it  lives  ;  but 
smite,  smite  in  the  name  of  God!  The 
Highest  God,  as  I  understand  it,  does  audi- 
bly so  command  thee:  still  audibly,  if  thou 
have  ears  to  hear.  He,  even  He,  with  His 
unspoken  voice,  fuller  than  any  Sinai  thun- 
ders, or  syllabled  speech  of  Whirlwinds  ; 
for  the  SILENCE  of  deep  Eternities,  of  Worlds 
from  beyond  the  morning-stars,  does  it  not 
speak  to  thee?  The  unborn  Ages;  the  old 
Graves,  with  their  long-mouldering  dust,  the 
very  tears  that  wetted  it,  now  all  dry — do 
not  these  speak  to  thee  what  ear  hath  not 
heard?  The  deep  Death-kingdoms,  the  stars 
in  their  never-resting  courses,  all  Space  and  all 
Time,  proclaim  it  to  thee  in  continual  silent 
admonition.  Thou,  too,  if  ever  man  should, 
shalt  work  while  it  is  called  To-day.  For  the 
Night  cometh  wherein  no  man  can  work. 

All  true  Work  is  sacred  ;  in  all  true  Work, 
were  it  but  true  hand-labour,  there  is  some- 
thing of  divineness.  Labour,  wide  as  the 
Earth,  has  its  summit  in  Heaven.  Sweat  of 
the  brow ;  and  up  from  that  to  sweat  of  the 
brain,  sweat  of  the  heart;  which  includes 
all  Kepler  calculations,  Newrton  meditations, 
all  Sciences,  all  spoken  Epics,  all  acted  He- 
roisms, Martyrdoms — up  to  that  "  Agony  of 
bloody  sweat,"  which  all  men  have  called 
divine!  0  brother,  if  this  is  not  "worship," 
then,  I  say,  the  more  pity  for  worship  ;  for 
this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet  discovered 
under  God's  sky  !  Who  art  thou  that  corn- 
plainest  of  thy  life  of  toil?  Complain  not. 
Look  up,  my  wearied  brother ;  see  thy  fel- 
low-workmen there,  in  God's  Eteraity  ;  sur- 
viving there,  they  alone  surviving ;  sacred 
Band  of  the  Immortals,  celestial  Body  guard 
of  the  Empire  of  Mankind.  Even  in  the 
weak  Human  Memory  they  survive  so  long, 
as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods  ;  they  alone  sur- 
viving ;  peopling,  they  alone,  the  imineas- 
ured  solitudes  of  Time  !  To  thee  Heaven, 
though  severe,  is  not  unkind ;  Heaven  is 
kind — as  a  noble  Mother ;  as  that  Spartan 
Mother,  saying,  while  she  gave  her  son  his 
shield,  "With  it,  my  son,  or  upon  it!" 
Thou,  too,  shalt  return  home,  in  honour  to 
thy  far-distant  Home,  in  honour ;  doubt  it 
not — if  in  the  battle  thou  keep  thy  shield  ! 
Thou,  in  the  Eternities  and  deepest  Death- 
kingdoms,  art  not  an  alien  ;  thou  everywhere 
art  a  denizen!  Complain  not;  the  very 
Spartans  did  not  complain. 

Past  and  Present. 

TEUFELSDROCKH'S  NIGHT  VIEW  OF  THE  CITV. 

I  look  down  into  all  that  wasp-nest  or  bee- 
hive, and  witness  their  wax-laying  and 
honey-making,  and  poison-brewing,  and 
choking  by  sulphur.  From  the  Palace  es- 
planade, where  music  plays  while  Serene 


418 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


Highness  is  pleased  to  eat  his  victuals,  down 
the  low  lane,  where  in  her  door-sill  the  aged 
widow,  knitting  for  a  thin  livelihood,  sits  to 
feel  the  afternoon  sun,  I  see  it  all ;  for,  ex- 
cept the  Schlosskirche  weather-cock  no  biped 
stands  so  high.  Couriers  arrive  bestrapped 
and  bebooted,  bearing  Joy  and  Sorrow 
bagged-up  in  pouches  of  leather:  there, 
top-laden,  and  with  four  swift  horses,  rolls 
in  the  country  Baron  and  his  household  ; 
here,  on  timber-leg,  the  lamed  Soldier  hops 
painfully  along,  begging  alms :  a  thou- 
sand carriages,  and  wains,  and  cars,  come 
tumbling  in  with  Food,  with  young  Rus- 
ticity, and  other  Raw  Produce,  inanimate 
or  animate,  and  go  tumbling  out  again  with 
Produce  manufactured.  That  living  flood, 
pouring  through  these  streets,  of  all  qualities 
and  ages,  knowest  thou  whence  it  is  coming, 
whither  it  is  going?  From  Eternity  on- 
wards to  Eternity  !  These  are  apparitions : 
what  else  ?  Are  they  not  souls  rendered 
visible  :  in  bodies  that  took  shape  and  will 
lose  it,  melting  into  air?  Their  solid  Pave- 
ment is  a  Picture  of  the  Sense ;  they  walk 
on  the  bosom  of  Nothing  ;  blank  Time  is 
behind  them  and  before  them.  Or  fanciest 
thou,  the  red  and  yellow  Clothes-screen  yon- 
der, with  spurs  on  its  heels  and  feathers  in 
its  crown,  is  but  of  to-day,  without  a  yester- 
day or  a  to-morrow  -,  and  had  not  rather  its 
Ancestor  alive  when  Ilengstand  Ilorsa  over- 
ran thy  Island  ?  Friend,  thou  seest  here  a 
living  link,  in  that  Tissue  of  History,  which 
inweaves  all  Being:  watch  well,  or  it  will 
be  past  thee,  and  seen  no  more.  "  Ach,  mein 
lieber !"  said  Teufelsdrb'ckh  once,  at  mid- 
night, when  we  had  returned  from  the  coffee- 
house in  rather  earnest  talk,  "  it  is  a  true 
sublimity  to  dwell  here.  These  fringes  of 
lamplight,  struggling  up  through  smoke  and 
thousand-fold  exhalation,  some  fathoms  into 
the  ancient  region  of  Night,  what  thinks 
Bootes  of  them,  as  he  leads  his  Hunting- 
dogs  over  the  Zenith  in  their  leash  of  si- 
dereal fire  ?  That  stifled  hum  of  midnight, 
when  Traffic  has  lain  down  to  rest;  and  the 
chariot-wheels  of  Vanity,  still  rolling  here 
and  there  through  distant  streets,  are  bear- 
ing her  to  Halls  roofed  in,  and  lighted  to 
the  due  pitch  for  her;  and  only  Vice  and 
Misery,  to  prowl  or  to  moan  like  night-birds, 
are  abroad:  that  hum,  I  say,  like  the  ster- 
torous, unquiet  slumber  of  sick  life,  is  heard 
in  Heaven  !  Oh  !  under  that  hideous  cover- 
let of  vapours,  and  putrefactions,  and  unim- 
aginable gases,  what  a  Fermenting-vat  lies 
simmering  and  hid  !  The  joyful  and  the 
sorrowful  are  there  ;  men  are  dying  there, 
men  are  being  born  ;  men  are  praying, — 
on  the  other  side  of  a  brick  partition,  men 
are  cursing:  and  around  them  all  is  the 
vast,  void  Night.  The  proud  Grandee  still 


lingers  in  his  perfumed  saloons,  or  reposes 
within  damask  curtains  ;  Wretchedness 
cowers  into  truckle-beds,  or  shivers  hunger- 
stricken  into  its  lair  of  straw  ;  in  obscure 
cellars,  liouge-et-Nair  languidly  emits  its 
voice-of-destiny  to  haggard  hungry  villains; 
while  Councillors  of  State  sit  plotting  and 
playing  their  high  chess-game  whereof  the 
pawns  are  Men.  The  Lover  whispers  his 
mistress  that  the  coach  is  ready  ;  and  she, 
full  of  hope  and  fear,  glides  down,  to  fly 
with  him  over  the  borders  :  the  Thief,  still 
more  silently,  sets-to  his  pick-locks  and  crow- 
bars, or  lurks  in  wait  till  the  watchmen  first 
snore  in  their  boxes.  Gay  mansions,  with 
supper-rooms  and  dancing-rooms,  are  full 
of  light  and  music  and  high-swelling  hearts  ; 
but,  in  the  condemned  cells,  the  pulse  of  life 
beats  tremulous  and  faint,  and  bloodshot 
eyes  look  out  through  the  darkness,  which 
is  around  and  within,  for  the  light  of  a  stern 
last  morning.  Six  men  are  to  be  hanged  on 
the  morrow  :  comes  no  hammering  from  the 
Rabenstein  ! — their  gallows  must  even  now 
be  o'  building.  Upwards  of  five-hundred- 
thousand  two-legged  animals  without  feath- 
ers lie  round  us,  in  horizontal  position  ;  their 
heads  all  in  nightcaps,  and  full  of  the  fool- 
ishest  dreams.  Riot  cries  aloud,  and  stag- 
gers and  swaggers  in  his  rank  dens  of 
shame  ;  and  the  Mother,  with  streaming 
hair,  kneels  over  her  pallid  dying  infant, 
whose  cracked  lips  only  her  tears  now 
moisten.  All  these  heaped  and  huddled 
together,  with  nothing  but  a  little  carpentry 
and  masonry  between  them  :  crammed  in, 
like  salted  fish  in  their  barrels  ;  or  welter- 
ing, shall  I  say,  like  an  Egyptian  pitcher  of 
tamed  vipers,  each  struggling  to  get  its  head 
above  the  others  ;  such  work  goes  on  under 
that  snake-counterpane?  But  I  sit  above  it 
all;  I  am  alone  with  the  Stiirs  !" 
Sartor  llesartus,  Chap.  Hi. 

THE  ATTACK  UPON  THE  BASTILLE. 

All  morning,  since  nine,  there  has  been  a 
cry  everywhere,  "  To  the  Bastille  !"  Re- 
peated "deputations  of  citizens"  have  been 
here,  passionate  for  arms ;  whom  De  Lau- 
nay  has  got  dismissed  by  soft  speeches 
through  port-holes.  Towards  noon  Elector 
Thuriot  de  la  Rosiere  gains  admittance ; 
finds  De  Launay  indisposed  for  surrender ; 
nay,  disposed  for  blowing  up  the  place 
rather.  Thuriot  mounts  with  him  to  the 
battlements:  heaps  of  paving  stones,  old 
iron,  and  missiles  lie  piled  :  cannon  all  duly 
levelled  ;  in  every  embrasure  a  cannon — only 
drawn  back  a  little !  But  outwards,  behold, 
0  Thuriot,  how  the  multitude  flows  on, 
welling  through  every  street;  tocsin  fu- 
riously pealing;  all  drums  beating  the 


THOMAS  ARNOLD. 


419 


rale:  the  suburb  Sainte-Antoine  rolling 
hitherward  wholly  as  one  man  !  Such  vision 
(spectral,  yet  real)  thou,  0  Thuriot !  as  from 
thy  Mount  of  Vision,  beholdest  in  this  mo- 
ment: prophetic  of  other  phantasmagories, 
and  loud-gibbering  spectral  realities  which 
thou  yet  beholdest  not,  but  shalt.  "  Que 
voulez-vous?"  said  De  Launay,  turning  pale 
at  the  sight,  with  an  air  of  reproach,  almost 
of  menace.  "  Monsieur,"  said  Thuriot,  rising 
into  the  moral  sublime,  "  what  mean  you? 
Consider  if  I  could  not  precipitate  both  of 
us  from  this  height/' — say  only  a  hundred 
feet,  exclusive  of  the  walled  ditch  !  Where- 
upon De  Launay  fell  silent. 

Wo  to  thee,  De  Launay,  in  such  an  hour, 
if  thou  canst  not,  taking  some  one  firm  de- 
cision, rule  circumstances  !  Soft  speeches 
will  not  serve  ;  hard  grape-shot  is  question- 
able ;  but  hovering  between  the  two  is  nn- 
questionable.  Ever  wilder  swells  the  tide  of 
men  ;  their  infinite  hum  waxing  ever  louder 
into  imprecations,  perhaps  into  crackle  of 
stray  musketry,  which  latter,  on  walls  nine 
feet  thick,  cannot  do  execution.  The  outer 
drawbridge  has  been  lowered  for  Thuriot; 
new  deputation  of  citizens  (it  is  the  third 
and  noisiest  of  all)  penetrates  that  way  into 
the  outer  court :  soft  speeches  producing  no 
clearance  of  these,  De  Launay  gives  fire ; 
pulls  up  his  drawbridge.  A  slight  sputter; 
which  has  kindled  the  too  combustible 
chaos  ;  made  it  a  roaring  fire  chaos  !  Bursts 
firth  insurrection,  at  sight  of  its  own  blood 
(for  there  were  deaths  by  that  sputter  of  fire), 
into  endless  rolling  explosion  of  musketry, 
distraction,  execration;  and  overhead  from 
the  fortress,  let  one  great  gun,  with  its  grape- 
shot  go  booming,  to  show  what  we  could  do. 
The  Bastille  is  besieged  ! 

On,  then,  all  Frenchmen  that  have  hearts 
in  their  bodies  !  Hoar  with  all  your  throats 
of  cartilage  and  metal,  ye  sons  of  liberty  : 
stir  spasmodically  whatsoever  of  utmost 
faculty  is  in  you,  soul,  body,  or  spirit;  for 
it  is  the  hour  !  Smite  thou  Louis  Tournay, 
cartwright  of  the  Marais,  old  soldier  of  the 
Regiment  Dauphine;  smite  at  that  outer 
drawbridge  chain,  though  the  fiery  hail 
whistles  round  thee !  Never,  over  nave 
or  felloe  did  thy  axe  strike  such  a  stroke. 
Down  with  it,  man  ;  down  Avith  it  toOrcus: 
let  the  whole  accursed  edifice  sink  thither, 
and  tyranny  be  swallowed  up  for  ever ! 
Mounted,  some  say,  on  the  roof  of  the  guard- 
room, some  on  bayonets  stuck  into  joints  of 
the  wall.  Louis  Tournay  smites,  brave  Aubin 
Bonnemere  (also  an  old  soldier)  seconding 
him  ;  the  chain  yields,  breaks  ;  the  huge 
drawbridge  slams  down,  thundering  (avec 
fracas).  Glorious!  .and  yet,  alas !  it  is  still 
but  the  outworks.  The  eight  grim  towers 
with  their  Invalides'  musketry,  their  paving- 


stones  and  cannon-mouths,  still   soar  aloft 
intact;    ditch    yawning    impassable,   stone- 
faced;  the  inner  drawbridge  with  its  back 
towards  us:  the  Bastille  is  still  to  take! 
The  French  devolution :  A  History. 

Ox  THE  CHOICE  OF  BOOKS. 

I  can  truly  say  the  labour  you  have  gone 
into  (which  appears  to  be  faithfully  done, 
wherever  I  can  judge  of  it),  fills  me  witli 
astonishment;  and  is  indeed  of  an  amount 
almost  frightful  to  think  of.  There  seems 
to  be  no  doubt  the  Book  will  be  welcome  to 
innumerable  reading  beings,  and  tell  them 
much  that  they  wish  to  know :  to  me  the 
one  fault  was,  that,  like  the  Apostle  Peter's 
sheet  of  Beasts,  it  [the  Critical  Dictionary 
of  English  Literature]  took  in  "  the  clean 
and  unclean," — and  thereby  became  of  such 
unmanageable  bulk,  to  say  no  more.  Readers 
are  not  yet  aware  of  the  fact,  but  a  fact  it  is 
of  daily  increasing  magnitude,  and  already 
of  terrible  importance  to  readers,  that  their 
first  grand  necessity  in  reading  is  to  be  vigi- 
lantly conscientiously  select;  and  to  know 
everywhere  that  Books,  like  human  souls, 
are  actually  divided  into  what  we  may  call 
"  sheep  and  goats," — the  latter  put  inexor- 
ably on  the  left  hand  of  the  Judge  ;  and 
tending,  every  goat  of  them,  at  all  moments 
whither  we  know;  and  much  to  be  avoided, 
and  if  possible,  ignored,  by  all  sane  creatures ! 
Carli/le  to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  Aberdour, 

Fife  (for  Chelsea,  London),  18th  July, 

1859.  " 


THOMAS  ARNOLD,  D.D., 

born  at  Cowes,  Isle  of  Wight,  1795,  entered 
Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford,  1811,  and 
took  a  First  Class  in  Classics,  1814;  in  1815 
was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel  College,  where 
he  gained  the  Chancellor's  Prizes  for  the  two 
University  Essays,  Latin  and  English,  for 
1815  and  1817,  received  private  pupils  at 
Laleham,  1819-1828,  Head  Master  of  Rugby 
School  from  1827,  and  Regius  Professor  of 
Modern  History  at  Oxford  from  1841  until 
his  sudden  death,  June  12,  1842.  The  His- 
tory of  the  Peloponnesian  War,  by  Thucy- 
dides,  in  Greek,  the  text  according  to  Bekker, 
with  some  Alterations,  with  English  Notes, 
chiefly  Historical  and  Geographical,  Oxford, 
1830-32-35,  3  vols.  8vo;  History  of  Rome, 
Lond.,  1838-40-42,  3  vols.  derny  Svo ;  His- 
tory of  the  Later  Roman  Commonwealth, 
Lond.,  2  vols.  demy  Svo  ;  Introductory  Lec- 
tures on  Modern  History,  Lond.,  1842,  8vo ; 
Sermons,  6  vols.  8vo,  and  1  vol.  fp.  Svo ; 
Miscellaneous  Works,  Lond.,  Svo. 

"  His  sermons  are  remarkable  as  being,  by  their 
simple  and  natural  language,  one  of  the  first  prac- 


420 


THOMAS  ARNOLD. 


tical  protests  raised  in  the  nineteenth  century 
against  the  technical  and  unreal  phraseology  gen- 
erally used  in  English  preaching,  and  as  uniting  a 
high  religious  standard,  a  strong  imagination,  and 
a  living  spirit  of  devotion,  with  unaffected  good 
sense,  and  moral  energy  and  sincerity." — ARTHUR 
P.  STANLEY,  D.D.  See  Stanley's  Life  and  Corre- 
spondence of  Thomas  Arnold,  U.I).,  Lond.,  1844,  2 
vols.  8vo,  8th  edit.,  1858,  2  vols.  cr.  8vo,  and  Life 
of  Arnold  by  E.  J.  Worboise,  Lond.,  1852,  sin.  Svo  ; 
Tom  liroicn's  School- Days  at  lint/In/,  Lond.,  1857, 
12m<>:  (London)  Quar.  Jiev.,  74:  507 ;  Edin.  liev., 
.Ian.  1S43. 

EDUCATION  OF  THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES. 

Every  man,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
has  two  businesses;  the  one  his. own  partic- 
ular profession  or  calling,  be  it  what  it  will, 
whether  that  of  soldier,  seaman,  farmer,  law- 
yer, mechanic,  labourer,  etc., — the  other  his 
general  calling,  which  he  has  in  common 
with  all  his  neighbours,  namely,  the  calling 
of  a  citizen  and  a  man.  The  education 
which  fits  him  for  the  first  of  these  two  busi- 
nesses, is  called  professional  ;  that  which  fits 
him  for  the  second,  is  called  liberal.  But 
because  every  man  must  do  this  second  busi- 
ness, whether  he  does  it  well  or  ill,  so  people 
are  accustomed  to  think  that  it  is  learnt 
more  easily.  A  man  who  lias  learnt  it  in- 
differently seems,  notwithstanding,  to  get 
through  life  with  tolerable  comfort;  he  may 
be  thought  not  to  be  very  wise  or  very  agree- 
able, yet  he  manages  to  get  married,  and  to 
bring  up  a  family,  and  to  mix  in  society  with 
his  friends  and  neighbours.  Whereas  a  man 
who  has  learnt  his  other  business  indiffer- 
ently, I  mean,  his  particular  trade  or  calling, 
is  in  some  danger  of  starving  outright. 
People  will  not  employ  an  indifferent  work- 
man when  good  ones  are  to  be  had  in  plenty  ; 
and,  therefore,  if  he  has  learnt  his  particular 
business  badly,  it  is  likely  that  he  will  not 
be  able  to  practise  it  at  all. 

Thus  it  is  that  while  ignorance  of  a  man's 
special  business  is  instantly  detected,  igno- 
rance of  his  great  business  as  a  man  and  a 
citizen  is  scarcely  noticed,  because  there  are 
so  many  who  share  it.  Thus  we  see  every 
one  ready  to  give  an  opinion  about  politics, 
or  about  religion,  or  about  morals,  because 
it  is  said  these  are  every  man's  business. 
And  so  they  are,  and  if  people  would  learn 
them  as  they  do  their  own  particular  busi- 
ness, all  would  do  well :  but  never  was  the 
proverb  better  fulfilled  which  says  that 
every  man's  business  is  no  man's.  It  is 
worse,  indeed,  than  if  it  were  no  man's;  for 
now  it  is  every  man's  business  to  meddle  in, 
but  no  man's  to  learn.  And  this  general  ig- 
norance does  not  make  itself  felt  directly, — 
if  it  did,  it  were  more  likely  to  be  remedied  : 
but  the  process  is  long  and  roundabout ;  false 
notions  are  entertained  and  acted  upon ; 


prejudices  and  passions  multiply ;  abuses 
become  manifold;  difficulty  and  distress  at 
last  press  on  the  whole  community  ;  whilst 
the  same  ignorance  which  produced  the  mis- 
chief now  helps  to  confirm  it  or  to  aggravate 
it,  because  it  hinders  them  from  seeing 
where  the  root  of  the  whole  evil  lay,  and 
sets  them  upon  some  vain  attempt  to  correct 
the  consequences,  while  they  never  think  of 
curing,  because  they  do  not  suspect  the  cause. 

I  believe  it  is  generally  the  case,  at  least 
in  the  agricultural  districts,  that  a  boy  is 
taken  away  from  school  at  fourteen,  lie  is 
taken  away,  less  than  half  educated,  because 
his  friends  want  him  to  enter  upon  his  busi- 
ness in  life  without  any  longer  delay.  That 
is,  the  interests  of  his  great  business  as  n 
man  are  sacrificed  to  the  interest  of  his  par- 
ticular business  as  a  farmer  or  a  tradesman. 
And  yet  very  likely  the  man  who  cares  so 
little  about  political  knowledge,  is  very  earn- 
est about  political  power,  and  thinks  that  it 
is  most  unjust  if  he  has  no  share  in  the  elec- 
tion of  members  of  the  legislature.  I  do 
not  blame  any  one  for  tnking  his  son  from 
school  at  an  early  age  when  he  is  actually 
obliged  to  do  so,  but  I  fear  that  in  too  many 
instances  there  is  no  sense  entertained  of  the 
value  of  education,  beyond  its  fitting  a  boy 
for  his  own  immediate  business  in  life:  and 
until  this  be  altered  for  the  better,  I  do  not 
see  that  we  are  likely  to  grow  much  wiser, 
or  that  though  political  power  may  pass  into 
different  hands,  that  it  will  be  exercised 
more  purely  or  sensibly  than  it  has  been. 

"  But  the  newspapers, — they  are  cheap 
and  ready  instructors  in  political  knowledge, 
from  whom  all  may,  and  all  are  willing,  to 
learn."  A  newspaper  reader,  addressing 
a  newspaper  editor,  must  not  speak  disre- 
spectfully of  that  with  which  they  are  them- 
selves concerned :  but  we  know,  sir,  and 
every  honest  man  connected  with  a  news- 
paper would  confess  also,  that  our  instruc- 
tion is  often  worse  than  useless  to  him  who 
has  never  had  any  other.  We  suppose  that 
our  readers  have  some  knowledge  and  some 
principles  of  their  own  ;  and  adapt  our  lan- 
guage to  them  accordingly.  I  am  afraid 
that  we  in  many  cases  suppose  this  untruly  ; 
and  the  wicked  amongst  our  fraternity  make 
their  profit  out  of  their  readers'  ignorance, 
by  telling  them  that  they  are  wise.  But 
instruction  must  be  regular  and  systematic  ; 
whereas  a  newspaper  must  give  the  facts  of 
the  day  or  the  week, — and  if  it  were  to  over- 
load these  with  connected  essays  upon  gen- 
eral principles,  it  would  not  be  read.  I 
fear  that  my  own  letters  tax  the  patience  of 
some  of  your  readers  to  the  utmost  allow- 
able length  :  and  that  many,  perhaps  those 
who  might  find  them  most  useful,  never 
think  of  reading  them  at  all.  And  yet  my 


THOMAS  ARNOLD. 


421 


letters,  although  the  very  least  entertaining 
things  that  could  be  tolerated  in  a  news- 
paper, cannot  and  do  not  pretend  to  give 
instructions  to  those  who  are  wholly  igno- 
rant. All  my  hope  is  to  set  my  readers  think- 
ing; and  rny  highest  delight  would  be  that 
any  one  should  be  induced  by  them  to  sus- 
pect his  own  ignorance,  and  to  try  to  gain 
knowledge  where  it  is  to  be  gained.  But 
assuredly  he  who  does  honestly  want  to  gain 
knowledge  will  not  go  to  a  newspaper  to 
look  for  it. 

No,  sir,  real  knowledge,  like  everything 
else  of  the  highest  value,  is  not  to  be  ob- 
tained so  easily.  It  must  be  worked  for, — 
studied  for, — thought  for, — and  more  than 
all.  it  must  be  prayed  fov.  And  that  is  edu- 
cation, which  lays  the  foundation  of  such 
habits, — and  gives  them,  so  far  as  a  boy's 
early  age  will  allow,  their  proper  exercise. 
For  doing  this,  the  materials  exist  in  the 
studies  actually  pursued  in  our  commercial 
schools ;  but  it  cannot  be  done  effectually, 
if  a  boy's  education  is  to  be  cut  short  at 
fourteen.  His  schooling  indeed  may  be 
ended  without  mischief,  if  his  parents  are 
able  to  guide  his  education  afterwards  ;  and 
the  way  to  gain  this  hereafter,  is  to  make 
the  most  of  the  schooling  time  of  the  rising 
generation, — that  finding  how  much  may  be 
done,  even  in  their  case,  within  the  limited 
time  allowed  for  their  education,  they  may 
be  anxious  to  give  their  children  greater  ad- 
vantages, that  the  fruit  may  be  proportion- 
ally greater. 

It  may  be  said  that  this  is  impracticable  ; 
to  which  I  have  only  to  say  that  I  will  not 
believe  it  to  be  so  till  I  am  actually  unable  to 
hope  otherwise;  for  if  it  be  impracticable, 
my  expectations  of  good  from  any  political 
changes  are  faint  indeed.  These  changes 
might  still  be  necessary,  might  still  be  just, 
but  they  would  not  mend  our  condition  :  the 
growth  of  evil,  moral  and  political,  would 
be  no  less  rapid  than  it  is  now. 

Miscellaneous  Works:  Education  of  the 
Middle  Classes,  Letter  iL 

CLASSICAL  EDUCATION. 

A  reader  unacquainted  with  the  real  nature 
of  a  classical  education  will  be  in  danger  of 
undervaluing  it,  when  he  sees  that  so  large 
a  portion  of  time  at  so  important  a  period 
of  human  life  is  devoted  to  the  study  of  a 
few  ancient  writers  whose  works  seem  to 
have  no  direct  bearing  on  the  studies  and 
duties  of  our  own  generation.  For  instance, 
although  some  provision  is  undoubtedly 
made  at  Rugby  for  acquiring  a  knowledge 
of  modern  history,  yet  the  history  of  Greece 
and  Rome  is  more  studied  than  that  of 
France  and  England  ;  and  Homer  and  Vir- 


gil are  certainly  much  more  attended  to 
than  Shakspere  and  Milton.  This  appears 
to  many  persons  a  great  absurdity  ;  while 
others  who  are  so  far  swayed  by  authority 
as  to  believe  the  system  to  be  right,  are  yet 
unable  to  understand  how  it  can  be  so.  A 
Journal  of  Education  may  not  be  an  unfit 
place  for  a  few  remarks  on  this  subject. 

It  may  be  freely  confessed  that  the  first 
origin  of  classical  education  affords  in  itself 
no  reasons  for  its  being  continued  now. 
When  Latin  and  Greek  were  almost  the 
only  written  languages  of  civilized  men,  it 
is  manifest  that  they  must  have  furnished 
the  subjects  of  all  liberal  education.  The 
question  therefore  is  wholly  changed  since 
the  growth  of  a  complete  literature  in  other 
languages ;  since  France,  and  Italy,  and 
Germany,  and  England,  have  each  produced 
their  philosophers,  their  poets,  and  their 
historians,  worthy  to  be  placed  on  the  same 
level  with  those  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

But  although  there  is  not  the  same  reason 
now  which  existed  three  or  four  centuries 
ago  for  the  study  of  Greek  and  Roman  liter- 
ature, yet  there  is  another  no  less  substan- 
tial. Expel  Greek  and  Latin  from  your 
schools,  and  you  confine  the  views  of  the 
existing  generation  to  themselves  and  their 
immediate  predecessors;  you  will  cut  off  so 
many  centuries  of  the  world's  experience, 
and  place  us  in  the  same  state  as  if  the  hu- 
man race  had  first  come  into  existence  in 
the  year  1500.  For  it  is  nothing  to  say  that 
a  few  learned  individuals  might  still  study 
classical  literature  :  the  effect  produced  on 
the  public  mind  would  be  no  greater  than 
that  which  has  resulted  from  the  labours  of 
our  Oriental  scholars:  it  would  not  spread 
beyond  themselves;  and  men  in  general, 
after  a  few  generations,  would  know  as  lit- 
tle of  Greece  and  Rome,  as  they  do  actually 
of  China  and  Hindustan.  But  such  an  ig- 
norance would  be  incalculably  more  to  be 
regretted.  With  the  Asiatic  uiind  we  have  no 
nearer  connexion  and  sympathy  than  is  de- 
rived from  our  common  humanity.  But  the 
mind  of  the  Greek  and  of  the  Roman  is  in  all 
the  essential  points  of  its  constitution  our 
own  :  and  not  only  so,  but  it  is  our  mind 
developed  to  an  extraordinary  degree  of 
perfection.  Wide  as  is  the  difference  be- 
tween us  with  respect  to  those  physical  in- 
struments which  minister  to  our  uses  or  our 
pleasures  ;  although  the  Greeks  and  Romans 
had  no  steam-engines,  no  printing-presses, 
no  mariner's  compass,  no  telescopes,  no  mi- 
croscopes, no  gunpowder  ;  yet  in  our  moral 
and  political  views,  in  those  matters  which 
must  determine  human  character,  there  is  a 
perfect  resemblance  in  these  respects.  Aris- 
totle, and  Plato,  and  Thucydides,  and  Cicero, 
and  Tacitus,  are  most  untruly  called  ancient 


422 


WILLIAM  HIGGLING  PEES CO  TT. 


writers:  they  are  virtually  our  own  coun- 
trymen and  contemporaries,  but  have  the 
advantage  which  is  enjoyed  by  intelligent 
travellers,  that  their  observation  has  been 
exercised  in  a  field  out  of  the  reach  of  com- 
mon men ;  and  that  having  thus  seen  in  a 
manner  with  our  eyes  what  we  cannot  see 
for  ourselves,  their  conclusions  are  such  as 
bear  upon  our  own  circumstances,  while 
their  information  has  all  the  charm  of  nov- 
elty, and  all  the  value  of  a  mass  of  new  and 
pertinent  facts,  illustrative  of  the  great  sci- 
ence of  the  nature  of  civilized  man. 

Now  when  it  is  said  that  men  in  manhood 
so  often  throw  their  Greek  and  Latin  aside, 
and  that  this  very  fact  shows  the  useless- 
ness  of  their  early  studies,  it  is  much  more 
true  to  say  that  it  shows  how  completely  the 
literature  of  Greece  and  Home  would  be  for- 
gotten, if  our  system  of  education  did  not 
keep  up  the  knowledge  of  it.  But  it  by  no 
means  shows  that  system  to  be  useless,  un- 
less it  followed  that  when  a  man  laid  aside 
his  Greek  and  Latin  books,  he  forgot  also  all 
that  he  had  ever  gained  from  them.  This, 
however,  is  so  far  from  being  the  case,  that 
even  where  the  results  of  a  classical  educa- 
tion are  least  tangible,  and  least  appreciated 
even  by  the  individual  himself,  still  the 
mind  often  retains  much  of  the  effect  of  its 
early  studies  in  the  general  liberality  of  its 
tastes  and  comparative  comprehensiveness 
of  its  views  and  notions. 

All  this  supposes,  indeed,  that  classical 
instruction  should  be  sensibly  conducted; 
it  requires  that  a  classical  teacher  should  be 
fully  acquainted  with  modern  history  and 
modern  literature,  no  less  than  with  those 
of  Greece  and  Rome.  What  is,  or  perhaps 
what  used  to  be,  called  a  mere  scholar,  can- 
not possibly  communicate  to  his  pupils  the 
main  advantages  of  a  classical  education. 
The  knowledge  of  the  past  is  valuable  be- 
cause without  it  our  knowledge  of  the  pres- 
ent and  of  the  future  must  be  scanty:  but 
if  the  knowledge  of  the  past  be  confined 
wholly  to  itself, — if,  instead  of  being  made 
to  bear  upon  things  around  us,  it  be  totally 
isolated  from  them,  and  so  disguised  by 
vagueness  and  misapprehension  as  to  ap- 
pear incapable  of  illustrating  them,  then  in- 
deed it  becomes  little  better  than  laborious 
trifling,  and  they  who  declaim  against  it  may 
be  fully  forgiven. 

Quarterly  Journal  of  Education,  1834. 


WILLIAM      HICKLING     PRES- 
COTT,  D.C.L., 

one   of  the    most  eminent  of  modern   his- 
torians, son  of  Judge  William  Prescott,  of 


Boston,  and  grandson  of  Colonel  William 
Prescott,  who  commanded  at  Bunker  Hill, 
June  17,  1775,  was  born  at  Salem,  Massa- 
chusetts, May  4,  1796 ;  graduated  at  Har- 
vard University,  with  distinguished  honour, 
1814;  passed  two  years  in  Europe  (visiting 
England,  France,  and  Italy),  1815-17,  and 
about  three  months  (visiting  England,  Scot- 
land, Brussels,  and  Antwerp)  in  1850;  died 
suddenly  of  apoplexy,  Jan.  28,  1859.  (See 
article  George  Ticknor,  LL.D.,  in  this  vol- 
ume.) 

"  At  a  college-dinner  in  his  Junior  year, 
an  undergraduate  threw  at  random  a  large, 
hard  piece  of  bread,  which  struck  one  of 
Prescott's  eyes,  and,  for  all  useful  purposes, 
closed  it  forever  on  the  world.  His  other 
eye  was  soon  sympathetically  affected  ;  and 
the  youthful  student,  to  whom  life  had  but 
yesterday  seemed  so  bright  and  hope-inspir- 
ing, was  now  obliged  to  turn  his  back  upon 
the  sun  and  all  that  it  gladdens,  and,  at  a 
later  period,  for  many  weary  months  to 
submit  to  the  imprisonment  of  a  darkened 
room." — Allibone's  Grit.  Dictionary  of  Eng. 
Literature,  ii.  1663,  which  see  for  copious 
accounts  of  Prescott's  life  and  works.  See 
also  Life  of  William  HicTcling  Prescott,  by 
George  Ticknor,  Boston,  1864,  4to. 

Works:  History  of  the  lleign  of  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella  the  Catholic,  Bost.,  1838, 
3  vols.8vo,  12th  London  edit.,  1859  ;  History 
of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  with  a  Prelimi- 
nary View  of  the  Ancient  Mexican  Civiliza- 
tion, and  the  Life  of  the  Conqueror,  Iler- 
nando  Cortez,  New  York,  1843,  3  vols.  8vo, 
10th  London  edit.,  1859;  History  of  the 
Conquest  of  Peru,  with  a  Preliminary  View 
of  the  Civilization  of  the  Incas,  New  York, 
1847,  3  vols.  8vo,  8th  London  edit.,  1859; 
History  of  the  lleign  of  Philip  the  Second, 
King  of  Spain,  vols.  i.  and  ii.,  Boston,  Dec. 
1855,  4th  London  edit.,  1855,  vol.  iii., Boston, 
Dec.  1858,  Lond.,  1858;  The  Life  of  Charles 
the  Fifth  after  his  Abdication,  being  a  Sup- 
plement to  a  new  edition  of  Robertson's 
Reign  of  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth, 
Bost.,  1857,  3  vols.  8vo,  Lond.,  1857;  Bio- 
graphical and  Critical  Miscellanies,  New 
York,  1845,  8vo,  2d  London  edit.,  1850,  8vo, 
new  edit.,  1859,  8vo. 

"  Mr.  Prescott  was  by  far  the  first  Historinn  of 
America,  and  he  may  justly  be  assigned  a  Place 
beside  the  very  greatest  of  modern  Europe.  To 
the  indispensable  requisites  of  such  an  author — 
industry,  candour,  and  impartiality — he  united 
ornamental  qualities  of  the  highest  grade:  a  mind 
stored  with  various  and  Elegant  Learning,  a  poet- 
ical temperament,  nnd  great,  it  may  almost  be  said 
unrivalled,  pictorial  Powers.  These  groat  qualities 
appeared  not  less  strongly  in  his  last  production, 
the  History  of  the  Reign  of  Philip  the  Second, 
than  in  the  earlier  works — the  History  of  the 
Reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  the  History  of 


WILLIAM  IIICKLING  FRESCO  TT. 


423 


the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  and  the  History  of  the 
Conquest  of  Peru — which  won  for  him  his  world- 
wide fame.  The  death  of  such  a  man,  in  the  prime 
of  life,  and  in  the  Meridian  of  his  Powers,  is  a  loss 
not  to  his  country  alone,  but  to  the  whole  human 
race,  to  whom  his  beautiful  writings  will  always 
prove  a  source  of  instruction  and  enjoyment." — 
SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON  TO  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE, 
Glasgow,  June  4,  1859. 

"  I  had  as  great  regard  for  Mr.  Preseott  as  for 
any  man  of  whom  I  knew  so  little  ;  and  I  think 
very  highly  of  his  works." — LORD  MACAIILAY  TO 
THE  SAME,  ilolly  Lodge,  Kensington,  May  28,  1859. 

ISABELLA    OF     SPAIN    AND    ELIZABETH    OF 
ENGLAND. 

It  is  in  the  amiable  qualities  of  her  sex 
that  Isabella's  superiority  becomes  most  ap- 
parent over  her  illustrious  namesake,  Eliza- 
beth of  England,  whose  history  presents 
some  features  parallel  to  her  own.  Both 
were  disciplined  in  early  life  by  the  teach- 
ings of  that  stern  nurse  of  wisdom,  adversity. 
Both  were  made  to  experience  the  deepest 
humiliation  at  the  hands  of  their  nearest 
relative,  who  should  have  cherished  and  pro- 
tected them.  Both  succeeded  in  establishing 
themselves  on  the  throne  after  the  most  pre- 
carious vicissitudes.  Each  conducted  her 
kingdom,  through  a  long  and  triumphant 
reign,  to  a  height  of  glory  which  it  had 
never  before  reached.  Both  lived  to  see  the 
vanity  of  all'  earthly  grandeur,  and  to  fall 
the  victims  of  an  inconsolable  melancholy; 
and  both  left  behind  an  illustrious  name, 
unrivalled  in  the  subsequent  annals  of  the 
country. 

But  with  these  few  circumstances  of  their 
history  the  resemblance  ceases.  Their  char- 
acters afford  scarcely  a  point  of  contact. 
Elizabeth,  inheriting  a  large  share  of  the 
bold  and  bluff  King  Harry's  temperament, 
was  haughty,  arrogant,  coarse,  and  irascible  ; 
while  with  these  fiercer  qualities  she  mingled 
deep  dissimulation  and  strange  irresolution. 
Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  tempered  the 
dignity  of  royal  station  with  the  most  bland 
and  courteous  manners.  Once  resolved,  she 
was  constant  in  her  purposes  ;  and  her  con- 
duct in  public  and  private  life  was  charac- 
terized by  candour  and  integrity.  Both  may 
be  said  to  have  shown  that  magnanimity 
which  is  implied  by  the  accomplishment  of 
great  objects  in  the  face  of  great  obstacles. 
But  Elizabeth  was  desperately  selfish  ;  she 
was  incapable  of  forgiving,  not  merely  a  real 
injury,  but  the  slightest  affront  to  her  vanity  ; 
and  she  was  merciless  in  exacting  retribu- 
tion. Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  lived  only 
for  others, — was  ready  at  all  times  to  sacri- 
fice self  to  considerations  of  public  duty  ;  and, 
far  from  personal  resentments,  showed  the 
greatest  condescension  and  kindness  to  those 
who  had  most  sensibly  injured  her;  while 


her  benevolent  heart  sought  every  means  to 
mitigate  the  authorized  severities  of  the  law, 
even  toward  the  guilty. 

Both  possessed  rare  fortitude.  Isabella, 
indeed,  was  placed  in  situations  which  de- 
manded more  frequent  and  higher  displays 
of  it  than  her  rival  ;  but  no  one  will  doulit 
a  full  measure  of  this  quality  in  the  (laugh- 
ter of  Henry  the  Eighth.  Elizabeth  was 
better  educated,  and  every  way  more  highly  , 
accomplished  than  Isabella.  But  the  latter 
knew  enough  to  maintain  her  «tation  with 
dignity  ;  and  she  encouraged  learning  by  a 
mnnificentpatronage.  The  masculine  powers 
and  passions  of  Elizabeth  seemed  to  divorce 
her  in  a  great  measure  from  the  peculiar 
attributes  of  her  sex ;  at  least  from  those 
which  constitute  its  peculiar  charm  ;  for  she 
had  abundance  of  its  foibles, — a  coquetry 
and  love  of  admiration  which  age  could  not 
chill;  a  levity  most  careless,  if  not  criminal  ; 
and  a  fondness  for  dress  and  tawdry  magni- 
ficence of  ornament,  which  was  ridiculous, 
or  disgusting,  according  to  the  different 
periods  of  life  in  which  it  was  indulged. 
Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  distinguished 
through  life  for  decorum  of  manners  and 
purity  beyond  the  breath  of  calumny,  was 
content  with  the  legitimate  affection  which 
she  could  inspire  within  the  range  of  her 
domestic  circle.  Far  from  a  frivolous  affec- 
tation of  ornament  or  dress,  she  was  most 
simple  in  her  own  attire,  and  seemed  to  set 
no  value  on  her  jewels,  but  as  they  could 
serve  the  necessities  of  the  state:  when  they 
could  be  no  longer  useful  in  this  way,  she 
gave  them  away  to  her  friends. 

Both  were  uncommonly  sagacious  in  the 
selection  of  their  ministers;  though  Eliza- 
beth was  drawn  into  some  errors  in  this  par- 
ticular by  her  levity,  as  was  Isabella  by  her 
religious  feeling.  It  was  this,  combined 
with  her  excessive  humility,  which  led  to 
the  only  grave  errors  in  the  administration 
of  the  latter.  Her  rival  fell  into  no  such 
errors;  and  she  Avas  a  stranger  to  the  amia- 
ble qualities  which  led  to  them.  Her  conduct 
was  certainly  not  controlled  by  religious 
principle:  and,  though  the  bulwark  of  the 
Protestant  faith,  it  might  be  difficult  to  say 
whether  she  were  at  heart  most  a  Protestant 
or  a  Catholic.  She  viewed  religion  in  its 
connection  with  the  state,  in  other  words, 
with  herself;  and  she  took  measures  for  en- 
forcing conformity  in  her  own  views,  not  a 
whit  less  despotic,  and  scarcely  less  sangui- 
nary, than  those  countenanced  for  con- 
science' sake  by  her  more  bigoted  rival. 

This  feature  of  bigotry,  which  has  thrown 
a  shade  over  Isabella's  otherwise  beautiful 
character,  might  lead  to  a  disparagement  of 
her  intellectual  power  compared  with  that 
of  the  English  queen.  To  estimate  this 


WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRE SCOTT. 


aright,  we  must  contemplate  the  results  of 
their  respective  reigns.  Elizabeth  found  all 
the  materials  of  prosperity  at  hand,  and 
availed  herself  of  them  most  ably  to  build 
up  a  solid  fabric  of  national  grandeur.  Isa- 
bella created  these  materials.  She  saw  the 
faculties  of  her  people  locked  up  in  a  death- 
like lethargy,  and  she  breathed  into  them 
the  breath  of  life  for  those  great  and  heroic 
enterprises  which  terminated  in  such  glo- 
rious consequences  to  the  monarchy.  It  is 
when  viewed  from  the  depressed  condition 
of  her  early  days,  that  the  achievements  of 
her  reign  seem  scarcely  less  than  miraculous. 
The  masculine  genius  of  the  English  queen 
stands  out  relieved  beyond  its  natural  di- 
mensions by  its  separation  from  the  softer 
qualities  of  her  sex.  While  her  rival's,  like 
some  vast  but  symmetrical  edifice,  loses  in 
appearance  somewhat  of  its  actual  grandeur 
from  the  perfect  harmony  of  its  proportions. 

The  circumstances  of  their  deaths,  which 
were  somewhat  similar,  displayed  the  great 
dissimilarity  of  their  characters.  Both  pined 
amidst  their  royal  state,  a  prey  to  incurable 
despondency  rather  than  any  marked  bodily 
distemper.  In  Elizabeth  it  sprung  from 
Avounded  vanity,  a  sullen  conviction  that  she 
had  outlived  the  admiration  on  which  she  had 
so  long  fed, — and  even  the  solace  of  friend- 
ship and  the  attachment  of  her  subjects. 
Nor  did  she  seek  consolation,  where  alone  it 
was  to  be  found  in  that  sad  hour.  Isabella, 
on  the  other  hand,  sunk  under  a  too  acute 
sensibility  to  the  sufferings  of  others.  But, 
amidst  the  gloom  which  gathered  around 
her,  she  looked  with  the  eye  of  faith  to  the 
brighter  prospects  which  unfolded  of  the 
future ;  and  when  she  resigned  her  last 
breath,  it  was  amidst  the  tears  and  universal 
lamentations  of  her  people. 

History  of  ike  IMyn  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  the  Catholic. 

THE  KING  OF  TEZCUCO. 

It  would  be  incredible  that  a  man  of  the 
enlarged  mind  and  endowments  of  Ne'za- 
hunlcoyoti  should  acquiesce  in  the  sordid 
superstitions  of  his  countrymen,  and  still 
more  in  the  sanguinary  rites  borrowed  by 
them  from  the  Aztecs.  In  truth,  his  hu- 
mane temper  shrunk  from  these  cruel  cere- 
monies, and  he  strenuously  endeavoured  to 
recall  his  people  to  the  more  pure  and  simple 
worship  of  the  ancient  Toltecs.  A  circum- 
stance produced  a  temporary  change  in  his 
conduct. 

lie  had  been  married  some  years  to  the 
•wife  he  had  so  unrighteously  obtained,  but 
was  not  blessed  with  issue.  The  priests 
represented  that  it  was  owing  to  his  neglect 
of  the  gods  of  his  country,  and  that  his  only 


remedy  was  to  propitiate  them  by  human 
sacrifice.  The  king  reluctantly  consented, 
and  the  altars  once  more  smoked  with  the 
blood  of  slaughtered  captives.  But  it  was 
all  in  vain  :  and  he  indignantly  exclaimed, 
"  These  idols  of  wood  and  stone  can  neither 
hear  nor  feel  ;  much  less  could  they  make 
the  heavens,  and-*'the  earth,  and  man,  the 
lord  of  it.  These  must  be  the  work  of  the 
all-powerful,  unknown  God,  Creator  of  the 
universe,  on  whom  alone  I  must  rely  for 
consolation  and  support." 

He  then  withdrew  to  his  rural  palace  of 
Tezcotzinco,  where  he  remained  forty  days, 
fasting  and  praying  at  stated  hours,  and 
offering  up  no  other  sacrifice  than  the  sweet 
incense  of  copal,  and  aromatic  herbs  and 
gums.  At  the  expiration  of  this  time,  he  is 
said  to  have  been  comforted  by  a  vision  as- 
suring him  of  the  success  of  his  petition. 
At  all  events,  such  proved  to  be  the  fact: 
and  this  was  followed  by  the  cheering  in- 
telligence of  the  triumph  of  his  arms  in  a 
quarter  where  he  had  lately  experienced 
some  humiliating  reverses. 

Greatly  strengthened  in  his  former  re- 
ligious convictions,  he  now  openly  professed 
his  faith,  and  was  more  earnest  to  wean  his 
subjects  from  their  degrading  superstitions, 
and  to  substitute  nobler  and  more  spiritual 
conceptions  of  the  Deity.  He  built  a  temple 
in  the  usual  pyramidal  form,  and  on  the 
summit  a  tower  nine  stories  high,  to  repre- 
sent the  nine  heavens  ;  a  tenth  was  sur- 
mounted by  a  roof  painted  black,  and 
profusely  gilded  with  stars  on  the  outside, 
and  incrusted  with  metal  and  precious  stones 
within.  He  dedicated  this  to  "  the  unknown 
God,  the  Cause  of  causes."  It  seems  proba- 
ble, from  the  emblem  on  the  tower,  as  well 
as  from  the  complexion  of  his  verses,  as  we 
shall  see,  that  he  mingled  with  his  reverence 
for  the  Supreme  the  astral  worship  which 
existed  among  the  Toltecs.  Various  musical 
instruments  were  placed  on  the  top  of  the 
tower,  and  the  sound  of  them,  accompanied 
by  the  ringing  of  a  sonorous  metal  struck 
by  a  mallet,  summoned  the  worshippers  to 
prayers  at  regular  seasons.  No  image  was 
allowed  in  the  edifice  as  unsuited  to  tho  "  in- 
visible God  ;"  and  the  people  were  expressly 
prohibited  from  profaning  the  altars  with 
blood,  or  any  other  sacrifices  than  that  of 
the  perfume  of  flowers  and  sweet-scented 
gums. 

The  remainder  of  his  days  wns  chiefly 
spent  in  his  delicious  solitude  of  Tezcot- 
zinco, where  he  devoted  himself  to  astro- 
nomical and,  probably,  astrological  studies, 
and  to  meditation  on  his  immortal  destiriv, 
— giving  utterance  to  his  feelings  in  songs, 
or  rather  hymns,  of  much  solemnity  and 
pathos.  An  extract  from  one  of  these  will 


WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRE SCOTT. 


425 


convey  some  idea  of  his  religious  specula- 
tions. The  pensive  tenderness  of  the  verses 
quoted  in  a  preceding  page  is  deepened  here 
and  there  into  a  mournful,  and  even  gloomy, 
colouring ;  while  the  wounded  spirit,  in- 
stead of  seeking  relief  in  the  convivial  sal- 
lies of  a  young  and  buoyant  temperament, 
turns  for  consolation  to  the  world  beyond 
the  grave. 

"  All  things  on  earth  have  their  term, 
and,  in  the  most  joyous  career  of  their 
vanity  and  splendour,  their  strength  fails, 
and  they  sink  into  the  dust.  All  the  round 
world  is  but  a  sepulchre ;  and  there  is 
nothing  which  lives  on  its  surface  that  shall 
not  be  hidden  and  entombed  beneath  it. 
.Rivers,  torrents,  and  streams  move  onward 
to  their  destination.  Not  one  flows  back  to 
its  pleasant  source.  They  rush  onward, 
hastening  to  bury  themselves  in  the  deep 
bosom  of  the  ocean.  The  things  of  yester- 
day are  no  more  to-day  ;  and  things  of  to- 
day shall  cease,  perhaps,  on  the  morrow. 
The  cemetery  is  full  of  the  loathsome  dust 
of  bodies  once  quickened  by  living  souls, 
who  occupied  thrones,  presided  over  assem- 
blies, marshalled  armies,  subdued  provinces, 
arrogated  to  themselves  worship,  were  puffed 
up  with  vain-glorious  pomp,  and  power,  and 
empire. 

'•  But  these  glories  have  all  passed  away, 
like  the  fearful  smoke  that  issues  from  the 
throat  of  Popocatepetl,  with  no  other  me- 
morial of  their  existence  than  the  record  on 
the  page  of  the  chronicler. 

"  The  great,  the  wise,  the  valiant,  the 
beautiful,—  alas !  where  are  they  now? 
They  are  all  mingled  with  the  clod  ;  and 
that  which  has  befallen  them  shall  happen 
to  us,  and  to  those  that  come  after  us.  Yet 
let  us  take  courage,  illustrious  nobles  and 
chieftains,  true  friends  and  loyal  subjects, — 
let  us  aspire  to  that  heaven,  where  all  is  eter- 
nal, and  corruption  cannot  come.  The  hor- 
rors of  the  tomb  are  but  the  cradle  of  the 
Sun,  and  the  dark  shadows  of  death  are 
brilliant  lights  for  the  Stars." 

The  mystic  import  of  the  last  sentence 
seems  to  point  to  that  superstition  respect- 
ing the  mansions  of  the  Sun,  which  forms 
so  beautiful  a  contrast  to  the  dark  features 
of  the  Aztec  mythology. 

At  length,  about  the  year  1470,  Nezahual- 
coyoti,  full  of  years  and  honours,  felt  him- 
self drawing  near  his  end.  Almost  half  a 
century  had  elapsed  since  he  mounted  the 
throne  of  Tezcuco.  He  had  found  his  king- 
dom dismembered  by  faction,  and  bowed  to 
the  dust  beneath  the  yoke  of  a  foreign  ty- 
rant. He  had  broken  that  yoke  ;  had 
breathed  new  life  into  the  nation,  renewed 
its  ancient  institutions,  extended  wide  its 
domain  ;  had  seen  it  flourishing  in  all  the 


activity  of  trade  and  agriculture,  gathering 
strength  from  its  enlarged  resources,  and 
daily  advancing  higher  and  higher  in  the 
great  inarch  of  civilization.  All  this  he  had 
seen,  and  might  fairly  attribute  no  small 
portion  of  it  to  his  own  wise  and  beneficent 
rule.  His  long  and  glorious  day  was  now 
drawing  to  its  close ;  and  he  contemplated  the 
event  with  the  same  serenity  which  he  had 
shown  under  the  clouds  of  its  morning  and 
in  its  meridian  splendour. 

A  short  time  before  his  death,  he  gathered 
around  him  those  of  his  children  in  whom 
he  most  confided,  his  chief  counsellors,  the 
ambassadors  of  Mexico  and  Tlacopan,  and  his 
little  son,  the  heir  to  the  crown,  his  only 
offspring  by  the  queen.  He  was  not  then 
eight  years  old;  but  had  already  given,  as 
far  as  so  tender  a  blossom  might,  the  rich 
promise  of  future  excellence. 

After  tenderly  embracing  the  child,  the 
dying  monarch  threw  over  him  the  robes  of 
sovereignty.  He  then  gave  audience  to  the 
ambassadors,  and,  when  they  had  retired, 
made  the  boy  repeat  the  substance  of  the 
conversation.  He  followed  this  by  such 
counsels  as  were  suited  to  his  comprehen- 
sion, and  which,  when  remembered  through 
the  long  vista  of  after  years,  would  serve  as 
lights  to  guide  him  in  his  government  of 
the  kingdom.  He  besought  him  not  to  neg- 
lect the  worship  of  "the  unknown  God," 
regretting  that  he  himself  had  been  un- 
worthy to  know  him,  and  intimating  his  con- 
viction that  the  time  would  come  when  he 
should  be  known  and  worshipped  throughout 
the  land. 

He  next  addressed  himself  to  that  one  of 
his  sons  in  whom  he  placed  the  greatest 
trust,  and  whom  he  had  selected  as  guard- 
ian of  the  realm.  "  From  this  hour,"  said 
he  to  him,  "you  will  fill  the  place  that  I 
have  filled,  of  father  to  this  child;  you  will 
teach  him  to  live  as  he  ought ;  and  by  your 
counsels  he  will  rule  over  the  empire.  Stand 
in  his  place,  and  be  his  guide  till  he  shall 
be  of  age  to  govern  for  himself."  Then, 
turning  to  his  other  children,  he  admon- 
ished them  to  live  united  with  ene  another, 
and  to  show  all  loyalty  to  their  prince,  who, 
though  a  child,  already  manifested  a  discre- 
tion far  above  his  years.  "Be  true  to  him," 
he  added,  "  and  he  will  maintain  you  in  your 
rights  and  dignities." 

Finding  his  end  approaching,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Do  not  bewail  me  with  idle  lamentations. 
But  sing  the  song  of  gladness  and  show  a 
courageous  spirit,  that  the  nations  I  have 
subdued  may  not  believe  you  disheartened, 
but  may  feel  that  each  one  of  you  is  strong 
enough  to  keep  them  in  obedience  !"  The 
undaunted  spirit  of  the  monarch  shone  forth 
even  in  the  agonies  of  death.  That  stout 


426 


WILLIAM  HICKLING  FRESCO  TT. 


heart,  however,  melted  as  he  took  leave  of 
his  children  and  friends,  weeping  tenderly 
over  them,  while  he  bade  each  a  last  adieu. 
When  they  had  withdrawn,  he  ordered  the 
officers  of  the  palace  to  allow  no  one  to 
enter  it  again.  Soon  after  he  expired,  in 
the  seventy-second  year  of  his  age,  and  the 
forty-third  of  his  reign. 

History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico. 

THE  VALLEY  AND  CITY  OF  MEXICO. 

The  troops,  refreshed  by  a  night's  rest, 
succeeded  early  on  the  following  day  in 
gaining  the  crest  of  the  sierra  of  Ahualco, 
which  stretches  like  a  curtain  between  the 
two  great  mountains  on  the  north  and  south. 
Their  progress  was  now  comparatively  easy, 
and  they  marched  forward  with  a  buoyant 
step  as  they  felt  they  were  treading  the  soil 
of  Montezuma. 

They  had  not  advanced  far,  when,  turning 
an  angle  of  the  sierra,  they  suddenly  came 
on  a  view  which  more  than  compensated 
the  toils  of  the  preceding  day.  It  was  that 
of  the  Valley  of  Mexico,  or  Tenochtitlan,  as 
more  commonly  culled  by  the  natives;  which, 
with  its  picturesque  assemblage  of  water, 
woodland,  and  cultivated  plains,  its  shining 
cities  and  shadowy  hills,  was  spread  out  like 
some  gay  and  gorgeous  panorama  before 
them.  In  the  highly  rarefied  atmosphere 
of  these  upper  regions,  even  remote  objects 
have  a  brilliancy  of  colouring  and  a  dis- 
tinctness of  outline  which  seems  to  annihi- 
late distance.  Stretching  far  away  at  their 
feet  were  seen  noble  forests  of  oak,  syca- 
more, and  cedar,  and  beyond,  yellow  fields 
of  maize  and  the  towering  maguey,  inter- 
mingled with  orchards  and  blooming  gar- 
dens :  for  flowers,  in  such  demand  for  their 
religious  festivals,  were  even  more  abun- 
dant in  this  populous  valley  than  in  other 
parts  of  Anahuac.  In  the  centre  of  the 
great  basin  were  beheld  the  lakes,  occupy- 
ing then  a  much  larger  portion  of  the  sur- 
face than  at  present ;  their  borders  thickly 
studded  with  towns  and  hamlets,  and,  in  the 
midst, — like  some  Indian  empress  with  her 
coronal  of  pearls, — the  fair  City  of  Mexico, 
with  her  white  towers  and  pyramidal  tem- 
ples, reposing,  as  it  were,  on  the  bosom  of 
the  waters. — the  far-famed  u  Venice  of  the 
Aztecs."  High  over  all  rose  the  royal  hill 
of  Chapoltepec,  the  residence  of  the  Mex- 
ican monarchs,  crowned  with  the  same  grove 
of  gigantic  cypresses  which  at  this  day  fling 
their  broad  shadows  over  the  land.  In  the 
distance  beyond  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake, 
and  nearly  screened  by  intervening  foliage, 
was  seen  a  shining  speck,  the  rival  capital 
of  Tezcuco,  and,  still  farther  on,  'the  dark 
belt  of  porphyry,  girdling  the  Valley  around 


like  a  rich  setting  which  Nature  had  devised 
for  the  fairest  of  her  jewels. 

Such  was  the  beautiful  vision  which  broke 
on  the  eyes  of  the  Conquerors.  And  even 
now,  when  so  sad  a  chanue  has  come  over 
the  scene ;  when  the  stately  forests  have 
been  laid  low,  and  tbe  soil,  unsheltered  from 
the  tierce  radiance  of  a  tropical  sun,  i.s  in 
many  places  abandoned  to  sterility;  when 
the  waters  have  retired,  leaving  a  broad  and 
ghastly  margin  white  with  the  incrustation 
of  salts,  while  the  cities  and  hamlets  on 
their  borders  have  moulded  into  ruins  ;  even 
now  that  desolation  broods  over  the  land- 
scape, so  indestructible  are  the  lines  of 
beauty  which  Nature  has  traced  on  its  fea- 
tures, that  no  traveller,  however  cold,  can 
gaze  on  them  with  any  other  emotion  than 
those  of  astonishment  and  rapture. 

What  then  must  have  been  the  emotions 
of  the  Spaniards,  when,  after  working  their 
toilsome  way  into  the  upper  air,  the  cloudy 
tabernacle  parted  before  their  eyes,  and  they 
beheld  these  fair  scenes  in  all  their  pristine 
magnificence  and  beauty  !  It  was  like  the 
spectacle  which  greeted  the  eyes  of  Moses 
from  the  summit  of  Pisgah,  and,  in  the  warm 
glow  of  their  feelings,  they  cried  out,  "It  is 
the  promised  land  !" 

But  these  feelings  of  admiration  were 
soon  followed  by  others  of  a  very  different 
complexion  ;  as  they  saw  in  all  this  the  evi- 
dences of  a  civilization  and  power  far  su- 
perior to  anything  they  had  yet  encountered. 
The  more  timid,  disheartened  by  the  pros- 
pect, shrunk  from  a  contest  so  unequal,  and 
demanded,  as  they  had  done  on  some  former 
occasions,  to  be  led  back  again  to  Vera  Cruz. 
Such  was  not  the  effect  produced  on  the  san- 
guine spirit  of  the  general.  His  avarice  was 
sharpened  by  the  display  of  the  dazzling 
spoil  at  his  feet;  and,  if  he  felt  a  natural 
anxiety  at  the  formidable  odds,  his  confidence 
was  renewed  as  he  gazed  on  the  lines  of  his 
veterans,  whose  weather-beaten  visages  and 
battered  armour  told  of  battles  won  and 
difficulties  surmounted,  while  his  bold  bar- 
barians, with  appetites  whetted  by  the  view 
of  their  enemies'  country,  seemed  like  eagles 
on  the  mountains,  ready  to  pounce  upon  their 
prey.  By  argument,  entreaty,  and  menace, 
lie  endeavoured  to  restore  the  faltering  cour- 
age of  the  soldiers,  urging  them  not  to  think 
of  retreat,  now  that  they  had  reached  the 
goal  for  which  they  had  panted,  and  the 
golden  gates  were  opened  to  receive  them. 
In  these  efforts  he  was  well  seconded  by 
the  brave  cavaliers,  who  held  honour  as 
dear  to  them  as  fortune  ;  until  the  dullest 
spirits  caught  somewhat  of  the  enthusiasm 
of  their  leaders,  and  the  general  had  the 
satisfaction  to  see  his  hesitating  columns, 
with  their  usual  buoyant  step,  once  more 


WILLIAM  IIICKLING  PRESCOTT. 


427 


on   their    march   down   the   slopes   of    the 
sierra. 

History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  Book 
Hi.  Ch.  8. 

AUTHORSHIP. 

It  is  not  very  easy  to  see  on  what  this  low 
estimate  of  literature  rested.  As  a  profes- 
sion it  has  too  little  in  common  with  more 
active  ones  to  afford  much  ground  for  run- 
ning a  parallel.  The  soldier  has  to  do  with 
externals  ;  and  his  contests  and  triumphs  are 
over  matter  in  its  various  forms,  whether  of 
man  or  material  nature.  The  poet  deals 
with  the  bodiless  forms  of  air,  of  fancy 
lighter  than  air.  His  business  is  contem- 
plative, the  other's  is  active,  and  depends  for 
its  success  on  strong  moral  energy  and  pres- 
ence of  mind.  He  must,  indeed,  have  genius 
of  the  highest  order  to  effect  his  own  combi- 
nations, anticipate  the  movements  of  his 
enemy,  and  dart  with  eagle  eye  on  his  vul- 
nerable point.  But  who  shall  say  that  this 
practical  genius,  if  we  may  so  term  it.  is  to 
rank  higher  in  the  scale  than  the  creative 
power  of  the  poet,  the  spark  from  the  mind 
of  divinity  itself? 

The  orator  might  seem  to  afford  better 
ground  for  comparison,  since,  though  his 
theatre  of  action  is  abroad,  he  may  be  said 
to  work  with  much  the  same  tools  as  the 
writer.  Yet  how  much  of  his  success  de- 
pends on  qualities  other  than  intellectual! 
"Action,"  said  the  father  of  eloquence,  "ac- 
tion, action .  are  the  three  things  most  essen- 
tial to  an  orator/'  How  much  depends  on 
the  look,  the  gesture,  the  magical  tones  of 
voice,  modulated  to  the  passions  he  has 
stirred  ;  and  how  much  on  the  contagious 
sympathies  of  the  audience  itself  which 
drown  everything  like  criticism  in  the  over- 
whelming tide  of  emotion  !  If  any  one 
would  know  how  much,  let  him,  after  pa- 
tiently standing 

"till  his  feet  throb, 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  hreath 
Of  patriots  bursting  with  heroic  rage," 

read  the  same  speech  in  the  columns  of  a 
morning  newspaper,  or  in  the  well-concocted 
report  of  the  orator  himself.  The  produc- 
tions of  the  writer  are  subjected  to  a  fiercer 
ordeal.  lie  has  no  excited  sympathies  of 
numbers  to  hurry  his  readers  along  over  his 
blunders.  He  is  scanned  in  the  calm  silence 
of  the  closet.  Every  flower  of  fancy  seems 
here  to  wither  under  the  rude  breath  of  crit- 
icism ;  every  link  in  the  chain  of  argument 
is  subjected  to  the  touch  of  prying  scrutiny, 
and  if  there  be  the  least  flaw  in  it  it  is  sure  to 


be  detected.  There  is  no  tribunal  so  stern  as 
the  secret  tribunal  of  a  man's  own  closet,  far 
removed  from  all  the  sympathetic  impulses 
of  humanity.  Surely  there  is  no  form  in 
which  intellect  can  be  exhibited  to  the  world 
so  completely  stripped  of  all  adventitious 
aids  as  the  form  of  written  composition. 
But,  says  the  practical  man,  let  us  estimate 
things  by  their  utility.  "You  talk  of  the 
poems  of  Homer,"  said  a  mathematician, 
"but,  after  all,  what  do  they  prove?''  A 
question  which  involves  an  answer  some- 
what too  voluminous  for  the  tail  of  an  arti- 
cle. But  if  the  poems  of  Homer  were,  as 
Heeren  asserts,  the  principal  bond  which 
held  the  Grecian  states  together,  and  gave 
them  a  national  feeling,  they  "prove"  more 
than  all  the  arithmeticians  of  Greece — and 
there  were  many  cunning  ones  in  it — ever 
proved.  The  results  of  military  skill  are 
indeed  obvious.  The  soldier,  by  a  single 
victory,  enlarges  the  limits  of  an  empire;  he 
may  do  more, — he  may  achieve  the  liberties 
of  a  nation,  or  roll  back  the  tide  of  barbarism 
ready  to  overwhelm  them.  Wellington  was 
placed  in  such  a  position  and  nobly  did  he 
do  his  work,  or,  rather,  he  was  placed  at  the 
head  of  such  a  gigantic  moral  and  physical 
apparatus  as  enabled  him  to  do  it.  With 
his  own  unassisted  strength,  of  course,  he 
could  have  done  nothing.  But  it  is  on  his 
own  solitary  resources  that  the  great  writer 
has  to  rely.  And  yet  who  shall  say  that  the 
triumphs  of  Wellington  have  been  greater 
than  those  of  Scott,  whose  works  are  familiar 
as  household  words  to  every  fireside  in  his 
own  land,  from  the  castle  to  the  cottage  ; 
have  crossed  oceans  and  deserts,  and,  with 
healing  on  their  wings,  found  their  way  to 
the  remotest  regions;  have  helped  to  form 
the  character,  until  his  own  mind  may  be 
said  to  be  incorporated  into  those  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  his  fellow-men?  Who  is 
there  that  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other, 
felt  the  heaviness  of  his  heart  lightened,  his 
pains  mitigated,  and  his  bright  moments  of 
life  made  still  brighter  by  the  magical 
touches  of  his  genius?  And  shall  we  speak 
of  his  victories  as  less  real,  less  serviceable 
to  humanity,  less  truly  glorious,  than  those 
of  the  greatest  captain  of  his  day?  The  tri- 
umphs of  the  warrior  are  bounded  by  the 
narrow  theatre  of  his  own  age  ;  but  those  of 
a  Scott  or  a  Shakspeare  will  be  renewed  with 
greater  and  greater  lustre  in  ages  yet  unborn, 
when  the  victorious  chieftain  shall  be  for- 
gotten, or  shall  live  only  in  the  song  of  the 
minstrel  and  the  page  of  the  chronicler. 
Sir  Walter  Scott:  North  Amer.  Review, 

April,  1838,  and  in  his  Biog.  and  Crit. 

Miscellanies. 


428 


JULIUS   CHARLES  HARE. 


JULIUS    CHARLES   HARE, 

born  1796,  graduated  at  Cambridge,  1819, 
became  Hector  of  Hurstmonceaux,  1832, 
Archdeacon  of  Lewes,  1840,  Canon  of 'Cinch- 
ester,  1851,  Chaplain  to  the  Queen,  1853, 
died  1855.  Sermons  Preached  before  the 
University  of  Cambridge,  1839  ;  The  Victory 
of  Faith,  and  other  Sermons,  Camb.,  1841), 
8vo  ;  Sermons  Preached  at  Hurstinoncoaux 
Church,  vol.  i.,  1841,  8vo,  vol.  ii.,  1849,  8vo  ; 
The  Mission  of  the  Comforter,  and  other 
Sermons,  with  Notes,  1840,  2  vols.  8vo ; 
The  Essavs  and  Tales  of  John  Sterling,  with 
n  Memoir  of  his  Life,  1848,  2  vols.  12mo. 
He  also  published  single  Sermons,  Charges, 
Letters,  etc..  was  joint  author  with  his 
brother,  the  Rev.  Augustus  William  Hare, 
of  Guesses  at  Truth,  by  Two  Brothers, 
Lond.,  1827,  2  vols.  12mo,  2d  edit.,  1838, 
12mo,  3d  edit.,  1840,  12mo,  Series  Second, 
2d  edit.,  1848,  12mo,  new  edit,  1855,  12mo, 
and  was  co-translator  with  Bishop  Thirlwall 
of  vols.  i.  and  ii.,  8vo,  Lond.,  1828-32,  of  Nie- 
buhr's  History  of  Rome,  new  edit.,  1855. 
See  Lond.  Gent.  Mag.,  1855,  i.  424  (Obitu- 
ary). 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT. 

Walk  as  children  of  light.  This  is  the 
simple  and  beautiful  substance  of  your 
Christian  duty.  This  is  your  bright  privi- 
lege, which,  if  you  use  it  according  to  the 
grace  wherebv  you  have  received  it,  will  be 
a  prelude  and  foretaste  of  the  bliss  and 
glory  of  heaven.  It  is  to  light  that  all  na- 
tions and  languages  have  had  recourse  when- 
ever they  wanted  a  symbol  for  anything 
excellent  in  glory  ;  and  if  we  were  to  search 
through  the  whole  of  inanimate  nature  for 
an  emblem  of  i,ure  unadulterated  happiness, 
where  could  we  find  such  an  emblem  except 
in  light?  traversing  the  illimitable  regions 
of  space  with  a  speed  surpassing  that  of 
thought,  incapable  of  injury  or  stain,  and 
whithersoever  it  goes,  showering  beauty  and 
gladness.  In  order,  however,  that  we  may 
in  due  time  inherit  the  whole  fulness  of  this 
radiant  beatitude,  we  must  begin  by  training 
and  fitting  ourselves  for  it.  Nothing  good 
bursts  forth  all  at  once.  The  lightning  may 
dart  out  of  a  black  cloud  ;  but  the  day  sends 
his  bright  heralds  before  him,  to  prepare 
the  world  for  his  coming.  So  should  we 
endeavour  to  render  our  lives  here  on  earth 
as  it  were  the  dawn  of  heaven's  eternal  day  : 
we  should  endeavour  to  walk  as  children  of 
light.  Our  thoughts  and  feelings  should  all 
be  akin  to  light,  and  have  something  of  the 
nature  of  light  in  them  :  and  our  actions 
should  be  like  the  action  of  light  itself,  and 
like  the  actions  of  all  those  powers  and  of 
all  those  beings  which  pertain  to  light,  and 


maybe  said  to  form  the  family  of  light; 
while  we  should  carefully  abstain  and  shrink 
from  all  such  works  as  pertain  to  darkness, 
and  are  wrought  by  those  who  may  be  called 
the  brood  of  darkness. 

Thus  the  children  of  light  will  walk  as 
having  the  light  of  knowledge,  steadfastly, 
firmly,  right  onward  to  the  end  that  is  set 
before  them.  When  men  are  walking  in  the 
dark,  through  an  unknown  and  roadless  coun- 
try, they  walk  insecurely,  doubtful ly.  timidly. 
For  they  cannot  see  where  they  are  trend- 
ing: they  are  fearful  of  stumbling  against 
a  stone,  or  falling  into  a  pit  ;  they  cannot 
even  keep  on  for  many  steps  certain  of  the 
course  they  are  taking.  But  by  day  we 
perceive  what  is  under  us  and  about  us.  we 
have  the  end  of  our  journey,  or  at  least  the 
quarter  where  it  lies,  full  in  view,  and  we 
are  able  to  make  for  it  by  the  safest  and 
speediest  way.  The  very  same  advantage 
have  those  Avho  are  light  in  the  Lord,  the 
children  of  spiritual  light,  over  the  children 
of  spiritual  darkness.  They  know  whither 
they  are  going  :  to  heaven.  They  know  how 
they  are  to  get  there:  by  Him  who  has  de- 
clared Himself  to  be  the  Way  ;  by  keeping 
His  words,  by  walking  in  His  paths,  by 
trusting  in  His  atonement.  If  you  then  are 
children  of  light,  if  you  know  all  this,  walk 
according  to  your  knowledge,  without  stum- 
bling or  slipping,  without  swerving  or  stray- 
ing, without  loitering  or  dallying  by  the  way, 
onward  and  ever  onward  beneath  the  light 
of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  on  the  road 
which  leads  to  heaven. 

In  the  next  place  the  children  of  light  are 
upright,  and  honest,  and  straightforward, 
and  open,  and  frank,  in  all  their  dealings. 
There  is  nothing  like  lurking  or  conceal- 
ment about  them,  nothing  like  dissimula- 
tion, nothing  like  fraud  or  deceit.  These 
are  the  ministers  and  the  spawn  of  darkness. 
It  is  darkness  that  hides  its  face,  lest  any 
should  be  appalled  by  so  dismal  a  sight :  light 
is  the  revealer  and  mani fester  of  all  things. 
It  lifts  up  its  brow  on  high,  that  all  may  be- 
hold it:  for  it  is  conscious  that  it  has  nothing 
to  dread,  that  the  breath  of  shame  cannot 
soil  it.  Whereas  the  wicked  lie  in  wait,  and 
rorfm  through  the  dark,  and  screen  them- 
selves therein  from  the  sight  of  the  sun  ;  as 
though  the  sun  were  the  only  eye  wherewith 
God  can  behold  their  doings.  It  is  under 
the  cover  of  night  that  the  reveller  commits 
his  foulest  acts  of  intemperance  and  de- 
bauchery. It  is  under  the  cover  of  night 
that  the  thief  and  the  murderer  prowls 
about  to  bereave  his  brother  of  his  sub- 
stance or  his  life.  These  children  of  dark- 
ness seek  the  shades  of  darkness  to  hide 
themselves  thereby  from  the  eyes  of  their 
fellow-creatures,  from  the  eyes  of  Heaven, 


JULIUS   CHARLES  HARE. 


429 


nay,  even  from  their  own  eyes,  from  the  eye 
of  conscience,  which  at  such  a  season  they 
find  it  easier  to  hoodwink  and  blind.  They, 
on  the  other  hand,  who  walk  abroad  and 
ply  their  tasks  during  the  day,  are  those  by 
whose  labour  their  brethren  are  benefited 
and  supported  ;  those  who  make  the  earth 
yield  her  increase,  or  who  convert  her  prod- 
uce into  food  and  clothing,  or  who  minister 
to  such  wants  as  spring  up  in  countless  va- 
rieties beneath  the  march  of  civilized  so- 
ciety. Nor  is  this  confined  to  men  ;  the 
brute  animals  seem  to  be  under  a  similar 
instinct.  The  beasts  of  prey  lie  in  their  lair 
during  the  daytime,  and  wait  for  sunset  ere 
they  sally  out  on  their  destructive  wander- 
ings ;  while  the  beneficent  and  household 
animals,  those  which  are  most  useful  and 
friendly  to  man,  are  like  him  in  a  certain 
sense  children  of  light,  and  come  forth  and 
go  to  rest  with  the  sun.  They  who  are  con- 
scious of  no  evil  wish  or  purpose  do  not 
shun  or  shrink  from  the  eyes  of  others  ; 
though  never  forward  in  courting  notice, 
they  bid  it  welcome  when  it  chooses  to  visit 
them.  Our  Saviour  Himself  tells  us,  that 
the  condemnation  of  the  world  lies  in  this, 
that  although  light  is  come  into  the  world,  yet 
men  love  darkness  rather  than  light,  because 
their  deeds  are  eoil.  Nothing  but  their  having 
utterly  depraved  their  nature  could  seduce 
them  into  loving  what  is  so  contrary  and  re- 
pugnant to  it.  For  every  one  that  doeth  evil 
hateth  the  light,  nor  cometh  to  the  light,  lest 
his  deeds  should  be  reproved.  Bat  he  tliat 
doeth  truth  cometh  to  the  light  that  his  deeds 
may  be  made  manifest,  that  the;/  are  ivrought 
in  God.  To  the  same  effect  lie  commands 
His  disciples  to  let  their  light  so  shine  before 
men,  that  they  may  see  their  good  works,  not, 
however,  for  any  vain,  ostentatious,  selfish 
purpose, — this  wrould  have  been  directly 
against  the  whole  spirit  of  His  teaching, — 
but  in  order  that  men  may  be  moved  thereby 
to  glorify  God. 

For  the  children  of  light  are  also  meek 
and  lowly.  Even  the  sun,  although  he 
stands  up  on  high,  and  drives  his  chariot 
across  the  heavens,  rather  averts  observation 
from  himself  than  attracts  it.  His  joy  is  to 
glorify  his  Maker,  to  display  the  beauty,  and 
magnificence,  and  harmony,  and  order,  of  all 
the  works  of  God.  So  far,  however,  as  it  is 
possible  for  him,  he  withdraws  himself  from 
the  eyes  of  mankind  ;  not  indeed  in  dark- 
ness, wherein  the  wicked  hide  their  shame, 
but  in  excess  of  light,  wherein  God  Himself 
veils  His  glory.  And  if  we  look  at  the  other 
children  of  light,  that  host  of  white-robed 
pilgrims  that  travel  across  the  vault  of  the 
nightly  sky,  the  imagination  is  unable  to 
conceive  anything  quieter,  and  calmer,  and 
more  unassuming.  They  are  the  exquisite 


and  perfect  emblems  of  meek  loveliness  and 
humility  in  high  station.  It  is  only  the 
spurious  lights  of  the  fire  whereby  the  earth 
would  mimic  the  light  of  heaven,  that  glare 
and  flare  and  challenge  attention  for  them- 
selves ;  while,  instead  of  illuminating  the 
darkness  beyond  their  immediate  neighbour- 
hood, they  merely  make  it  thicker  and  more 
palpable;  as  these  lights  alone  vomit  srnuke, 
as  these  alone  ravage  and  consume. 

Again  :  the  children  of  light  are  diligent, 
and  orderly,  and  unweariable  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  their  duties.  Here,  also,  they  take  a 
lesson  from  the  sun,  who  pursues  the  path 
that  God  has  marked  out  for  him,  and  pours 
daylight  on  whatever  is  beneath  him  from 
his  everlasting,  inexhaustible  fountains,  and 
causes  the  wheel  of  the  seasons  to  turn 
round,  and  summer  and  winter  to  perform 
their  annual  revolutions,  and  has  never  been 
behindhand  in  his  task,  and  never  slackens, 
nor  faints,  nor  pauses;  nor  ever  will  pause, 
until  the  same  hand  which  launched  him  on 
his  way  shall  again  stretch  itself  forth  to 
arrest  his  course.  All  the  children  of  light 
are  careful  to  follow  their  Master's  example, 
and  to  work  his  works  while  it  is  day:  for 
they  know  that  the  night  of  the  grave  cometh, 
when  no  man  can  work,  and  that,  unless  they 
are  working  the  works  of  light,  when  that 
night  overtakes  them,  darkness  must  be  their 
portion  forever. 

The  children  of  light  are  likewise  pure. 
For  light  is  not  only  the  purest  of  all  sen- 
suous things,  so  pure  that  nothing  can  de- 
file it,  but  whatever  else  is  defiled,  is 
brought  to  the  light,  and  the  light  purifies 
it.  And  the  childien  of  the  light  know  that, 
although,  whatever  darkness  may  cover  them 
will  be  no  darkness  to  God.  it  may  and  will 
be  darkness  to  themselves.  They  know  that, 
although  no  impurity  in  which  they  can  bury 
their  souls  will  be  able  to  hide  them  from 
the  sight  of  God,  yet  it  will  utterly  hide  God 
from  their  sight.  They  know  that  it  is  only 
by  striving  to  purify  their  own  hearts  even  as 
God  is  pure,  that  they  can  at  all  fit  them- 
selves for  the  beatific  vision  which  Christ 
has  promised  to  the  pure  of  heart. 

Cheerfulness,  too,  is  a  never-failing  char- 
acteristic of  those  who  are  truly  children  of 
light.  For  is  not  light  at  once  the  most 
joyous  of  all  things,  and  the  enlivener  and 
gladdener  of  all  nature,  animate  and  inani- 
mate, the  dispel ler  of  sickly  cares,  the  calmer 
of  restless  disquietudes?  Is  it  not  as  a  bride- 
groom that  the  sun  comes  forth  from  his 
chamber  ? — and  does  he  not  rejoice  as  a  giant 
to  run  his  course?  Does  not  all  nature  grow 
bright  the  moment  he  looks  upon  her,  and 
welcome  him  with  smiles?  Do  not  all  the 
birds  greet  him  with  their  merriest  notes? 
Do  not  even  the  sad  tearful  clouds  deck 


430 


ANDREW  COMBE. 


themselves  out  in  the  glowing  hues  of  the 
rainbow,  when  he  vouchsafes  to  shine  upon 
them  ?  And  shall  not  man  smile  with  rap- 
ture beneath  the  light  of  the  Sun  of  Right- 
eousness?  Shall  he  not  hail  His  rising  with 
hymns  of  praise  and  psalms  of  thanksgiving? 
Shall  he  not  be  cheered  amid  his  deepest 
affliction,  when  the  rays  of  that  Sun  fall 
upon  him,  and  paint  the  arch  of  promise 
on  his  soul  ?  It  cannot  be  otherwise.  Only 
while  we  are  heinmod  in  with  darkness  are  we 
harassed  by  terrors  and  misgivings.  When 
we  see  clearly  on  every  side,  we  feel  bold 
and  assured  ;  nothing  can  then  daunt,  no- 
thing can  dismay  us.  Even  that  sorrow 
which  with  all  others  is  the  most  utterly 
without  hope,  the  sorrow  for  sin,  is  to  the 
children  of  light  the  pledge  of  their  future 
bliss.  For  with  them  it  is  the  sorrow  which 
worketh  repentance  unto  salvation ;  and 
having  the  Son  of  God  for  their  Saviour, 
what  can  they  fear?  Or,  rather,  when  they 
know  and  feel  in  their  hearts  that  God  has 
given  His  only-begotten  Son  to  suffer  death 
for  their  sakes,  how  shall  they  not  trust  that 
He,  who  has  given  them  Ilia  Son,  will  also 
give  them  whatsoever  is  for  their  real,  ever- 
lasting good  ? 

Finally,  the  children  of  light  will  also  be 
children  of  love.  Indeed,  it  is  only  another 
name  for  the  same  thing.  For  light  is  the 
most  immediate  outward  agent  and  minister 
of  God's  love,  the  most  powerful  and  rapid 
diffuser  of  His  blessings  through  the  whole 
universe  of  His  creation.  It  blesses  the 
earth,  and  makes  her  bring  forth  herbs  and 
plants.  It  blesses  the  herbs  and  plants,  and 
makes  them  bring  forth  their  grain  and  their 
fruit.  It  blesses  every  living  creature,  and 
enables  all  to  support  and  enjoy  their  exist- 
ence. Above  all,  it  blesses  man,  in  his 
goings  out  and  his  comings  in,  in  his  body 
and  in  his  soul,  in  his  senses  and  in  his 
imagination,  and  in  his  affections:  in  his 
social  intercourse  with  his  brother,  and  in 
his  solitary  communion  with  his  Maker. 
Merely  blot  out  light  from  the  earth,  and 
joy  will  pass  away  from  it ;  and  health  will 
pass  away  from  it :  and  life  will  pass  away 
from  it;  and  it  will  sink  back  into  a  con- 
fused turmoiling  chaos.  In  no  way  can  the 
children  of  light  so  well  prove  that  this  is 
indeed  their  parentage  as  by  becoming  the 
instruments  of  God  in  shedding  His  bless- 
ings around  them.  Light  illumines  every- 
thing, the  lowly  valley  as  well  as  the  lofty 
mountain  ;  it  fructifies  everything,  the  hum- 
blest herb  as  well  as  the  lordliest  tree  ;  and 
there  is  nothing  hid  from  its  heat.  Nor  does 
Christ  the  Original,  of  whom  light  is  the 
image,  make  any  distinction  between  the 
high  and  the  low,  between  the  humble  and 
the  lordly.  lie  comes  to  all,  unless  they 


drive  Him  from  their  doors.  He  calls  to 
all,  unless  they  obstinately  close  their  ears 
against  Him.  lie  blesses  all.  unless  they 
cast  away  His  blessing.  Nay,  although  they 
cast  it  away,  He  still  perseveres  in  blessing 
them,  even  unto  seven  times,  even  unto 
seventy  times  seven.  Ye,  then,  who  desire 
to  be  children  of  light,  ye  who  would  gladly 
enjoy  the  full  glory  and  blessedness  of  that 
heavenly  name,  take  heed  to  yourselves, 
that  ye  walk  as  children  of  light  in  this 
respect  more  especially.  No  part  of  your 
duty  is  easier;  you  may  find  daily  and 
hourly  opportunity  of  practising  it.  No 
part  of  your  duty  is  more  delightful  ;  the 
joy  you  kindle  in  the  heart  of  another  can- 
not fail  of  shedding  back  its  brightness  on 
your  own.  No  part  of  your  duty  is  more 
Godlike.  They  who  attempted  to  become 
like  God  in  knowledge,  fell  in  the  garden  of 
Eden.  They  who  strove  to  become  like  God 
in  power,  were  confounded  on  the  plain  of 
Shinar.  They  who  endeavour  to  become 
like  God  in  love,  will  feel  His  approving 
smile  and  His  helping  arm  ;  every  effort 
they  make  will  bring  them  nearer  to  His 
presence;  and  they  will  find  His  renewed 
image  grow  more  and  more  vivid  within 
them,  until  the  time  comes  whan  they  too 
shall  shine  forth  as  the  sun  in  the  kingdom 
of  their  Father. 

The    Victory  of  Faith,    Sermon   Seventh, 
1828. 


ANDREW  COMBE,    M.D., 

born  in  Edinburgh,  1797,  became  a  convert 
to  phrenology,  1818,  Consulting  Physician 
to  the  King  of  the  Belgians,  1836,  died 
1847.  Observations  on  Mental  Derange- 
ments, Edin.,  1831,  12rno,  Lond..  1841,  post 
8vo ;  The  Principles  of  Physiology  applied 
to  the  Preservation  of  Health,  and  to  the 
Improvement  of  Physical  and  Mental  Edu- 
cation, Edin.,  1834,  'l2mo,  14th  edit,,  lsr>i>, 
p.  8vo,  New  York,  1834,  12ino,  1842,  18mo; 
The  Physiology  of  Digestion  considered  with 
Relation  to  the  Principles  of  Dietetics,  2d 
edit.,  Edin.,  1836, 12mo,  9th  edit.,  by  J.Coxe, 
1849,  p.  8vo ;  Management  of  Infancy,  Physi- 
ological and  Moral,  Edin.,  1840,  12ino,  9th 
edit.,  by  Sir  J.  Clark,  1860,  12mo,  by  John 
Bell,  M.D.,  Phila.,  1840,  12mo.  See  Life 
of  Andrew  Combe,  by  George  Combe  (his 
brother),  1840;  Chambers's  Biog.  Diet,  of 
Eminent  Scotsmen ;  Smiles's  Brief  Biog- 
raphies, 1860;  Westminster  Review,  July, 
1850. 

EXERCISE. 

That  exercise  should  always  spring  from, 
and  be  continued  under,  the  influence  of  an 


ANDREW  COMBE. 


431 


active  and  harmonious  nervous  and  mental 
stimulus  will  scarcely  require  any  addi- 
tional evidence;  but  as  the  principle  is  not 
sufficiently  appreciated  or  acted  upon,  a  few 
remarks  seem  still  to  be  culled  for  to  enforce 
its  observance.  The  simple  fact  that  the 
muscles  are  expressly  constructed  for  the 
purpose  of  fulfilling  the  commands  of  the 
will,  might  of  itself  lead  to  the  inference 
that  a  healthy  mental  stimulus  ought  to  be 
considered  an  essential  condition  or  accom- 
paniment of  exercise  ;  and,  accordingly,  the 
muscular  action  becomes  easy  and  pleasant 
under  the  influence  of  mental  excitement, 
and  a  vigorous,  nervous  impulse  is  useful  in 
sustaining  and  directing  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  how  difficult,  wearisome,  and  ineffi- 
cient muscular  contraction  becomes  when 
the  mind,  which  directs  it,  is  languid  or  ab- 
sorbed by  other  employments !  Hence  the 
superiority,  as  exercises  for  the  young,  of 
social  and  inspiriting  games,  which,  by  their 
joyous  and  boisterous  mirth,  call  forth  the 
requisite  nervous  stimulus  to  put  the  mus- 
cles into  vigorous  and  varied  action;  and 
hence  the  utter  inefficiency  of  the  dull  and 
monotonous  daily  walk  which  sets  all  phys- 
iological conditions  at  defiance,  and  which, 
in  so  many  schools,  is  made  to  supersede  the 
exercise  which  it  only  counterfeits.  Even 
the  playful  gambolling  and  varied  move- 
ments which  are  so  characteristic  of  the 
young  of  all  animals,  man  not  excepted, 
and  which  are  at  once  so  pleasing  and  at- 
tractive, might  have  taught  us  that  activity 
of  feeling  and  affection,  and  sprightliness 
of  mind,  are  intended  by  nature  to  be  the 
sources  and  accompaniments  of  healthful 
and  invigorating  muscular  exercise ;  and 
that  the  system  of  bodily  confinement  and 
mental  cultivation  now  so  much  in  vogue  is 
calculated  to  inflict  lasting  injury  on  all 
Avho  are  subjected  to  its  restraints.  The 
buoyancy  of  spirit  and  comparative  inde- 
pendence enjoyed  by  boys  when  out  of 
school  prevent  them  from  suffering  under  it 
so  much  as  girls  do  ;  but  the  mischief  done 
to  both  is  the  more  unpardonable  when  it 
does  occur,  because  it  might  so  easily  have 
been  entirely  avoided.  Even  in  some  infant 
schools,  where  properly  conducted  exercise 
ought  to  be  considered  as  a  necessary  of  life, 
the  principle  on  which  I  am  insisting  is  so 
little  understood  or  valued,  that  no  play- 
grounds have  been  provided,  and  the  very 
best  means  of  moral  as  well  as  physical 
training — play  with  companions — has,  to 
the  great  injury  of  the  poor  children,  been 
wholly  omitted.  Under  judicious  direction, 
the  play-ground  affords  the  most  valuable 
and  effective  aid  to  the  parent  and  teacher, 
not  only  in  eliciting  the  highest  degree  of 
physical  health,  but  in  developing  the  gen- 


eral character  by  the  practical  inculcation 
of  moral  principle,  kindness,  and  affection, 
in  the  daily  and  hourly  conduct  of  the  chil- 
dren committed  to  their  charge.  A  double 
evil  is  thus  incurred  in  its  neglect  or  omis- 
sion. 

Facts,  illustrative  of  the  beneficial  influ- 
ence of  a  mental  stimulus  as  the  only  legit- 
imate source  of  muscular  activity,  abound 
everywhere,  and  must  be  familiar  to  every 
reflecting  mind  ;  but  as  the  practical  influ- 
ences deducible  from  them  have,  to  a  great 
extent,  escaped  the  notice  of  parents  and 
teachers,  I  shall  add  a  few  remarks  in  their 
further  elucidation. 

Everybody  knows  how  wearisome  and 
disagreeable  it  is  to  saunter  along,  without 
having  some  object  to  attain  ;  and  how  list- 
less and  unprofitable  a  walk  taken  against 
the  inclination,  and  merely  for  exercise,  is, 
compared  to  the  same  exertion  made  in  pur- 
suit of  an  object  on  which  we  are  intent. 
The  difference  is  simply,  that  in  the  former 
case  the  muscles  are  obliged  to  work  with- 
out that  full  nervous  impulse  which  nature 
has  decreed  to  be  essential  to  their  healthy 
and  energetic  action  ;  and  that,  in  the  lat- 
ter, the  nervous  impulse  is  in  full  and  har- 
monious operation.  The  great  superiority 
of  active  sports,  botanical  and  geological  ex- 
cursions, gardening  and  turning,  as  means  of 
exercise,  over  mere  monotonous  movements, 
is  referable  to  the  same  principle.  Every 
kind  of  youthful  play  and  mechanical  oper- 
ation interests  and  excites  the  mind,  as  well 
as  occupies  the  body,  and  by  thus  placing 
the  muscles  in  the  best  position  for  whole- 
some and  beneficial  exertion,  enables  them 
to  act  without  fatigue,  for  a  length  of  time 
which,  if  occupied  in  mere  walking  for  ex- 
ercise, would  utterly  exhaust  their  powers. 

The  elastic  spring,  the  bright  eye,  the 
cheerful  glow  of  beings  thus  excited,  form 
a  perfect  contrast  to  the  spiritless  and  in- 
animate aspect  of  many  of  our  boarding- 
school  processions  ;  and  the  results,  in  point 
of  health  and  activity,  are  not  less  different. 
So  influential,  indeed,  is  the  nervous  stim- 
ulus, that  examples  have  occurred  of  strong 
mental  emotions  having  instantaneously 
given  life  and  vigour  to  paralytic  limbs. 
This  has  happened  in  cases  of  shipwrecks, 
fires,  and  sea-fights,  and  shows  how  indis- 
pensable it  is  to  have  the  mind  engaged  and 
interested  along  with  the  muscles.  Many 
a  person  who  feels  ready  to  drop  from  fa- 
tigue, after  a  merely  mechanical  walk,  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  subsequently  undergo- 
ing much  continuous  exertion  in  active  play 
or  in  dancing;  and  it  is  absurd,  therefore, 
to  say  that  exercise  is  not  beneficial,  when, 
in  reality,  proper  exercise  had  not  been 
tried. 


432 


ANDREW  COMBE. 


The  amount  of  bodily  exertion  of  which 
soldiers  are  capable,  is  well  known  to  be 
prodigiously  increased  by  the  mental  stim- 
ulus of  pursuit,  of  fighting,  or  of  victory. 
In  the  retreat  of  the  French  from  Moscow, 
for  example,  when  no  enemy  was  near,  the 
soldiers  became  depressed  in  courage,  and 
enfeebled  in  body,  and  nearly  sank  to  the 
earth  through  exhaustion  and  cold  :  but  no 
sooner  did  the  report  of  the  Russian  guns 
sound  in  their  ears,  or  the  gleam  of  hostile 
bayonets  flash  in  their  eyes,  than  new  life 
seemed  to  pervade  them,  .and  they  wielded 
powerfully  the  arms  which,  a  few  moments 
before,  they  could  scarcely  drag  along  the 
ground.  No  sooner,  however,  was  the  enemy 
repulsed,  and  the  nervous  stimulus  which 
animated  their  muscles  withdrawn,  than 
their  feebleness  returned.  Dr.  Sparrman, 
in  like  manner,  after  describing  the  fatigue 
and  exhaustion  which  he  and  his  party  en- 
dured in  their  travels  at  the  Cape,  adds, — 
"yet,  what  even  now  appears  to  me  a  mat- 
ter of  wonder  is,  that  as  soon  as  we  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  game  all  this  languor  left  us 
in  an  instant."  On  the  principle  already 
mentioned,  this  result  is  perfectly  natural, 
and  in  strict  harmony  with  what  we  observe 
in  sportsmen,  cricketers,  golfers,  skaters, 
and  others,  who,  moved  by  a  mental  aim, 
are  able  to  undergo  a  much  greater  amount 
of  bodily  labour  than  men  of  stronger  mus- 
cular frames  actuated  by  no  excitement  of 
mind  or  vigorous  nervous  impulse.  I  have 
heard  an  intelligent  engineer  remark  the 
astonishment  often  felt  by  country  people, 
at  finding  him  and  his  town  companions, 
although  more  slightly  made,  withstand  the 
fatigues  and  exposure  of  a  day's  surveying 
better  than  themselves  •,  but,  said  he,  they 
overlooked  the  fact,  that  our  employment 
gives  to  the  mind,  as  well  as  the  body,  a 
stimulus  which  they  were  entirely  without, 
as  their  only  object  was  to  afford  us  bodily 
aid,  when  required,  in  dragging  the  chains, 
or  carrying  our  instruments. — The  conversa- 
tion of  a  friend  is,  in  the  same  way,  a  power- 
ful alleviator  of  the  fatigue  of  walking. 

The  same  important  principle  was  im- 
plied in  the  advice  which  The  Spectator  tells 
us  was  given  by  a  physician  to  one  of  the 
Eastern  kings,  when  he  brought  him  a 
racket,  and  told  him  that  the  remedy  was 
concealed  in  the  handle,  and  could  act  upon 
him  only  by  passing  into  the  palms  of  his 
hands  when  engaged  in  playing  with  it, — 
and  that  as  soon  as  perspiration  was  induced, 
he  might  desist  for  the  time,  as  that  would 
be  a  proof  of  the  medicine  being  received 
into  the  general  system.  The  effect,  we  are 
told,  was  marvellous:  and  looking  to  the 
principle  just  stated,  to  the  cheerful  nervous 
stimulus  arising  from  the  confident  expecta- 


tion of  a  cure,  and  to  the  consequent  ad- 
vantages of  exercise  thus  judiciously  man- 
aged, we  have  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the 
falile  is  in  perfect  accordance  with  nature. 

The  story  of  an  Englishman  who  con- 
ceived himself  so  ill  as  to  be  unable  to  stir, 
but  who  was  prevailed  upon  by  his  medical 
adviser  to  go  down  from  London  to  consult 
an  eminent  physician  at  Inverness  who  did 
not  exist,  may  serve  as  another  illustration. 
The  stimulus  of  expecting  the  means  of 
cure  from  the  northern  luminary  was  suffi- 
cient to  enable  the  patient  not  only  to  bear, 
but  to  reap  benefit  from,  the  exertion  of 
making  the  journey  down  ;  and  his  wrath 
at  finding  no  such  person  at  Inverness,  and 
perceiving  that  he  had  been  tricked,  sus- 
tained him  in  returning,  so  that  on  his 
arrival  at  home  he  was  nearly  cured. 
Hence  also  the  superiority  of  battledore  and 
shuttlecock,  and  similar  games,  which  re- 
quire society  and  some  mental  stimulus, 
over  listless  exercise.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  posi- 
tive misnomer  to  call  a  solemn  procession 
exercise.  Nature  will  not  be  cheated;  and 
the  healthful  results  of  complete  cheerful 
exertion  will  never  be  obtained  where  the 
nervous  impulse  which  animates  the  muscles 
is  denied. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  supposed,  that  a 
walk  simply  for  the  sake  of  exercise  can 
never  be  beneficial.  If  a  person  be  thor- 
oughly satisfied  that  exercise  is  requisite, 
and  perfectly  willing  or  rather  desirous  to 
obey  the  call  which  demands  it,  he  is.  from 
that  very  circumstance,  in  a  fit  state  for  de- 
riving benefit  from  it,  because  the  desire  thon 
becomes  a  sufficient  nervous  impulse,  and 
one  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  muscular 
action.  It  is  only  where  a  person  goes  to 
walk,  either  from  a  sense  of  duty,  or  at  the 
command  of  another,  but  against  his  own 
inclination,  that  exercise  is  comparatively 
useless. 

This  constitution  of  nature,  whereby  a 
mental  impulse  is  required  to  direct  and  ex- 
cite muscular  action,  points  to  the  propriety 
of  teaching  the  young  to  observe  and  exam- 
ine the  qualities  and  arrangements  of  exter- 
nal objects.  The  most  pleasing  and  healthful 
exercise  may  be  thus  secured,  and  every  step 
be  made  to  add  to  useful  knowledge  and 
to  individual  enjoyment.  The  botanist,  the 
geologist,  and  the  natural  historian,  expe- 
rience pleasures  in  their  walks  and  rambles, 
of  which,  from  disuse  of  their  eyes  and  ob- 
serving powers,  the  multitude  is  deprived. 
This  truth  is  acted  upon  by  many  teachers 
in  Germany.  In  our  own  country,  too,  it  is 
beginning  to  be  felt,  and  one  of  the  professed 
objects  of  infant  education  is  to  correct  the 
omission.  It  must  not,  how  ever,  be  supposed 
that  any  kind  of  mental  activity  will  give  tho 


SIR    CHARLES  LYELL. 


433 


necessary  stimulus  to  muscular  action,  and 
that,  in  walking,  it  will  do  equally  well  to 
read  a  book,  or  carry  on  a  train  of  abstract 
thinking,  as  to  seek  the  necessary  nervous 
stimulus  in  picking  up  plants,  hammering 
rocks,  or  engaging  in  games.  This  were  a 
great  mistake  ;  for  in  such  cases  the  nervous 
impulse  is  opposed  rather  than  favourable  to 
muscular  action.  Ready  and  pleasant  men- 
tal activity,  like  that  which  accompanies 
easy  conversation  with  a  friend,  is  indeed 
beneficial,  by  diffusing  a  gentle  stimulus 
over  the  nervous  system  ;  and  it  may  be  laid 
down  as  a  general  rule  that  any  agreeable  em- 
ployment of  an  inspiriting  and  active  kind, 
and  which  does  not  absorb  the  mind,  adds  to 
the  advantages  of  muscular  exercise;  but 
wherever  the  mind  is  engaged  in  reading, 
or  in  abstract  speculation,  the  muscles  are 
drained,  as  it  were,  of  their  nervous  energy, 
by  reason  of  the  great  exhaustion  of  it  by 
the  brain  :  the  active  will  to  set  them  in  mo- 
tion is  proportionally  weakened,  and  their 
action  is  reduced  to  that  inanimate  kind  I 
have  already  condemned  as  almost  useless. 
From  this  exposition,  the  reader  will  be  able 
to  appreciate  the  hurtfulness  of  the  practice 
in  many  boarding-schools  of  sending  out  the 
girls  to  walk  with  a  book  in  their  hands,  and 
even  obliging  them  to  learn  by  heart  while 
in  the  act  of  walking.  It  would  be  difficult, 
indeed,  to  invent  a  method  by  which  the 
ends  in  view  could  be  more  completely  de- 
feated, as  regards  both  mind  and  body.  The 
very  effort  of  fixing  the  mind  on  the  printed 
page  when  in  motion  strains  the  attention, 
impedes  the  act  of  breathing,  disturbs  the 
nervous  influence,  and  thus  deprives  the  ex- 
ercise of  all  its  advantages.  For  true  and 
beneficial  exercise  there  must,  in  cases  where 
the  mind  is  seriously  occupied,  be  harmony 
of  action  between  the  mind  which  impels 
and  the  part  which  obeys  and  acts.  The 
will  and  the  muscles  must  be  both  directed 
to  the  same  end,  and  at  the  same  time,  other- 
wise the  effect  will  be  imperfect.  But  in 
reading  during  exercise,  this  can  never  be 
the  case.  The  force  exerted  by  strong  mus- 
cles, animated  by  strong  nervous  impulse  or 
will,  is  prodigiously  greater  than  when  the 
impulse  is  weak  or  discordant;  and  as  man 
was  made  not  to  do  two  things  at  once,  but 
to  direct  his  whole  powers  to  one  thing  at  a 
time,  he  has  ever  excelled  most  when  he  has 
followed  this  law  of  his  nature. 
The  Principles  of  Physiology,  etc. 


SIR   CHARLES   LYELL,    D.C.L., 

born   at   Kinnordy,    Forfarshire,    Scotland, 
1797,  graduated  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford, 
1821,  and  subsequently  studied  law,  which 
28 


ho  soon  abandoned  for  geology  ;  Professor 
of  Geology  in  King's  College,  London,  1832, 
President  of  the  Geological  Society,  1836  and 
1850,  knighted,  1848,  D.C.L.  Oxon.,  1855, 
died  1875. 

Principles  of  Geology,  Lond.,  1830-32-33, 
3  vols.  8vo,  9th  edit.,  1853,  8vo,  l()th  edit., 
1866-68,  8vo,  llth  edit.,  1872,  8vo  ;  Elements 
of  Geology,  Lond.,  1838,  12mo,  3d  edit., — 
Manual  of  Elementary  Geology, — 1851,  8vo, 
4th  edit.,  1852,  8vo,  5th  edit.,  1855,  8vo 
(Supplement,  1857,  8vo),  6th  edit.,  1865, 
8vo;  Travels  in  North  America  [in  184  L 
-42],  with  Geological  Observations,  Lond., 
1845,  2  vols.  p.  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1855,  2  vols.  cr. 
8vo  ;  A  Second  Visit  to  the  United  States  [in 
1845-46],  Lond.,  1849,  2  vols.  p.  8vo,  3d  edit., 
1855,  2  vols.  cr.  8vo ;  The  Geological  Evi- 
dences of  the  Antiquity  of  Man,  etc.,  Lond., 
1863,  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1863,  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1863, 
8vo,  4th  edit.,  1873,  8vo.  Also  papers  in 
Trans.  Geolog.  Soc.,  Edin.  Jour.,  Quart.  Re- 
view, etc. 

"  Mr.  Buckland,  Professor  Sedgwick,  and  Sir 
Charles  Lyell  are  the  most  eminent  of  the  new 
school  of  geology  which  has  sprung  up  simulta- 
neously in  France  and  England,  and  which,  by  a 
strict  application  of  the  Baconian  method  of 
philosophizing,  has  made  earth  reveal  the  secret 
of  its  formation  anterior  to  the  race  of  man,  by  the 
remains  imbedded  in  its  bosom.  A  more  fascinat- 
ing inquiry  never  was  presented  to  the  investiga- 
tion of  the  philosopher;  and  it  derives  additional 
interest  to  the  Christian  believer  from  the  con- 
firmation which  it  affords,  at  every  step,  of  the 
Mosaic  account  of  creation  and  the  truth  of  Holy 
Writ." — Sm  ARCHIBALD  ALISON:  Hint.  <>f  Europe, 
1815-1852,  chap.  v.  See  also  EJin.  Rev.,  July, 
1839,  July,  1863,  (London)  Quar.  fie,'.,  July,  1849, 
Oct.  1851,  N.  Brit.  Rev.,  Feb.  1851,  N.  Ame.r.  Rev., 
Oct.  1845,  and  Ticknor'a  Life  of  Prescott,  1864,  4to. 

CHANGES  IN  LANGUAGE. 

But  another  important  question  still  re- 
mains to  be  considered,  namely,  whether  the 
trifling  changes  which  can  alone  be  witnessed 
by  a  single  generation,  can  possibly  represent 
the  working  of  that  machinery  which,  in  the 
course  of  many  centuries,  has  given  rise  to 
such  mighty  revolutions  in  the  forms  of 
speech  throughout  the  world.  Every  one 
may  have  noticed  in  his  own  lifetime  the 
stealing  in  of  some  slight  alterations  of 
accent,  pronunciation,  or  spelling,  or  the  in- 
troduction of  some  words  borrowed  from 
a  foreign  language  to  express  ideas  of  which 
no  native  term  precisely  conveyed  the  import. 
He  may  also  remember  hearing  for  the  first 
time  some  cant  terms  or  slang  phrases,  which 
have  since  forced  their  way  into  common 
use,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  purist.  But 
he  may  still  contend  that  "within  the  range 
of  his  experience"  his  language  has  continued 
unchanged,  and  he  may  believe  in  its  im- 


434 


WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


mutability  in  spite  of  minor  variations.  The 
real  question,  however,  at  issue  is,  whether 
there  are  any  limits  to  this  variability.  He 
will  find,  on  further  investigation,  that  new 
technical  terms  are  coined  almost  daily  in 
various  arts,  sciences,  professions,  and  trades, 
that  new  names  must  be  found  for  new  in- 
ventions, that  many  of  these  acquire  a  meta- 
phorical sense,  and  then  make  their  way  into 
general  circulation,  as  "  stereotyped,"  for 
instance,  which  would  have  been  as  mean- 
ingless to  the  men  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury as  would  the  new  terms  and  images 
derived  from  steamboat  and  railway  travel- 
ling to  the  men  of  the  eighteenth. 

If  the  numerous  words,  idioms,  and 
phrases,  many  of  them  of  ephemeral  dura- 
tion, which  are  thus  invented  by  the  young 
and  old  in  various  classes  of  society,  in  the 
nursery,  the  school,  the  camp,  the  fleet,  the 
courts  of  law,  and  the  study  of  the  man  of 
science  or  literature,  could  all  be  collected 
together  and  put  on  record,  their  number  in 
one  or  two  centuries  might  compare  Avith 
the  entire  permanent  vocabulary  of  the  lan- 
guage. It  becomes,  therefore,  a  curious  sub- 
ject of  inquiry.  What  are  the  laws  which 
govern  not  only  the  invention,  but  also  the 
''selection."  of  some  of  these  words  or 
idioms,  giving  them  currency  in  preference 
to  others? — for  as  the  powers  of  the  human 
memory  are  limited,  a  check  must  be  found 
to  the  endless  increase  and  multiplication  of 
terms,  and  old  words  must  be  dropped  nearly 
as  fast  as  new  ones  are  put  into  circulation. 
Sometimes  the  new  word  or  phrase,  or  a 
modification  of  the  old  ones,  will  entirely 
supplant  the  more  ancient  expressions,  or, 
instead  of  the  latter  being  discarded,  both 
may  flourish  together,  the  older  one  having 
a  more  restricted  use. 

Although  the  speakers  may  be  uncon- 
scious that  any  great  fluctuation  is  going  on 
in  their  language, — although  when  we  ob- 
serve the  manner  in  which  new  words  and 
phrases  are  thrown  out,  as  if  at  random  or 
in  sport,  while  others  get  into  vogue,  we  may 
think  the  process  of  change  to  be  the  result 
of  mere  chance, — there  are  nevertheless  fixed 
laws  in  action,  by  which,  in  the  general 
struggle  for  existence,  some  terms  and  dia- 
lects gain  the  victory  over  others.  The 
slightest  .advantage  attached  to  some  new 
mode  of  pronouncing  or  spelling,  from  con- 
siderations of  brevity  or  euphony,  may  turn 
the  scale,  or  more  powerful  causes  of  selec- 
tion may  decide  which  of  two  or  more  rivals 
shall  triumph  and  which  succumb.  Among 
these  are  fashion,  or  the  influence  of  an 
aristocracy,  whether  of  birth  or  education, 
popular  writers,  orators,  preachers, — a  cen- 
tralized government  organizing  its  schools 
expressly  to  promote  uniformity  of  diction, 


and  to  get  the  better  of  provincialisms  and 
local  dialects.  Between  these  dialects,  which 
may  be  regarded  as  so  many  "  incipient  lan- 
guages," the  competition  is  always  keenest 
when  they  are  most  nearly  allied,  and  the 
extinction  of  any  one  of  them  destroys  some 
of  the  links  by  which  a  dominant  tongue 
may  have  been  previously  connected  with 
some  other  widely  distinct  one.  It  is  by  the 
perpetual  loss  of  such  intermediate  forms  of 
speech  that  the  great  dissimilarity  of  the 
languages  which  survive  is  brought  about. 
Thus,  if  Dutch  should  become  a  dead  lan- 
guage, English  and  German  would  be  sep- 
arated by  a  wider  gap. 

Some  languages  which  are  spoken  by 
millions,  and  spread  over  a  wide  area,  will 
endure  much  longer  than  others  which  have 
never  had  a  wide  range,  especially  if  the 
tendency  to  incessant  change  in  one  of  these 
dominant  tongues  is  arrested  for  a  time  by 
a  standard  literature.  But  even  this  source 
of  stability  is  insecure,  for  popular  writers 
themselves  are  great  innovators,  sometimes 
coining  new  words,  and  still  oftener  new  ex- 
pressions and  idioms,  to  embody  their  own 
original  conceptions  and  sentiments,  or  some 
peculiar  modes  of  thought  and  feeling  char- 
acteristic of  their  age.  Even  when  a  lan- 
guage is  regarded  with  superstitious  venera- 
tion as  the  vehicle  of  divine  truths  and 
religious  precepts,  and  which  has  prevailed 
for  many  generations,  it  will  be  incapable 
of  permanently  maintaining  its  ground. 
Hebrew  had  ceased  to  be  a  living  language 
before  the  Christian  era.  Sanscrit,  the  sacred 
language  of  the  Hindoos,  shared  the  same 
fate,  in  spite  of  the  veneration  in  which  the 
Vedas  are  still  held,  and  in  spite  of  many 
a  Sanscrit  poem  once  popular  and  national. 
The  Christians  of  Constantinople  and  the 
Morea  still  hear  the  New  Testament  and 
their  liturgy  read  in  ancient  Greek,  while 
they  speak  a  dialect  in  which  Paul  might 
have  preached  in  vain  nt  Athens.  So  in  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  the  Italians  pray 
in  one  tongue  and  talk  another.  Luther's 
translation  of  the  Bible  acted  as  a  powerful 
cause  of  selection,  giving  at  once  to  one  of 
many  competing  dialects  (that  of  Saxony)  a 
prominent  and  dominant  position  in  Ger- 
many; but  the  style  of  Luther  has,  like  that 
of  our  English  Bible,  already  become  some- 
what antiquated. 

The  Geological  Evidences  of  the  Antiquity 
of  Man,  Chap,  xxiii. 


WILLIAM  CARLETON, 

famous  for  his  graphic  portraitures  of  the 
Irish,  the  son  of  an  Irish  peasant,  was  born 


WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


435 


fit  Prillisk,  in  the  parish  of  Clogher,  County 
of  Tyrone,  Ireland,  1798,  died  1869. 

Traits  and  Stones  of  the  Irish  Peasantry, 
Duhl.,  1830,  2  vols.  Svo  (anon.),  Second 
Series,  1832,  2  vols.  Svo,  both,  1836,  5  vols. 
small  Svo,  and  also  Lond.,  1853,  5  vols.  16rno  ; 
Father  Butler,  Phila.,  1835,  ISmo;  Farda- 
roujih  the  Miser,  1839,  new  edit.,  Duhl., 

1846,  IGmo;    The   Fawn    of    Spring   Vale, 
The  Clarionet,  and  other  Tales,  Dub'l.,  1841, 
3  vols.  p.  Svo ;    Art  Mnguire,  Dubl.,  1841, 
16mo  ;  Denis  O'Shaughnessy  Going  to  May- 
nooth,   Lond.,   1845,   16mo ;    Valentine   Mc- 
Clutchy,  Dubl.,  1848,  8vo,  new  edit.,  1845, 
3  vols.  p.  Svo;    The  Black  Prophet,  Dubl., 

1847,  12mo  ;  The  Squanders  of  Castle  Squan- 
der, Lond.,  1852,  2  vols.  12mo  ;  Willie  Reilly, 
1855,  3  vols.  p.  Svo.     See  (London)  Quart. 
Review,  Oct.  1841. 

"  Never  was  that  wild,  imaginative  people  bet- 
ter described  ;  and  amongst  all  the  fun,  frolic,  and 
folly,  there  is  no  want  of  poetry,  pathos,  and  pas- 
sion."— PROFESSOR  JOH.V  WILSON. 

AN  IRISH  VILLAGE  AND  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

The  village  of  Findamore  was  situated  at 
the  foot  of  a  long  green  hill,  the  outline  of 
which  formed  a  low  arch,  as  it  rose  to  the 
eye  against  the  horizon.  This  hill  was  stud- 
ded with  clumps  of  beeches,  and  sometimes 
enclosed  as  a  meadow.  In  the  month  of 
July,  when  the  grass  on  it  was  long,  many 
an  hour  have  I  spent  in  solitary  enjoyment, 
watching  the  wavy  motion  produced  on  its 
pliant  surface  by  the  sunny  winds,  or  the 
flight  of  the  cloud  shadows,  like  gigantic 
phantoms,  as  they  swept  rapidly  over  it, 
whilst  the  murmur  of  the  rocking  trees,  and 
the  glaring  of  their  bright  leaves  in  the 
sun,  produced  a  heartfelt  pleasure,  the  very 
memory  of  which  rises  in  my  imagination 
like  some  fading  recollection  of  a  brighter 
world. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill  ran  a  clear  deep- 
hanked  river,  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  slip  of 
rich  level  meadow,  and  on  the  other  by  a  kind 
of  common  for  the  village  geese,  whose  white 
feathers  during  the  summer  season  lay  scat- 
tered over  its  green  surface.  It  was  also 
the  pi  ay -ground  for  the  hoys  of  the  village 
school  ;  for  there  ran  that  part  of  the  river 
which,  with  very  correct  judgment,  the 
urchins  had  selected  as  their  bathing-place. 
A  little  slope  or  watering  ground  in  the 
bank  brought  them  to  the  edge  of  the  stream, 
whore  the  bottom  fell  away  into  the  fearful 
depths  of  the  whirlpool  under  the  hanging 
oak  on  the  other  bank.  Well  do  I  remember 
the  first  time  I  ventured  to  swim  across  it, 
and  even  yet  do  I  see  in  imagination  the 
two  bunches  of  water-flags  on  which  the 
inexperienced  swimmers  trusted  themselves 
in  the  water. 


About  two  hundred  yards  above  this,  the 
boreen  [little  road],  which  led  from  the  vil- 
lage to  the  main  road,  crossed  the  river  by 
one  of  those  old  narrow  bridges  whose  arches 
rise  like  round  ditches  across  the  road, — an 
almost  impassable  barrier  to  horse  and  car. 
On  passing  the  bridge  in  a  northern  direc- 
tion, you  found  a,  range  of  low-thatched 
houses  on  each  side  of  the  road  ;  and  if 
one  o'clock,  the  hour  of  dinner,  drew  near, 
you  might  observe  columns  of  blue  smoke 
curling  up  from  a  row  of  chimnies,  some 
made  of  wicker  creels  plastered  over  with  a 
rich  coat  of  mud,  some  of  old  bottomless 
tubs,  and  others,  with  a  greater  appearance 
of  taste,  ornamented  with  thick  circular 
robes  of  straw,  sewed  together  like  bees' 
skeps  with  the  peel  of  a  brier  ;  and  many 
having  nothing  but  the  open  vent  above. 
But  the  smoke  by  no  means  escaped  by  its 
legitimate  aperture,  for  you  might  observe 
little  clouds  of  it  bursting  out  of  the  doors 
and  windows.  The  panes  of  the  latter  being 
mostly  stopped  at  other  times  with  old  hats 
and  rags,  were  now  left  entirely  open  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  it  a  free  escape. 

Before  the  doors,  on  right  and  left,  was  a 
series  of  dunghills,  each  with  its  concomi- 
tant sink  of  green  rotten  Avater  ;  and  if  it 
happened  that  a  stout-looking  woman,  with 
watery  eyes,  and  a  yellow  cap  hung  loosely 
upon  her  matted  locks,  came  with  a  chubby 
urchin  on  one  hand,  and  a  pot  of  dirty  water 
in  her  hand,  its  unceremonious  ejection  in 
the  aforesaid  sink  would  be  apt  to  send 
you  up  the  village  with  your  forefinger  and 
thumb  (for  what  purpose  you  would  your- 
self perfectly  understand)  closely,  but  not 
knowingly,  applied  to  your  nostrils.  But, 
independently  of  this,  you  would  be  apt  to 
have  other  reasons  for  giving  your  horse, 
whose  heels  are  by  this  time  surrounded  by 
a  dozen  of  barking  curs  and  the  same  num- 
ber of  shouting  urchins,  a  pretty  sharp  touch 
of  the  spurs,  as  well  as  for  complaining  bit- 
terly of  the  odour  of  the  atmosphere.  It  is 
no  landscape  without  figures  :  and  you  might 
notice — if  you  are,  as  I  suppose  you  to  be,  a 
man  of  observation — in  every  sink  as  you  pass 
along,  "a  slip  of  a  pig"  stretched  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  mud,  the  very  bean-ideal  of  luxury, 
giving  occasionally  a  long  luxuriant  grunt, 
highly  expressive  of  his  enjoyment;  or,  per- 
haps an  old  farrower,  lying  in  indolent  re- 
pose, with  half  a  dozen  young  ones  jostling 
each  other  for  their  draught,  and  punching 
her  belly  with  their  little  snouts,  reckless 
of  the  fumes  they  are  creating:  whilst  the 
loud  crow  of  the  cock,  as  he  confidently 
flaps  his  wings  on  his  own  dunghill,  gives 
the  warning  note  for  the  hour  of  dinner. 

As  you  advance,  you  will  also  perceive 
several  faces  thrust  out  of  the  doors,  and 


436 


WILLIAM  CARLE  TON. 


rather  than  miss  a  sight  of  you,  a  grotesque 
visage  peeping  by  a  short  cut  through  the 
paneless  windows,  or  a  tattered  female  fly- 
ing to  snatch  up  her  urchin,  that  has  been 
tumbling  itself  heels  up  in  the  dirt  of  the 
road,  lest  "  the  gintlemun's  horse  might  ride 
over  it ;"  and  if  you  happen  to  look  behind, 
you  may  observe  a  shaggy-headed  youth  in 
tattered  frieze,  with  one  hand  thrust  indo- 
lently in  his  breast  standing  at  the  door  in 
conversation  with  the  inmates,  a  broad  grin 
of  sarcastic  ridicule  on  his  face,  in  the  act 
of  breaking  a  joke  or  two  on  yourself  or  your 
horse;  or  perhaps  your  jaw  may  be  saluted 
with  a  lump  of  clay,  just  hard  enough  not  to 
fall  asunder  as  it  flies,  cast  by  some  ragged 
gossoon  from  behind  a  hedge,  who  squats 
himself  in  a  ridge  of  corn  to  avoid  detection. 

Seated  upon  a  hob  at  the  door,  you  may 
observe  a  toil-worn  man,  without  coat  or 
waistcoat,  his  red,  muscular,  sun-burnt 
shoulder  peeping  through  the  remnant  of 
a  shirt,  mending  his  shoes  with  a  piece  of 
twisted  flax,  called  a  lingel,  or  perhaps  sew- 
ing two  footless  stockings,  or  martyeens  to 
his  coat,  as  a  substitute  for  sleeves. 

In  the  gardens,  which  are  usually  fringed 
with  nettles,  you  will  see  a  solitary  labourer, 
working  with  that  carelessness  and  apathy 
that  characterize  an  Irishman  when  he  la- 
bours for  himself,  leaning  upon  his  spade 
to  look  after  you,  and  glad  of  any  excuse  to 
be  idle. 

The  houses,  however,  are  not  all  such  as 
I  have  described, — far  from  it.  You  see 
here  and  there,  between  the  more  humble 
cabins,  a  stout  comfortable-looking  farm- 
house, with  ornamental  thatching  and  well- 
glazed  windows;  adjoining  to  which  is  a 
hay-yard,  with  five  or  six  large  stacks  of 
corn,  well  trimmed  and  roped,  and  a  fine, 
yellow  weather-beaten  old  hay-rick,  half-cut, 
— not  taking  into  account  twelve  or  thirteen 
circular  strata  of  stones  that  mark  out  the 
foundations  on  which  others  had  been  raised. 
Neither  is  the  rich  smell  of  oaten  or  wheaten 
bread,  which  the  good  wife  is  baking  on  the 
griddle,  unpleasant  to  your  nostrils;  nor 
would  the  bubbling  of  a  large  pot,  in  which 
you  might  see,  should  you  chance  to  enter, 
a  prodigious  square  of  fat,  yellow,  and 
almost  transparent  bacon  tumbling  about, 
be  an  unpleasant  object:  truly,  as  it  hangs 
over  a  large  fire,  with  well-swept  hearth- 
stone, it  is  in  good  keeping  with  the  white 
settle  and  chairs,  and  the  dresser  with  nog- 
gins, wooden  trenchers,  and  pewter  dishes, 
perfectly  clean,  and  as  well  polished  as  a 
French  courtier. 

As  you  leave  the  village,  you  have  to  the 
left,  a  view  of  the  hill  which  I  have  already 
described  :  and  to  the  right,  a  level  expanse 
of  fertile  country,  bounded  by  a  good  view 


of  respectable  mountains,  peering  directly 
into  the  sky  ;  and  in  a  line  that  forms  an 
acute  angle  from  the  pointof  the  road  where 
you  ride,  is  a  delightful  valley,  in  the  bot- 
tom of  which  shines  a  pretty  lake;  and  a 
little  beyond,  on  the  slope  of  a  green  hill, 
rises  a  splendid  house,  surrounded  by  a  park 
well- wooded  and  stocked  with  deer.  You 
have  now  topped  the  little  hill  above  the 
village,  and  a  straight  line  of  level  road,  a 
mile  long,  goes  forward  to  a  country  town 
which  lies  immediately  behind  that  white 
church,  with  its  spire  cutting  into  the  sky 
before  you.  You  descend  on  the  other  side, 
and,  having  advanced  a  few  perches,  look 
to  the  left,  where  you  see  a  long  thatched 
chapel,  only  distinguished  from  a  dwell- 
ing-house by  its  want  of  chimneys,  and  a 
small  stone  cross  that  stands  on  the  top  of 
the  eastern  gable;  behind  it  is  a  grave-yard, 
and  beside  it  a  snug  public-house,  well 
white  washed  ;  then,  to  the  right,  you  ob- 
serve a  door,  apparently  in  the  side  of  a 
clay  bank,  which  rises  considerably  above 
the  pavement  of  the  road.  What !  you  ask 
yourself,  can  this  be  a  human  habitation? 
But  ere  you  have  time  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion, a  confused  buzz  of  voices  from  within 
reaches  your  ear,  and  the  appearance  of  a 
little  cossoon,  with  a  red  close-cropped  head 
and  Milesian  face,  having  in  his  hand  a 
short  white  stick,  or  the  thigh-bone  of  a 
horse,  which  you  at  once  recognize  as  u  the 
pass"  of  a  village  school,  gives  you  the  full 
information.  He  has  an  ink-horn,  covered 
with  leather,  dangling  at  the  button-hole 
(for  he  has  long  since  played  away  the  but- 
tons) of  his  frieze  jacket, — his  mouth  is  cir- 
cumscribed with  a  streak  of  ink, — his  pen  is 
stuck  knowingly  behind  his  ear. — his  shins 
are  dotted  over  with  fire-blisters,  black,  red, 
and  blue, — on  each  heel  a  kibe, — his  '•  leather 
crackers,"  videlicet,  breeches,  shrunk  up 
upon  him,  and  only  reaching  as  far  down 
as  the  caps  of  his  knees.  Having  spied  you, 
he  places  his  hand  over  his  brows,  to  throw 
back  the  dazzling  light  of  the  sun.  and  peers 
at  you  from  under  it,  till  he  breaks  out  into 
a  laugh,  exclaiming,  half  to  himself,  half 
to  you, — 

''  You  a  gintleman  ! — no,  nor  one  of  your 
breed  never  was,  you  procthorin'  thief,  you  !" 

You  are  now  immediately  opposite  the 
door  of  the  seminary,  when  half  a  dozen 
of  those  seated  next  it  notice  you. 

•'Oh,  sir,  here's  a  gintleman  on  a  horse! 
— masther,  sir,  here's  a  gintleman  on  a  horse, 
wid  boots  and  spurs  on  him,  that's  looking 
in  at  us." 

"Silence!"  exclaims  the  master;  <fback 
from  the  door, — boys,  rehearse, — every  one 
of  you  rehearse,  I  say,  you  Bcetians,  till  the 
gintleman  goes  past!" 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


437 


"  I  want  to  go  out,  if  you  plase,  sir." 

"  No  you  don't,  Phelini." 

"  I  do,  indeed,  sir." 

"  What !  is  it  afther  contradicthin'  me 
you'd  be?  Don't  you  see  the  'porter's'  out, 
and  you  can't  go." 

"Well,  'tis  Mat  Meehan  has  it,  sir;  and 
he's  out  this  half-hour,  sir ;  I  can't  stay  in, 
sir." 

"  You  want  to  be  idling  your  time  looking 
at  the  gintlcman,  Phelim." 

"  No,  indeed,  sir." 

"  Phelim,  I  know  you  of  ould, — go  to  your 
sate.  I  tell  you,  Phelim,  you  were  born  for 
theencouragementof  the  hemp  manufacture, 
and  you'll  die  promoting  it." 

In  the  meantime  the  master  puts  his  head 
out  of  the  door,  his  body  stooped  to  a  "  half 
bend," — a  phrase,  and  the  exact  curve  which 
it  forms,  I  leave  for  the  present  to  your  own 
sagacity, — and  surveys  you  until  you  pass. 
That  is  an  Irish  hedge-school,  and  the  per- 
sonage who  follows  you  with  his  eye  a  hedge- 
school  master. 

Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry. 
1830. 


GEORGE    BANCROFT,   LL.D., 

born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  1800, 
graduated  at  Harvard  College,  1817,  and  in 
1818  prosecuted  his  studies  in  Germany, 
under  Ileeren  and  Schlosser ;  was  subse- 
quently a  Unitarian  preacher,  and  for  a 
short  time  Greek  Tutor  in  Harvard  College  ; 
became  associate  principal  with  Joseph  G. 
Cogswell,  LL.D.,  of  the  Round  Hill  School 
at  Northampton,  and  published  translations 
of  lleeren's  Reflections  on  the  Politics  of 
Ancient  Greece,  and  lleeren's  Histories  of 
the  States  of  Antiquity  and  of  the  Political 
System  of  Europe  and  its  Colonies  from  the 
Discovery  of  America  to  the  Successful  Ter- 
mination of  the  Struggle  for  Freedom  of  the 
British  Colonies  ;  Collector  of  the  Port  of 
Boston,  1838-1841,  Secretary  of  the  Navy, 
184-0,  Minister  Plenipotentiary  to  Great 
Britain,  1846-1849,  and  to  Berlin,  1867- 
1877.  He  is  the  author  of  a  volume  of 
Poems,  1823,  of  orations,  pamphlets,  articles 
in  North  American  Review,  Boston  Quar- 
terly Review,  etc.,  a  volume  of  Literary  and 
Historical  Miscellanies.  N.  York,  1855,  8vo, 
and  of  the  History  of  the  United  States, 
from  the  Discovery  of  the  American  Colo- 
nies to  the  Establishment  of  its  Independ- 
ence, Boston,  1834-1874,  10  vols.  8vo. 

"The  History  of  the  United  States  is  a  work  of 
great  research,  and,  while  the  author  states  his 
own  opinions  decidedly  and  strongly,  it  is  per- 
vaded by  a  fair  and  just  spirit.  The  style  is  vig- 
orous, clear,  and  frank, — not  often  rising  into 


eloquence,  but  frequently  picturesque,  and  always 
free  from  imitation  and  from  pedantry  :  it  is,  in 
fact,  what  it  professes  to  be, — a  national  work,— 
and  is  worthy  of  its  great  theme." — Kniyht's  Eny.' 
Cyc.  :  notice  of  vols.  i.-v.  ? 

WASHINGTON  APPOINTED  COMMANDER-IN- 
CHIEF. 

Washington  was  then  [June  15,  1775] 
forty-three  years  of  age.  In  stature  he  a 
little  exceeded  six  feet ;  his  limbs  were 
sinewy  and  well  proportioned ;  his  chest 
broad  ;  his  figure  stately,  blending  dignity 
of  presence  with  ease.  His  robust  constitu- 
tion had  been  tried  and  invigorated  by  his 
early  life  in  the  wilderness,  his  habit  of  oc- 
cupation out  of  doors,  and  his  rigid  temper- 
ance;  so  that  few  equalled  him  in  strength 
of  arm  or  power  of  endurance.  His  com- 
plexion was  florid  ;  his  hair  dark  brown  ; 
his  head  in  its  shape  perfectly  round.  His 
broad  nostrils  seemed  formed  to  give  ex- 
pression to  scornful  anger.  His  dark  blue 
eyes,  which  were  deeply  set,  had  an  ex- 
pression of  resignation,  and  an  earnestness 
that  was  almost  sadness. 

At  eleven  years  old,  left  an  orphan  to  the 
care  of  an  excellent  but  unlettered  mother, 
he  grew  up  without  learning.  Of  arithme- 
tic and  geometry  he  acquired  just  knowledge 
enough  to  be  able  to  practise  measuring  land  ; 
but  all  his  instruction  at  school  taught  him 
not  so  much  as  the  orthography  or  rules  of 
grammar  of  his  own  tongue.  His  culture 
was  altogether  his  own  work,  and  he  was  in 
the  strictest  sense  a  self-made  man  ;  yet  from 
his  early  life  he  never  seemed  uneducated. 
At  sixteen  he  went  into  the  wilderness  as  a 
surveyor,  and  for  three  years  continued  the 
pursuit,  where  the  forest  trained  him,  in 
meditative  solitude,  to  freedom  and  large- 
ness of  mind  ;  and  nature  revealed  to  him 
her  obedience  to  serene  and  silent  laws.  In 
his  intervals  from  toil,  he  seemed  always  to 
be  attracted  to  the  best  men,  and  to  be  cher- 
ished by  them.  Fairfax,  his  employer,  an 
Oxford  scholar,  already  aged,  became  his 
fast  friend.  He  read  little,  but  with  close 
attention.  Whatever  he  took  in  hand,  he 
applied  himself  to  with  care  ;  and  his  papers, 
which  have  been  prepared,  show  how  he 
almost  imperceptibly  gained  the  power  of 
writing  correctly  ;  always  expressing  him- 
self with  clearness  and  directness,  often  with 
felicity  of  language  and  grace. 

When  the  frontiers  on  the  west  became 
disturbed,  he  at  nineteen  was  commissioned 
an  adjutant-general  with  the  rank  of  major. 
At  twenty-one  he  went  as  the  envoy  of  Vir- 
ginia to  the  council  of  Indian  chiefs  on  the 
Ohio  and  to  the  French  officers  near  Lake 
Erie.  Fame  waited  upon  him  from  his 
youth  ;  and  no  one  of  his  colony  was  so  much 


438 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


spoken  of.  He  conducted  the  first  military 
expedition  from  Virginia  that  crossed  the 
Alleghanies.  Braddock  selected  him  as  an 
aide,  and  he  was  the  only  man  who  came 
out  of  the  disastrous  defeat  near  the  Mo- 
nongahela  with  increased  reputation,  which 
extended  to  England.  The  next  year,  when 
he  was  but  four  and  twenty,  "  the  great  es- 
teem" in  which  he  was  held  in  Virginia, 
and  his  "  real  merit,"  led  the  lieutenant- 
governor  of  Maryland  to  request  that  he 
might  be  "commissioned  and  appointed 
second  in  command"  of  the  army  designed 
to  march  to  the  Ohio;  and  Shirley,  the  com- 
mander-in-chief,  heard  the  proposal  a  with 

freat  satisfaction  and  pleasure."  for  "  he 
new  no  provincial  officer  upon  the  conti- 
nent to  whom  he  would  so  readily  give  it  as 
to  Washington."  In  1758  he  acted  under 
Forbes  as  a  brigadier,  and  but  for  him  that 
general  would  never  have  been  able  to  cross 
the  mountains. 

Courage  was  so  natural  to  him  that  it  was 
hardly  spoken  of  to  his  praise :  no  one  ever 
at  any  moment  of  his  life  discovered  in  him 
the  least  shrinking  in  danger  ;  and  he  had  a 
hardihood  of  daring  which  escaped  notice, 
because  it  was  so  enveloped  by  superior  calm- 
ness and  wisdom. 

He  was  as  cheerful  as  he  was  spirited, 
frank  and  communicative  in  the  society  of 
friends,  fond  of  the  fox-chase  and  the  dance, 
often  sportive  in  his  letters,  and  liked  a 
hearty  laugh.  This  joyousness  of  dispo- 
sition remained  to  the  last,  though  the  vast- 
ness  of  his  responsibilities  was  soon  to  take 
from  him  the  right  of  displaying  the  impul- 
sive qualities  of  his  nature,  and  the  weight 
which  he  was  to  bear  up  was  to  overlay  and 
repress  his  gayety  and  openness. 

His  hand  was  liberal ;  giving  quietly 
and  without  observation,  as  though  he  was 
ashamed  of  nothing  but  being  discovered  in 
doing  good.  He  was  kindly  and  compas- 
sionate, and  of  lively  sensibility  to  the  sor- 
rows of  others;  so  that  if  his  country  had 
only  needed  a  victim  for  its  relief,  he  would 
have  willingly  offered  himself  as  a  sacrifice. 
But  while  he  was  prodigal  of  himself,  he 
was  considerate  for  others  ;  ever  parsimo- 
nious of  the  blood  of  his  countrymen. 

He  was  prudent  in  the  management  of  his 
private  affairs,  purchased  rich  lands  from 
the  Mohawk  Valley  to  the  flats  of  the  Kana- 
wha,  and  improved  his  fortune  by  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  judgment;  but  as  a  public 
man  he  knew  no  other  aim  than  the  good  of 
his  country,  and  in  the  hour  of  his  country's 
poverty  he  refused  personal  emolument  for 
iiis  service. 

His  faculties  were  so  well  balanced  and 
combined,  that  his  constitution,  free  from 
excess,  was  tempered  evenly,  with  all  the 


elements  of  activity,  and  his  mind  resembled 
a  well-ordered  commonwealth:  his  passions, 
which  had  all  the  intensest  vigour,  owed  al- 
legiance to  reason  ;  and,  with  all  the  fiery 
quickness  of  his  spirit,  his  impetuous  and 
massive  will  was  held  in  check  by  consum- 
mate judgment.  He  had  in  his  composition 
a  calm,  which  gave  him  in  moments  of  high- 
est excitement  the  power  of  self-control,  and 
enabled  him  to  excel  in  patience  even  when 
he  had  most  cause  for  disgust.  Washington 
was  offered  a  command  when  there  was  little 
to  bring  out  the  unorganized  resources  of  the 
continent  but  his  own  influence,  and  author- 
ity was  connected  with  the  people  by  the 
most  frail,  most  attenuated,  scarcely  discern- 
ible threads ;  yet  vehement  as  was  his  nature, 
impassioned  as  was  his  courage,  he  so  re- 
strained his  ardour  that  he  never  failed  con- 
tinuously to  exert  the  attracting  power  of 
that  influence,  and  never  exerted  it  so  sharply 
as  to  break  its  force. 

In  secrecy  he  was  unsurpassed  ;  but  his 
secrecy  had  the  character  of  prudent  reserve, 
not  of  cunning  or  concealment. 

His  understanding  was  lucid,  and  his 
judgment  accurate;  so  that  his  conduct 
never  betrayed  hurry  or  confusion.  No 
detail  was  too  minute  for  his  personal  in- 
quiry and  continued  supervision  ;  and  at  the 
same  time  he  comprehended  events  in  their 
widest  aspects  and  relations.  He  never 
seemed  above  the  object  that  engaged  his 
attention,  and  he  was  always  equal,  without 
an  effort,  to  the  solution  of  the  highest  ques- 
tions, even  when  there  existed  no  precedents 
to  guide  his  decision. 

In  this  way  he  never  drew  to  himself  ad- 
miration for  the  possession  of  any  one  qual- 
ity to  excess,  never  made  in  council  any  one 
suggestion  that  was  sublime  but  imprac- 
ticable, never  in  action  took  to  himself  the 
praise  or  the  blame  of  undertakings  aston- 
ishing in  conception,  but  beyond  his  means 
of  execution. 

It  was  the  most  wonderful  accomplishment 
of  this  man  that  placed  upon  the  largest 
theatre  of  events,  at  the  head  of  the  greatest 
revolution  in  human  affairs,  he  never  failed 
to  observe  all  that  was  possible,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  bound  his  aspirations  by  that 
which  was  possible. 

A  slight  tinge  in  his  character,  perceptible 
only  to  the  close  observer,  revealed  the  re- 
gion from  which  he  sprung,  and  he  might  be 
described  as  the  best  specimen  of  manhood 
as  developed  in  the  south  ;  but  his  qualities 
were  so  faultlessly  proportioned  that  his 
whole  country  rather  claimed  him  as  its 
choicest  representative,  the  most  complete 
expression  of  all  its  attainments  and  aspira- 
tions, lie  studied  his  country  and  con- 
formed to  it.  His  countrymen  felt  that  he 


GEORGE  BANCROFT. 


439 


was  the  best  type  of  America,  and  rejoiced 
in  it,  and  were  proud  of  it.  They  lived  in 
his  life,  and  made  his  success  and  his  praise 
their  own. 

Profoundly  impressed  with  confidence  in 
God's  Providence,  and  exemplary  in  his  re- 
spect for  the  forms  of  public  worship,  no 
philosopher  of  the  eighteenth  century  was 
more  firm  in  the  support  of  freedom  of  re- 
ligious opinion  ;  none  more  tolerant  or  more 
remote  from  bigotry ;  but  belief  in  God 
and  trust  in  His  overruling  power  formed 
the  essence  of  his  character.  Divine  wis- 
dom not  only  illumines  the  spirit,  it  in- 
spires the  will.  Washington  was  a  man 
of  action,  and  not  of  theory  or  words ;  his 
creed  appears  in  his  life,  not  in  his  pro- 
fessions, which  burst  from  him  very  rarely, 
and  only  at  those  great  moments  of  crisis  in 
the  fortunes  of  his  country  when  earth  and 
heaven  seemed  actually  to  meet,  and  his 
emotions  became  too  strong  for  suppression  ; 
but  his  whole  being  was  one  continued  act 
of  faith  in  the  eternal,  intelligent,  moral  or- 
der of  the  universe.  Integrity  was  so  com- 
pletely the  law  of  his  nature  that  a  planet 
would  sooner  have  shot  from  its  sphere  than 
he  have  departed  from  his  uprightness,  which 
was  so  constant  that  it  often  seemed  to  be 
almost  impersonal. 

They  say  of  Giotto  that  he  introduced 
goodness  into  the  art  of  painting;  Washing- 
ton carried  it  with  him  to  the  camp  and  the 
cabinet,  and  established  a  new  criterion  of 
human  greatness.  The  purity  of  his  will 
confirmed  his  fortitude;  and  as  he  never  fal- 
tered in  his  faith  in  virtue,  he  stood  fast  by 
that  which  he  knew  to  be  just;  free  from 
illusions;  never  dejected  by  the  apprehen- 
sion of  the  difficulties  and  perils  that  went 
before  him,  and  drawing  the  promise  of  suc- 
cess from  the  justice  of  his  cause.  Hence  he 
was  persevering,  leaving  nothing  unfinished  ; 
free  from  all  taint  of  obstinacy  in  his  firm- 
ness ;  seeking  and  gladly  receiving  advice, 
but  immovable  in  his  devotedness  to  right. 

Of  a  "retiring  modesty  and  habitual  re- 
serve," his  ambition  was  no  more  than  the 
consciousness  of  his  power,  and  was  subor- 
dinate to  his  sense  of  duty  ;  he  took  the  fore- 
most place,  for  he  knew  from  inborn  mag- 
nanimity that  it  belonged  to  him,  and  he 
dared  not  withhold  the  service  required  of 
him  :  so  that,  with  all  his  humility,  he  was 
by  necessity  the  first,  though  never  for  him- 
self or  for  private  ends.  He  loved  fame,  the 
approval  of  coming  generations,  the  good 
opinion  of  his  fellow-men  of  his  own  time, 
and  he  desired  to  make  his  conduct  coincide 
with  their  wishes;  but  not  fear  of  censure, 
nor  the  prospect  of  applause,  could  tempt 
him  to  swerve  from  rectitude,  and  the  praise 
which  he  coveted  was  the  sympathy  of  that 


moral  sentiment  which  exists  in  every  hu- 
man breast,  and  goes  forth  only  to  the  wel- 
come of  virtue. 

There  have  been  soldiers  who  have 
achieved  mightier  victories  in  the  field,  and 
made  conquests  more  nearly  corresponding 
to  the  boundlessness  of  selfish  ambition ; 
statesmen  who  have  been  connected  with 
more  startling  upheavals  of  society  ;  but  it  , 
is  the  greatness  of  Washington,  that  in  pub- 
lic trusts  he  used  power  solely  for  the  public 
good  ;  that  he  was  the  life  and  moderator, 
and  stay,  of  the  most  momentous  revolution 
in  human  affairs,  its  moving  impulse  and 
its  restraining  power.  Combining  the  cen- 
tripetal and  the  centrifugal  forces  in  their 
utmost  strength  and  in  perfect  relations, 
with  creative  grandeur  of  instinct  he  held 
ruin  in  check,  and  renewed  and  perfected 
the  institutions  of  his  country.  Finding  the 
colonies  disconnected  and  dependent,  he  left 
them  such  a  united  and  well-ordered  com- 
monwealth as  no  visionary  had  believed  to 
be  possible.  So  that  it  has  been  truly  said, 
"  he  was  as  fortunate  as  great  and  good." 
["  Of  all  great  men,  he  was  the  most  vir- 
tuous and  the  most  fortunate." — M.  GUIZOT: 
Essay  on  Washington,  Hillard's  translation.] 

This  also  is  the  praise  of  Washington  : 
that  never  in  the  tide  of  time  has  any  man 
lived  who  had  in  so  great  a  degree  the 
almost  divine  faculty  to  command  the  con- 
fidence of  his  fellow-men  and  rule  the  will- 
ing. Wherever  he  became  known,  in  his 
family,  his  neighborhood,  his  county,  his 
native  State,  the  continent,  the  camp,  civil 
life,  the  United  States,  among  the  common 
people,  in  foreign  courts,  throughout  the 
civilized  world  of  the  human  race,  and  even 
among  the  savages,  he,  beyond  all  other 
men,  had  the  confidence  of  his  kind.  .  .  . 
Washington  knew  that  he  must  depend  for 
success  on  a  steady  continuance  of  purpose 
in  an  imperfectly  united  continent,  and  on 
his  personal  influence  over  separate  and 
half-formed  governments,  with  most  of  whom 
he  was  wholly  unacquainted  ;  he  foresaw  a 
long  and  arduous  struggle ;  but  a  secret 
consciousness  of  his  power  bade  him  not  to 
fear  ;  and  whatever  might  be  the  backward- 
ness of  others,  he  never  admitted  for  a  mo- 
ment the  thought  of  sheathing  his  sword  or 
resigning  his  command,  till  his  work  of 
vindicating  American  liberty  should  be 
done.  To  his  wife  he  unbosomed  his  in- 
most mind :  u  I  hope  my  undertaking  this 
service  is  designed  to  answer  some  good 
purpose.  I  rely  confidently  on  that  Prov- 
idence which  has  heretofore  preserved  and 
been  bountiful  to  me." 

His  acceptance  at  once  changed  the  aspect 
of  affairs.  John  Adams,  looking  with  com- 
placency upon  "  the  modest  and  virtuous, 


440 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MA  CAUL  AY. 


the  amiable,  generous,  and  brave  general," 
as  the  choice  of  Massachusetts,  said:  "This 
appointment  will  have  a  great  effect  in 
cementing  the  union  of  these  colonies." 
"The  general  is  one  of  the  most  important 
characters  of  the  world  ;  upon  him  depend 
the  liberties  of  America."  All  hearts  turned 
with  affection  towards  Washington.  This  is 
he  who  was  raised  up  to  be  not  the  head  of 
a  party,  but  the  father  of  his  country. 
Hist,  of' the  United  States,  Vol.  vii.  Chap. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MA- 
CAULAY, M.P.,  LORD  MA- 
CAU LAY, 

a  son  of  Zachary  Macaulay,  and  born  at 
Rothley  Temple,  Leicestershire,  1800,  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  gained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  for 
his  poem,  Pompeii,  1819,  the  same  Chan- 
cellor's Medal  for  his  poem,  Evening,  1821, 
and  in  this  year  was,  as  a  reward  for  classi- 
cal proficiency,  elected  to  the  Craven  Scholar- 
ship ;  graduated  B.A.,  1822,  and  soon  after 
was  chosen  a  Fellow  of  his  college  ;  in  1825 
graduated  M.A. ;  was  called  to  the  bar,  at 
Lincoln's  Inn,  1826,  and  was  appointed  a 
Commissioner  of  Bankruptcy.  1827  :  M.P. 
for  Calne,  1830-32,  and  for  Leeds  (acting 
also  Secretary  to  the  Board  of  Control  for 
India),  1832-34 ;  absent  in  India  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Supreme  Council  of  Calcutta, 
•where  he  prepared  his  Indian  Penal  Code, 
1835-37;  Secretary  of  War,  1839;  M.P.  for 
Edinburgh,  1839-47  ;  Paymaster-General  of 
the  Forces,  with  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet,  1846  ; 
Lord-Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow, 
and  a  Bencher  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  1849  ;  Pro- 
fessor of  Ancient  History  in  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy, 1850;  received  the  Prussian  Order  of 
Merit,  1853  ;  M.P.  for  Edinburgh,  1852-56; 
raised  to  the  peerage  as  Baron  Macaulay,  of 
Rothley,  in  the  county  of  Leicester,  Sept. 
1857  ;  died  suddenly  of  disease  of  the  heart, 
Dec.  28,  1859.  _ 

Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  Lond.,  1842,  8vo, 
•with  Illustrations  by  G.  Scharf,  Jr.,  1847, 
sin.  4to,  1848.  etc. ;  Critical  and  Historical 
Essays  contributed  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, Lond.,  1843,  3  vols.  (with  several 
omissions  from  the  first  collection,  Phila., 
1842-44,  5  vols.  12mo) ;  The  History  of 
England  from  the  Accession  of  James  I., 
Lond.,  8vo,  vols.  i.,  ii.,  1848,  vols.  iii.,  iv., 
1855,  vol.  v.,  1861  ;  Biographies  contributed 
to  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  with  Notes 
of  his  Connection  with  Edinburgh,  and  Ex- 
tracts from  His  Letters  and  Speeches  [bv 
Adam  Black],  Edin.,  1860,  sin.  8vo.  Of  Ma- 
caulay's  Lays,  Essays,  and  History,  there 
have  been  many  editions :  the  following  is 


the  authorized  collective  edition  :  The  Works 
of  Lord  Macaulay  Complete:  Edited  by  his 
Sister  Lady  Trevelyan,  London,  Longmans 
&  Co.,  8  vols.  8vo,  viz.,  vols.  i.,  ii.,  iii.,  iv., 
History  of  England  ;  vols.  v.,  vi.,  vii.,  1-279, 
Essays;  vol.  vii.,  280—412,  Biographies  con- 
tributed to  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica, 
viz. :  Francis  Atterbury,  John  Bunyan, 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  Samuel  Johnson,  William 
Pitt;  vol.  vii.,  413-558,  Introductory  Report 
upon  the  Indian  Penal  Code  ;  vol.  vii.,  559— 
703,  Contributions  to  Knight's  Quarterly 
Magazine ;  vol.  viii.,  1-442,  Speeches  ;  vol. 
viii.,  443-539,  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome ;  vol. 
viii.,  541-603,  Miscellaneous  Poems,  Inscrip- 
tions, etc.;  vol.  viii.,  605-712,  Index. 

For  detailed  lists  of  editions  of  his  works 
and  criticisms,  see  Bohn's  Lowndes's  Bibl. 
Man.,  iii.  1432*,  Allibone's  Grit.  Diet,  of 
Eng.  Lit,  1156,  2451,  and  his  Sketch  of 
Lord  Macaulay's  Life  and  Writings,  pre- 
fixed to  Macauhiy's  History  of  England,  vol. 
v.,  Bost.,  1861,  12mo,  and  Phila.,  1869,  etc., 
12mo.  See  also  a  Memoir  of  Macaulay,  by 
Rev..  H.  II.  Milman,  D.D..  Lond.,  1862, 
post  8vo  (also  prefixed  to  Macaulay's  His- 
tory of  England,  vol.  viii.,  1862,  post  8vo)  : 
The  Public  Life  of  Lord  Macaulay,  by  the 
Rev.  Frederick  Arnold,  B.A.,  Lond.,  1862, 
8vo ;  Macaulay  the  Historian  and  Man  of 
Letters,  etc.,  by  John  Camden  Hotten, 
Lond.,  I860.  8vo;  The  Life  of  Lord  Macau- 
lay,  by  [his  nephew]  G.  0.  Trevelyan,  Lond., 
1876,  2  vols.  8vo ;  Selections  from  the 
Writings  of  Lord  Macaulay,  by  G.  0.  Tre- 
velyan, Lond.,  1876,  8vo ;  Selections  from 
the  Correspondence  of  the  Late  Macvey 
Napier,  Esq.,  Lond.,  1879,  8vo. 

"His  learning  is  prodigious;  and  perhaps  the 
chief  defects  of  his  composition  arise  from  ihe  ex- 
uberant riches  of  the  stores  from  which  they  are 
drawn.  When  warmed  in  his  subject,  he  is  thor- 
oughly in  earnest,  and  his  language,  in  conse- 
quence, goes  direct  to  the  heart.  .  .  .  Macaulay's 
style,  like  other  original  things,  has  already  pro- 
duced a  school  of  imitntors.  Its  influence  may 
distinctly  be  traced  both  in  the  periodical  and 
daily  literature  of  the  day.  Its  great  character- 
istic is  the  shortness  of  the  sentences, — which  often 
equals  that  of  Tacitus  himself, — and  the  rapidity 
with  which  new  and  distinct  ideas  or  facts  succeed 
each  other  in  his  richly-stored  pages.  He  is  the 
Pope  of  English  prose:  he  often  gives  two  senti- 
ments or  facts  in  a  single  line.  No  preceding 
writer  in  prose,  in  any  modern  language  with 
which  we  are  acquainted,  has  carried  this  art  of 
abbreviation,  or  rather  cramming  of  ideas,  to  such 
a  length;  and  to  its  felicitous  use  much  of  the 
celebrity  which  he  has  acquired  is  to  be  ascribed. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  it  is  a  most  powerful  engine 
for  the  stirring  of  the  mind,  and  when  not  repeated 
too  often  or  carried  too  far,  has  a  surprising  effect. 
Its  introduction  forms  an  era  in  our  historical  com- 
position. It  reminds  us  of  Sallust  and  Tacitus." 
— SIR  ARCHIBALD  ALISON:  Essay*,  1850,  iii.  635- 
637,  and  in  JBlackicood's  Mag.,  April,  1849. 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MA  CAUL  AY. 


441 


COPYRIGHT. 

If  the  law  were  what  my  honourable  and 
learned  friend  [Mr.  Serjeant  Talfourd] 
•wishes  to  make  it,  somebody  would  now 
have  the  monopoly  of  Dr.  Johnson's  works. 
Who  that  somebody  would  be  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  say  ;  but  we  may  venture  to  guess.  I 
guess,  then,  that  it  would  have  been  some 
bookseller,  who  was  the  assign  of  another 
bookseller,  who  was  the  grandson  of  a  third 
bookseller,  who  hud  bought  the  copyright 
from  Black  Frank,  the  doctor's  servant  and 
residuary  legatee  in  1785  or  1786".  Now, 
•would  the  knowledge  that  this  copyright 
would  exist  in  1841  have  been  a  source  of 
gratification  to  Johnson?  Would  it  have 
stimulated  his  exertions?  Would  it  have 
once  drawn  him  out  of  his  bed  before  noon? 
Would  it  have  once  cheered  him  under  a  fit 
of  the  spleen?  Would  it  have  induced  him 
to  give  us  one  more  allegory,  one  more  life  of 
a  poet,  one  more  imitation  of  Juvenal?  I 
firmly  believe  not.  I  firmly  believe  that  a 
hundred  years  ago,  when  he  was  writing  out 
debates  for  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  he 
would  very  much  rather  have  had  twopence 
to  buy  a  plate  of  a  shin  of  beef  at  a  cook's 
shop  underground.  Considered  as  a  reward 
to  him,  the  difference  between  a  twenty 
years'  and  sixty  years'  term  of  posthumous 
copyright  would  have  been  nothing  or  next 
to  nothing.  But  is  the  difference  nothing  to 
us?  I  can  buy  Rasselas  for  sixpence;  I 
might  have  had  to  give  five  shillings  for  it. 
1  can  buy  the  Dictionary,  the  entire  genuine 
Dictionary,  for  two  guineas  ;  perhaps  for 
less  ;  I  might  have  had  to  give  five  or  six 
guineas  for  it.  Do  I  grudge  this  to  a  man 
like  Dr.  Johnson  ?  Not  at  all.  Show  me 
that  the  prospect  of  this  boon  roused  him  to 
any  vigorous  effort,  or  sustained  his  spirits 
under  depressing  circumstances,  and  I  am 
quite  willing  to  pay  the  price  of  such  an  ob- 
ject, heavy  as  that  price  is.  But  what  I  do 
complain  of  is  that  my  circumstances  are  to 
be  worse,  and  Johnson's  none  the  better  ; 
that  I  am  to  give  five  pounds  for  what  to 
him  was  not  worth  a  farthing. 

The  principle  of  copyright  is  this  :  It  is  a 
tax  on  readers  for  the  purpose  of  giving  a 
bounty  to  writers.  The  tax  is  an  exceedingly 
bad  one  ;  it  is  a  tax  on  one  of  the  most  in- 
nocent and  most  salutary  of  human  pleas- 
ures ;  and  never  let  us  forget,  that  a  tax  on 
innocent  pleasures  is  a  premium  on  vicious 
pleasures.  I  admit,  however,  the  necessity 
of  giving  a  bounty  on  genius  and  learning. 
In  order  to  give  such  a  bounty,  I  willingly 
submit  even  to  this  severe  and  burdensome 
tax.  Nay,  I  am  ready  to  increase  the  tax. 
if  it  can  be  shown  that  by  so  doing  I  should 
proportionally  increase  the  bounty.  My 


complaint  is,  that  my  honourable  and 
learned  friend  doubles,  triples,  quadruples, 
the  tax,  and  makes  scarcely  any  perceptible 
addition  to  the  bounty.  Why,  Sir,  what  is 
the  additional  amount  of  taxation  which 
would  have  been  levied  on  the  public  for 
Dr.  Johnson's  works  alone,  if  my  honour- 
able and  learned  friend's  bill  had  been  the 
Jaw  of  the  land  ?  I  have  not  data  sufficient 
to  form  an  opinion.  But  1  am  confident  that 
the  taxation  on  his  Dictionary  alone  would 
have  amounted  to  many  thousandsof  pounds. 
In  reckoning  the  whole  additional  sum 
which  the  holders  of  his  copyrights  would 
have  taken  out  of  the  pockets  of"  the  public 
during  the  last  half  century  at  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds,  I  feel  satisfied  that  I  very 
greatly  underrate  it.  Now,  I  again  say 
that  I  think  it  but  fair  that  we  should  pay 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  consideration  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  pleasure 
and  encouragement  received  by  Dr.  Johnson. 
But  1  think  it  very  hard  that  we  should  pay 
twenty  thousand  pounds  for  what  he  would 
not  have  valued  at  five  shillings. 

My  honourable  and  learned  friend  dwells 
on  the  claims  of  the  posterity  of  great 
writers.  Undoubtedly,  Sir,  it  would  be  very 
pleasing  to  see  a  descendant  of  Shakespeare 
living  in  opulence  on  the  fruits  of  his  great 
ancestor's  genius.  A  house  maintained  in 
splendour  by  such  a  patrimony  would  be  a 
more  interesting  and  striking  object  than 
Blenheim  is  to  us,  or  than  Strath fieldsaye 
will  be  to  our  children.  But  unhappily,  it 
is  scarcely  possible  that,  under  any  system, 
such  a  thing  can  come  to  pass. 

My  honourable  and  learned  friend  does 
not  propose  that  copyright  shall  descend  to 
the  eldest  son,  or  shall  be  bound  up  by  irrev- 
ocable entail.  It  is  to  be  merely  personal 
property.  It  is  therefore  highly  improbable 
that  it  will  descend  during  sixty  years  or 
half  that  term  from  parent  to  child.  The 
chance  is  that  more  people  than  one  will 
have  an  interest  in  it.  They  will  in  all 
probability  sell  it  and  divide  the  proceeds. 
The  price  which  a  bookseller  will  give  for 
it  will  bear  no  proportion  to  the  sum  which 
he  will  afterwards  draw  from  the  public  if 
his  speculation  proves  successful.  lie  will 
give  little,  if  anything,  more  for  a  term  of 
sixty  years  than  for  a  term  of  thirty  or  five 
and  twenty.  The  present  value  of  a  dis- 
tant advantage  is  always  small  ;  but  when 
there  is  great  room  to  doubt  whether  a  dis- 
tant advantage  will  be  any  advantage  at  all, 
the  present  value  sinks  to  almost  nothing. 
Such  is  the  inconstancy  of  the  public  taste 
that  no  sensible  man  will  venture  to  pro- 
nounce, with  confidence,  what  the  sale  of 
any  book  published  in  our  days  will  be  in 
the  years  between  1890  and  1900.  The 


442 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MA  CAUL  AY. 


whole  fashion  of  thinking  and  writing  has 
often  undergone  a  change  in  a  much  shorter 
period  than  that  to  which  my  honourable 
and  learned  friend  would  extend  posthumous 
copyright.  What  would  have  been  consid- 
ered the  best  literary  property  in  the  earlier 
part  of  Charles  the  Second's  reign  ?  I  im- 
agine Cowley's  Poems.  Overleap  sixty  years, 
and  you  are  in  the  generation  of  which  Pope 
asked,  "  Who  now  reads  Cowley  ?"  What 
works  were  ever  expected  with  more  impa- 
tience by  the  public  than  those  of  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  which  appeared,  I  think,  in 
]754?  In  1814  no  bookseller  would  have 
thanked  you  for  the  copyright  of  them  all, 
if  you  had  offered  it  to  him  for  nothing. 
What  would  Paternoster  Row  give  now  for 
the  copyright  of  Hayley's  Triumphs  of  Tem- 
per, so  much  admired  within  the  memory 
of  many  people  still  living?  I  say,  there- 
fore, that  from  the  very  nature  of  literary 
property  it  will  almost  always  pass  away 
from  an  author's  family  ;  and  I  say,  that  the 
price  given  for  it  to  the  family  will  bear  a 
very  small  proportion  to  the  tax  which  the 
purchaser,  if  his  speculation  turns  odt  well, 
will  in  the  course  of  a  long  series  of  years 
levy  on  the  public. 

If,  Sir,  I  wished  to  find  a  strong  and  per- 
fect illustration  of  the  effects  which  I  antici- 
pate from  long  copyright,  I  should  select, — 
my  honourable  and  learned  friend  will  be 
surprised, — I  should  select  the  case  of  Mil- 
ton's granddaughter.  As  often  as  this  bill 
has  been  under  discussion  the  fate  of  Mil- 
ton's granddaughter  has  been  brought  for- 
ward by  the  advocates  of  monopoly.  My 
honourable  and  learned  friend  has  repeatedly 
told  the  story  with  great  eloquence  and  effect. 
lie  has  dilated  on  the  sufferings,  on  the  ab- 
ject poverty  of  this  ill-fated  woman,  the 
last  of  an  illustrious  race.  He  tells  us  that, 
in  the  extremity  of  her  distress,  Garrick  gave 
her  a  benefit,  that  Johnson  wrote  a  prologue, 
and  that  the  public  contributed  some  hun- 
dreds of  pounds.  Was  it  fit.  he  asks,  that 
she  should  receive,  in  this  eleemosynary 
form,  a  small  portion  of  what  was  in  truth 
a  debt?  Why,  he  asks,  instead  of  obtaining 
a  pittance  from  charity,  did  she  not  live  in 
comfort  and  luxury  on  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  of  her  ancestor's  works  ?  But,  Sir,  will 
my  honourable  and  learned  friend  tell  me 
that  this  event,  which  lie  has  so  often  and  so 
pathetically  described,  was  caused  by  the 
shortness  of  the  term  of  copyright?  Why, 
at  that  time,  the  duration  of  copyright  was 
longer  than  even  he,  at  present,  proposes  to 
make  it.  The  monopoly  lasted,  not  sixty 
vears,  but  for  ever.  At  the  time  at  which 
Hilton's  granddaughter  asked  charity,  Mil- 
ton's works  were  the  exclusive  property  of 
a  bookseller.  Within  a  few  months  of  the 


day  on  which  the  benefit  was  given  at  Gar- 
rick's  theatre,  the  holder  of  the  copyright  of 
Paradise  Lost — I  think  it  was  Tonson — ap- 
plied to  the  Court  of  Chancery  for  an  injunc- 
tion against  a  bookseller  who  had  published 
a  cheap  edition  of  the  great  epic  poem,  and 
obtained  the  injunction.  The  representation 
of  Comus  was,  if  I  remember  rightly,  in 
1750,  the  injunction  in  1752.  Here,  then, 
is  a  perfect  illustration  of  the  effect  of  long 
copyright.  Milton's  works  are  the  property 
of  a  single  publisher.  Every  body  who  wants 
them  must  buy  them  at  Tonson's  shop,  and  at 
Tonson's  price.  Whoever  attempts  to  under- 
sell Tonson  is  harassed  with  logal  proceed- 
ings. Thousands  who  would  gladly  possess  a 
copy  of  Paradise  Lost  must  forego  that  great 
enjoyment.  And  what,  in  the  meantime,  is 
the  situation  of  the  only  person  for  whom  we 
can  suppose  that  the  author,  protected  at 
such  a  cost  to  the  public,  was  at  all  inter- 
ested ?  She  is  reduced  to  utter  destitution. 
Milton's  works  are  under  a  monopoly.  Mil- 
ton's granddaughter  is  starving.  The  reader 
is  pillaged  ;  but  the  writer's  family  is  not 
enriched.  Society  is  taxed  doubly.  It  has 
to  give  an  exorbitant  price  for  the  poems; 
and  it  has  at  the  same  time  to  give  alms  to 
the  only  surviving  descendant  of  the  poet. 
Speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
Feb.  5,  1841 :  Macaulay's  Works. 

The  bill  which  Macaulay  thus  opposed, 
was  rejected  by  45  votes  to  38. 

TRIAL  OF  WARREN  HASTINGS. 

In  the  meantime  the  preparations  for  the 
trial  had  proceeded  rapidly;  and  on  the  thir- 
teenth of  February,  1788,  the  sittings  of  the 
Court  commenced.  There  have  been  spec- 
tacles more  dazzling  to  the  eye,  more  gor- 
geous with  jewelry  and  cloth  of  gold,  more 
attractive  to  grown-up  children,  than  that 
which  was  then  exhibited  at  Westminster ; 
but,  perhaps,  there  never  was  a  spectacle  so 
well  calculated  to  strike  a  highly  cultivated, 
a  reflecting,  an  imaginative  mind.  All  the 
various  kinds  of  interest  which  belong  to  the 
near  and  to  the  distant,  to  the  present  and 
to  the  past,  were  collected  on  one  spot,  and 
in  one  hour.  All  the  talents  and  all  the 
accomplishments  which  are  developed  by 
liberty  and  civilization  were  now  displayed, 
with  every  advantage  that  could  be  derived 
both  from  co-operation  and  from  contrast. 
Every  step  in  the  proceedings  carried  the 
mind  either  backward,  through  many 
troubled  centuries,  to  the  days  when  the 
foundations  of  our  constitution  were  laid  ; 
or  far  away,  over  boundless  seas  and  deserts, 
to  dusky  nations  living  under  strange  stars, 
worshipping  strange  gods,  and  writing 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 


443 


strange  characters  from  right  to  left.  The 
High  Court  of  Parliament  was  to  sit,  accord- 
ing to  forms  handed  down  from  the  days  of 
the  Plantagenets,on  an  Englishman  accused 
of  exercising  tyranny  over  the  lord  of  the 
holy  city  of  Benares,  and  over  the  ladies  of 
the  princely  house  of  Oude. 

The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It 
was  the  great  hall  of  William  llufus,  the 
hall  which  had  resounded  with  acclamations 
at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings,  the  hall 
which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of 
Bacon  and  the  just  absolution  of  Somers, 
the  hall  where  the  eloquence  of  Strafford  had 
for  a  moment  awed  and  melted  a  victorious 
party  inflamed  with  just  resentment,  the 
hall  where  Charles  had  confronted  the  High 
Court  of  Justice  with  the  courage  which  has 
half  redeemed  his  fame.  Neither  military 
nor  civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The  avenues 
were  lined  with  grenadiers.  The  streets  were 
kept  clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in 
gold  and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the 
heralds  under  Garter  King-at-arms.  The 
judges  in  their  vestments  of  state  attended 
to  give  advice  on  points  of  law.  Near  a 
hundred  and  seventy  lords,  three-fourths  of 
the  Upper  House  as  the  Upper  House  then 
was,  walked  in  solemn  order  from  their 
usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tribunal. 
The  junior  baron  present  led  the  way,  George 
Eliott,  Lord  Heathfield,  recently  ennobled 
for  his  memorable  defence  of  Gibraltar 
against  the  fleets  and  armies  of  France  and 
Spain.  The  long  procession  was  closed  by 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Earl  Marshal  of  the 
realm,  by  the  great  dignitaries,  and  by  the 
brothers  and  sons  of  the  King.  Last  of  all 
came  the  Prince  of  Wales,  conspicuous  by 
his  tine  person  and  noble  bearing.  The  grey 
old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  The  long 
galleries  were  crowded  by  an  audience  such 
as  has  rarely  excited  the  fears  or  the  emula- 
tion of  an  orator.  There  were  gathered 
together,  from  all  parts  of  a  great,  free, 
enlightened,  and  prosperous  empire,  grace 
and  female  loveliness,  wit  and  learning,  the 
representatives  of  every  science  and  of  every 
art.  There  were  seated  round  the  Queen 
the  fair-haired  young  daughters  of  the  house 
of  Brunswick.  There  the  Ambassadors  of 
great  Kings  and  Commonwealths  gazed  with 
admiration  on  a  spectacle  which  no  other 
country  in  the  world  could  present.  There 
Siddons,  in  the  prime  of  her  majestic  beauty, 
looked  with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing 
all  the  imitations  of  the  stage.  There  the 
historian  of  the  Roman  Empire  thought  of 
the  days  when  Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of 
Sicily  against  Verres,  and  when,  before  a 
senate  which  still  retained  some  show  of 
freedom,  Tacitus  thundered  against  the  op- 
pressor of  Africa.  There  were  seen,  side  by 


side,  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest 
scholar  of  the  age.  The  spectacle  had  allured 
Reynolds  from  that  easel  which  has  preserved 
us  the  thoughtful  foreheads  of  so  many 
writers  and  statesmen,  and  the  sweet  smiles 
of  so  many  noble  matrons.  It  had  induced 
P;irr  to  suspend  his  labours  in  that  dark  and 
profound  mine  from  which  he  had  extracted 
a  vast  treasure  of  erudition,  a  treasure  too 
often  buried  in  the  earth,  too  often  paraded 
with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostentation, 
but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splendid. 
There  appeared  the  voluptuous  charms  of 
her  to  whom  the  heir  of  the  throne  had  in 
secret  plighted  his  faith.  There  too  was 
she,  the  beautiful  mother  of  a  beautiful  race, 
the  Saint  Cecilia  whose  delicate  features, 
lighted  up  by  love  and  music,  art  has  res- 
cued from  the  common  decay.  There  were 
the  members  of  that  brilliant  society  which 
quoted,  criticised,  and  exchanged  repartees, 
under  the  rich  peacock-hangings  of  Mrs. 
Montague.  And  there  the  ladies  whose  lips, 
more  persuasive  than  those  of  Fox  himself, 
had  carried  the  Westminster  election  against 
palace  and  treasury,  shone  round  Georgiana, 
Duchess  of  Devonshire. 

The  Sergeants  made  proclamation.  Has- 
tings advanced  to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee. 
The  culprit  was  indeed  not  unworthy  of  that 
great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an  extensive 
and  populous  country,  and  made  laws  and 
treaties,  had  sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up 
and  pulled  down  princes.  And  in  his  high 
place  he  had  so  borne  himself,  that  all  had 
feared  him,  that  most  had  loved  him,  and 
that  hatred  itself  could  deny  him  no  title  to 
glory,  except  virtue.  He  looked  like  a  great 
man,  and  not  like  a  bad  man.  A  person 
small  and  emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity 
from  a  carriage  which,  while  it  indicated  def- 
erence to  the  court,  indicated  also  habitual 
self-possession  and  self-respect,  a  high  and 
intellectual  forehead,  a  brow  pensive,  but 
not  gloomy,  a  mouth  of  inflexible  decision, 
a  face  pale  and  worn,  but  serene,  on  which 
was  written,  as  legibly  as  under  the  picture 
in  the  council,  Mens  cequa  in  ardnis :  such 
was  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  pro- 
consul presented  himself  to  his  judges. 

His  counsel  accompanied  him,  men  all  of 
whom  Avere  afterwards  raised  by  their  tal- 
ents and  learning  to  the  highest  posts  in 
their  profession  :  the  bold  and  strong-minded 
Law,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's 
Bench  ;  the  more  humane  and  eloquent 
Dallas,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  Com- 
mon Pleas;  and  Plomer  who,  near  twenty 
years  later,  successfully  conducted  in  the 
same  high  court  the  defence  of  Lord  Mel- 
ville, and  subsequently  became  Vice-Chan- 
cellor and  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates 


444 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAY. 


attracted  so  much  notice  as  the  accusers.  In 
the  midst  of  the  blaze  of  red  drapery  a  space 
had  been  fitted  up  with  green  benches,  and 
tables  for  the  Commons.  The  managers, 
with  Burke  at  their  head,  appeared  in  full 
dress.  The  collectors  of  gossip  did  not  fail 
to  remark  that  even  Fox,  generally  so  re- 
gardless of  appearance,  had  paid  to  the  il- 
lustrious tribunal  the  compliment  of  wearing 
a  bag  and  sword.  Pitt  had  refused  to  be  one 
of  the  conductors  of  the  impeachment;  and 
his  commanding,  copious,  and  sonorous  elo- 
quence was  wanting  to  that  great  muster  of 
various  talents.  Age  and  blindness  had  un- 
fitted Lord  North  for  the  duties  of  a  public 
prosecutor  ;  and  his  friends  were  left  with- 
out the  help  of  his  excellent  sense,  his  tact, 
and  his  urbanity.  But,  in  spite  of  the  ab- 
sence of  these  two  distinguished  members  of 
the  Lower  House,  the  box  in  which  the  man- 
agers stood  contained  an  array  of  speakers 
such  as  perhaps  had  not  appeared*  together 
since  the  great  age  of  Athenian  eloquence. 
There  were  Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  English 
Demosthenes  and  the  English  Ilyperides. 
There  was  Burke,  ignorant,  indeed,  or  neg- 
ligent of  the  art  of  adapting  his  reasonings 
and  his  style  to  the  capacity  and  taste  of  his 
hearers,  but  in  amplitude  of  comprehension 
and  richness  of  imagination  superior  to  every 
orator,  ancient  or  modern.  There,  with  eyes 
reverentiallv  fixed  on  Burke,  appeared  the 
finest  gentleman  of  his  age,  his  form  devel- 
oped by  every  manly  exercise,  his  face 
beaming  with  intelligence  and  spirit,  the 
ingenious,  the  chivalrous,  the  high-souled 
Windham.  Nor,  though  surrounded  by  such 
men,  did  the  youngest  manager  pass  unno- 
ticed. At  an  age  when  most  of  those  wrho 
distinguished  themselves  in  life  are  still  con- 
tending for  prizes  and  fellowships  at  college, 
he  had  won  for  himself  a  conspicuous  place 
in  parliament.  No  advantage  of  fortune  or 
connection  was  wanting  that  could  set  off 
to  the  height  his  splendid  talents  and  his 
unblemished  honour.  At  twenty-seven  he 
had  been  thought  worthy  to  be  ranked  with 
the  veteran  statesmen  who  appeared  as  the 
delegates  of  the  British  Commons  at  the  bar 
of  the  British  nobility.  All  who  stood  at 
that  bar,  save  him  alone,  are  gone, — culprit, 
advocates,  accusers.  To  the  generation 
which  is  now  in  the  vigour  of  life,  he  is  the 
sole  representative  of  a  great  age  which  lias 
passed  away.  But  those  who,  within  the 
last  ten  years,  have  listened  with  delight,  till 
the  morning  sun  shone  on  the  tapestries  of 
the  House  of  Lords,  to  the  lofty  and  ani- 
mated eloquence  of  Charles  Earl  Grey,  are 
able  to  form  some  estimate  of  the  powers  of 
a  race  of  men  among  whom  he  was  not  the 
foremost. 

The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings 


were  first  read.  The  ceremony  occupied  two 
whole  days,  and  was  rendered  less  tedious 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  been  by  the 
silver  voice  and  just  emphasis  of  Cowper, 
the  clerk  of  the  court,  a  near  relation  of  the 
amiable  poet.  On  the  third  day  Burke  rose. 
Four  sittings  were  occupied  by  his  opening 
speech,  which  was  intended  to  be  a  general 
introduction  to  all  the  charges.  With  an 
exuberance  of  thought  and  a  splendour  of 
diction  which  more  than  satisfied  the  highly- 
raised  expectation  of  the  audience,  he  de- 
scribed the  character  and  institutions  of  the 
natives  of  India,  recounted  the  circum- 
stances in  which  the  Asiatic  empire  of 
Britain  had  originated,  and  set  forth  the 
constitution  of  the  Company,  and  of  the 
English  Presidencies.  Having  thus  at- 
tempted to  communicate  to  his  hearers  an 
idea  of  Eastern  society,  as  vivid  as  that 
which  existed  in  his  own  mind,  he  proceeded 
to  arraign  the  administration  of  Hastings  as 
systematically  conducted  in  defiance  of  mo- 
rality and  public  law.  The  energy  and  pa- 
thos of  the  great  orator  extorted  expressions 
of  unwonted  admiration  from  the  stern  and 
hostile  Chancellor,  and,  for  a  moment, 
seemed  to  pierce  even  the  resolute  heart  of 
the  defendant.  The  ladies  in  the  galleries, 
unaccustomed  to  such  displays  of  eloquence, 
excited  by  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion, 
and  perhaps  not  unwilling  to  display  their 
taste  and  sensibility,  were  in  a  state  of  un- 
controllable emotion.  Handkerchiefs  were 
pulled  out ;  smelling-bottles  were  handed 
round  ;  hysterical  sobs  and  screams  were 
heard  ;  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  carried  out 
in  a  fit.  At  length  the  orator  concluded. 
Raising  his  voice  till  the  old  arches  of  Irish 
oak  resounded,  "  Therefore."  said  he,  "  hath 
it  with  all  confidence  been  ordered  by  the 
Commons  of  Great  Britain,  that  I  impeach 
Warren  Hastings  of  high  crimes  and  misde- 
meanours. I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of 
the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament,  whose 
trust  he  has  betrayed.  I  impeach  him  in 
the  name  of  the  English  nation,  whose  an- 
cient honour  he  has  sullied.  I  impeach  him 
in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose 
rights  he  h;is  trodden  under  foot,  and  whose 
country  he  has  turned  into  a  desert.  Lastly, 
in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  in  the 
name  of  both  sexes,  in  the  name  of  every 
age,  in  the  name  of  every  rank,  I  impeach 
the  common  enemy  and  oppressor  of  all !" 
Edin.  Review,  Oct.  1841,  and  in  Macau- 
lay's  Works. 

DEATH  OF  CHARLES  THE  SECOXD. 

The  King  was  HI  groat  pain,  and  com- 
plained that  he  felt  as  if  a  fire  was  burning 
within  him.  Yet  he  bore  up  against  his 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAT. 


445 


sufferings  with  a  fortitude  which  did  not 
seem  to  belong  to  his  soft  and  luxurious 
nature.  The  .sight  of  his  misery  affected 
his  wife  so  much  that  she  fainted,  and  was 
carried  senseless  to  her  chamber.  The  prel- 
ates who  were  in  waiting  had  from  the  first 
exhorted  him  to  prepare  for  his  end.  They 
now  thought  it  their  duty  to  address  him  in 
a  still  more  urgent  manner.  William  San- 
croft,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  an  honest 
and  pious,  though  narrow-minded,  man  used 
great  freedom.  "  It  is  time,''  he  said,  "  to 
speak  out  ;  for,  Sir,  you  are  about  to  appeal- 
before  a  Judge  who  is  no  respecter  of  per- 
sons." The  King  answered  not  a  woi-d. 

Thomas  Ken,  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells, 
then  tried  his  powers  of  persuasion.  He 
•was  a  man  of  parts  and  learning,  of  quick 
sensibility  and  stainless  virtue.  His  elab- 
orate works  have  long  been  forgotten;  but 
his  morning  .and  evening  hymns  are  still 
repeated  daily  in  thousands  of  dwellings. 
Though,  like  most  of  his  order,  zealous  for 
monarchy,  he  was  no  sycophant.  Before 
he  became  a  Bishop,  he  had  maintained  the 
honour  of  his  gown  by  refusing,  when  the 
court  was  at  Winchester,  to  let  Eleanor 
Gwynn  lodge  in  the  house  which  he  occupied 
there  as  a  prebendary.  The  King  had  sense 
enough  to  respect  so  manly  a  spirit.  Of  all 
the  prelates  he  liked  Ken  the  best.  It  was 
to  no  purpose,  however,  that  the  good  Bishop 
now  put  forth  all  his  eloquence.  His  solemn 
and  pathetic  exhortation  awed  and  melted 
the  bystanders  to  such  a  degree  that  some 
among  them  believed  him  to  be  filled  with 
the  same  spirit  which,  in  the  old  time,  had. 
by  the  mouths  of  Nathan  and  Elias,  called 
sinful  princes  to  repentance.  Charles,  how- 
ever, was  unmoved.  He  made  no  objection 
indeed  when  the  service  for  the  visitation 
of  the  sick  was  read.  In  reply  to  the  press- 
ing questions  of  the  divines,  he  said  he  was 
sorry  for  what  he  had  done  amiss ;  and  he 
suffered  the  absolution  to  be  pronounced 
over  him  according  to  the  forms  of  the 
Church  of  England:  but  when  he  was 
urged  to  declare  that  he  died  in  the  com- 
munion of  that  Church,  lie  seemed  not  to 
hear  what  was  said  ;  and  nothing  could  in- 
duce him  to  take  the  Eucharist  from  the 
hands  of  the  Bishops.  A  table  with  bread 
and  wine  was  brought  to  his  bedside,  but 
in  vain.  Sometimes  he  said  there  was 
no  hurry,  and  sometimes  that  he  was  too 
weak. 

Many  attributed  this  apathy  to  contempt 
for  divine  things,  and  many  to  the  stupor 
which  often  precedes  death.  But  there  were 
in  the  palace  a  few  persons  who  knew  better. 
Charles  had  never  been  a  sincere  member  of 
the  Established  Church.  His  mind  had  long 
oscillated  between  Hobbism  and  Popery. 


When  his  health  was  good  and  his  spirits 
high  he  was  a  scoffer.  In  his  few  serious 
moments  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic.  The 
Duke  of  York  was  aware  of  this,  but  was 
entirely  occupied  with  the  care  of  his  own 
interests.  He  had  ordered  the  outports  to 
be  closed.  He  had  posted  detachments  of 
the  Guards  in  different  parts  of  the  City. 
He  had  also  procured  the  feeble  signature 
of  the  dying  King  to  .an  instrument  by  which 
some  duties  granted  only  till  the  demise  of 
the  Crown,  were  let  to  farm  for  a  term  of 
three  years.  These  things  occupied  the 
attention  of  James  to  such  a  degree  that, 
though,  on  ordinary  occasions,  he  was  indis- 
creetly and  unseasonably  eager  to  bring  over 
proselytes  to  his  Church,  he  never  reflected 
that  his  brother  was  in  danger  of  dying  with- 
out the  last  sacraments.  This  neglect  was 
the  more  extraordinary  because  the  Duchess 
of  York  had,  at  the  request  of  the  Queen, 
suggested,  on  the  morning  on  which  the 
King  was  taken  ill,  the  propriety  of  procur- 
ing spiritual  assistance.  For  such  assistance 
Charles  was  at  last  indebted  to  an  agency 
very  different  from  that  of  his  pious  wife 
and  sister-in-law.  A  life  of  frivolity  and  vice 
had  not  extinguished  in  the  Duchess  of 
Portsmouth  all  sentiments  of  religion  or  all 
that  kindness  which  is  the  glory  of  her  sex. 
The  French  ambassador,  Barillon,  who  had 
come  to  the  palace  to  enquire  after  the  King, 
paid  her  a  visit.  He  found  her  in  an  agony 
of  sorrow.  She  took  him  into  a  secret  room, 
and  poured  out  her  whole  heart  to  him.  "I 
have,"  she  said,  ''  a  thing  of  great  moment 
to  tell  you.  If  it  were  known,  my  head 
would  be  in  danger.  The  King  is  really  and 
truly  a  Catholic,  but  he  will  die  without 
being  reconciled  to  the  Church.  His  bed- 
chamber is  full  of  Protestant  clergymen.  I 
cannot  enter  it  without  giving  scandal.  The 
Duke  is  thinking  only  of  himself.  Speak 
to  him.  Remind  him  that  there  is  a  soul 
at  stake.  He  is  master  now.  He  can  clear 
the  room.  Go  this  instant,  or  it  will  be  too 
late." 

Barillon  hastened  to  the  bedchamber,  took 
the  Duke  aside,  and  delivered  the  message 
of  the  mistress.  The  conscience  of  James 
smote  him.  lie  started  as  if  roused  from 
sleep,  and  declared  that  nothing  should  pre- 
vent him  from  discharging  the  sacred  duty 
which  had  been  too  long  delayed.  Several 
schemes  were  discussed  and  rejected.  At 
last  the  Duke  commanded  the  crowd  to  stand 
aloof,  went  to  the  bed,  stooped  down,  and 
whispered  something  which  none  of  the  spec- 
tators could  hear,  but  which  they  supposed 
to  be  some  question  about  affairs  of  state. 
Charles  answered  in  an  audible  tone,  "Yes, 
yes,  Avith  all  my  heart."  None  of  the  by- 
standers, except  the  French  ambassador, 


446 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAT. 


guessed  that  the  King  was  declaring  his 
wish  to  be  admitted  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Church  of  Rome. 

"  Shall  I  bring  a  priest?"  said  the  Duke. 
"  Do,  brother,"  replied  the  sick  man.  "  For 
God's  sake  do,  and  lose  no  time.  But  no; 
you  will  get  into  trouble."  "  If  it  costs  me 
my  life,"  said  the  Duke,  "  I  will  fetch  a 
priest."  To  find  a  priest,  however,  for  such 
a  purpose,  at  a  moment's  notice,  was  not 
easy.  For,  as  the  law  then  stood,  the  person 
who  admitted  a  proselyte  into  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  was  guilty  of  a  capital 
crime.  The  Count  of  Castel  Melhor,  a  Por- 
tuguese nobleman,  who,  driven  by  political 
troubles  from  his  native  land,  had  been  hos- 
pitably received  at  the  English  court,  under- 
took to  procure  a  confessor.  He  had  re- 
course to  his  countrymen  who  belonged  to 
the  Queen's  household  ;  but  he  found  that 
none  of  her  chaplains  knew  English  or 
French  enough  to  shrive  the  King.  The 
Duke  and  Barillon  were  about  to  send  to  the 
Venetian  Minister  for  a  clergyman  when  they 
heard  that  a  Benedictine  rnonk,  named  John 
Huddleston,  happened  to  be  at  Whitehall. 
This  man  had,  with  great  risk  to  himself, 
saved  the  King's  life  after  the  battle  of  Wor- 
cester, and  had,  on  that  account,  been,  ever 
since  the  Restoration,  a  privileged  person. 
In  the  sharpest  proclamations  which  had 
been  put  forth  against  Popish  priests,  when 
false  witnesses  had  inflamed  the  nation  to 
fury,  Iluddleston  had  beenexcepted  by  name. 
He  readily  consented  to  put  his  life  a  second 
time  in  peril  for  his  prince;  but  there  was 
still  a  difficulty :  the  honest  monk  was  so  il- 
literate that  he  did  not  know  what  he  ought 
to  say  on  an  occasion  of  such  importance. 
He,  however,  obtained  some  hints,  through 
the  intervention  of  Castel  Melhor,  from  a 
Portuguese  ecclesiastic,  and,  thus  instructed, 
was  brought  up  the  back  stairs  by  Chiffinch. 
a  confidential  servant,  who,  if  the  satires  of 
that  age  .are  to  be  credited,  had  often  intro- 
duced visitors  of  a  very  different  description 
by  the  same  entrance.  The  Duke  then,  in 
the  King's  name,  commanded  all  who  were 
present  to  quit  the  room,  except  Lewis 
Duras,  Earl  of  Feversham,  and  John  Gran- 
ville,  Earl  of  Bath.  Both  these  Lords  pro- 
fessed the  Protestant  religion;  but  James 
conceived  that  he  could  count  on  their  fidel- 
ity. Feversham,  a  Frenchman  of  noble 
birth,  and  nephew  of  the  great  Turenne, 
held  high  rank  in  the  English  army,  and 
was  Chamberlain  to  the  Queen.  Bath  was 
groom  of  the  Stole. 

The  Dnke's  orders  were  oboyed  ;  and  even 
the  physicians  withdrew.  The  back  door 
was  then  opened ;  and  Father  Iluddleston 
entered.  A  cloak  had  been  thrown  over  his 
sacred  vestments ;  and  his  shaven  crown  was 


concealed  by  a  flowing  wig.  "  Sir,"  said  the 
Duke,  "  this  good  man  once  saved  your  life. 
He  now  comes  to  save  your  soul."  Charles 
faintly  answered,  "He  is  welcome."  Ilud- 
dleston went  through  his  part  better  than 
had  been  expected.  He  knelt  by  the  bed, 
listened  to  the  confession,  pronounced  the 
absolution,  and  administered  extreme  unc- 
tion. He  asked  if  the  King  wished  to  re- 
ceive the  Lord's  Supper.  "  Surely,"  said 
Charles,  "if  lam  not  unworthy."  The  host 
was  brought  in.  Charles  feebly  strove  to 
rise  and  kneel  before  it.  The  priest  bade 
him  lie  still,  and  assured  him  that  God 
would  accept  the  humiliation  of  his  soul, 
and  would  not  require  the  humiliation  of 
the  body.  The  King  found  so  much  diffi- 
culty in  swallowing  the  bread  that  it  was 
necessary  to  open  the  door  and  to  procure  a 
glass  of  water.  This  rite  ended,  the  monk 
held  up  a  crucifix  before  the  penitent, 
charged  him  to  fix  his  last  thoughts  on  the 
sufferings  of  the  Redeemer,  and  withdrew. 
The  whole  ceremony  had  occupied  about 
three-quarters  of  an  hour;  and,  during  that 
time,  the  courtiers  who  filled  the  outer  room 
had  communicated  their  suspicions  to  each 
other  by  whispers  and  significant  glances. 
The  door  was  at  length  thrown  open,  and 
the  crowd  again  filled  the  chamber  of  death. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  evening.  The 
King  seemed  much  relieved  by  what  had 
passed.  His  natural  children  were  brought 
to  his  bedside:  the  Dukes  of  Grafton,  South- 
ampton, and  Northumberland,  sons  of  the 
Duchess  of  Cleveland,  the  Duke  of  St.  Al- 
bans,  son  of  Eleanor  Gwynn,  and  the  Duke 
of  Richmond,  son  of  the  Duchess  of  Ports- 
mouth. Charles  blessed  them  all,  but  spoke 
with  peculiar  tenderness  to  Richmond.  One 
face  which  should  have  been  there  was 
wanting.  The  eldest  and  best  beloved  child 
was  an  exile  and  a  wanderer.  His  name  was 
not  once  mentioned  by  his  father. 

During  the  night  Charles  earnestly  recom- 
mended the  Duchess  of  Portsmouth  and  her 
boy  to  the  care  of  James ;  "And  do  not," 
he  good-naturedly  added,  "let  poor  Nelly 
starve."  The  Queen  sent  excuses  for  her  ab- 
sence by  Halifax.  She  said  that  she  was 
too  much  disordered  to  resume  her  post  by 
the  couch,  and  implored  pardon  for  any  of- 
fence which  she  might  unwittingly  have 
given.  "  She  ask  my  pardon,  poor  woman  !" 
cried  Charles;  "I  ask  hers  with  all  my 
heart." 

The  morning  light  began  to  peep  through 
the  windows  of  Whitehall ;  and  Charles  de- 
sired the  attendants  to  pull  aside  the  curtains, 
that  he  might  have  one  more  look  at  the  day. 
lie  remarked  that  it  was  time  to  wind  up  a 
clock  which  stood  near  his  bed.  These  little 
circumstances  were  long  remembered,  be- 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAY. 


447 


cause  they  proved  beyond  dispute  that  when 
he  declared  himself  a  Roman  Catholic  he  was 
in  full  possession  of  his  faculties.  He  apolo- 
gized to  those  who  had  stood  round  him  all 
night  for  the  trouble  which  he  had  caused. 
He  had  been,  he  said,  a  most  unconscionable 
time  dying ;  but  he  hoped  that  they  would 
excuse  it.  This  was  the  last  glimpse  of  that 
exquisite  urbanity  so  often  found  potent  to 
charm  away  the  resentment  of  a  justly  in- 
censed nation.  Soon  after  dawn  the  speech 
of  the  dying  man  failed.  Before  ten  his 
senses  were  gone.  Great  numbers  had  re- 
paired to  the  churches  at  the  hour  of  morn- 
ing service.  When  the  prayer  for  the  King 
was  read,  loud  groans  and  sobs  showed  how 
deeply  his  people  felt  for  him.  At  noon  on 
Friday,  the  sixth  of  February,  he  passed 
away  without  a  struggle. 

Histonj  of  England,  Vol.  i.  Chap.  iv. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

About  a  year  after  Johnson  had  begun  to 
reside  in  London,  he  was  fortunate  enough 
to  obtain  regular  employment  from  Cave,  an 
enterprising  and  intelligent  bookseller,  who 
was  proprietor  and  editor  of  the  "Gentle- 
man's Magazine."  That  journal,  justenter- 
ing  on  the  ninth  year  of  its  long  existence, 
was  the  only  periodical  work  in  the  king- 
dom which  then  had  what  would  now  be 
called  a  large  circulation.  It  was,  indeed, 
the  chief  source  of  parliamentary  intelli- 
gence. It  was  not  then  safe,  even  during  a 
recess,  to  publish  an  account  of  the  proceed- 
ings of  either  House  without  some  disguise. 
Cave,  however,  ventured  to  entertain  his 
readers  with  what  he  called  "  Reports  of  the 
Debates  of  the  Senate  of  Lilliput."  France 
was  Blefuscu  :  London  was  Mildendo : 
pounds  were  sprugs :  the  Duke  of  New- 
castle was  the  Nardac  Secretary  of  State : 
Lord  Ilardwicke  was  the  Ilurgo  Hickrad  : 
and  William  Pulteney  was  Wingul  Pulnub. 
To  write  the  speeches  was,  during  several 
years,  the  business  of  Johnson.  He  was 
generally  furnished  with  notes,  meagre  in- 
deed, and  inaccurate,  of  what  had  been  said  ; 
but  sometimes  he  had  to  find  arguments  and 
eloquence  both  for  the  ministry  and  for  the 
opposition.  .  .  . 

A  fe\v  weeks  after  Johnson  had  entered  on 
these  obscure  labours,  he  published  a  work 
which  at  once  placed  him  high  among  the 
writers  of  his  age.  It  is  probable  that  what 
he  had  suffered  during  his  first  year  in  Lon- 
don had  often  reminded  him  of  some  parts 
of  that  noble  poem  iu  which  Juvenal  had 
described  the  misery  and  degradation  of  a 
needy  man  of  letters,  lodged  among  the 
pigeons'  nests  in  the  tottering  garrets  which 
overhung  the  streets  of  Rome.  Pope's  ad- 


mirable imitations  of  Horace's  Satires  and 
Epistles  had  recently  appeared,  were  in 
every  hand,  and  were  by  many  readers 
thought  superior  to  the  originals.  What 
Pope  had  done  for  Horace,  Johnson  aspired 
to  do  for  Juvenal.  The  enterprise  was  bold 
and  yet  judicious.  For  between  Johnson 
and  Juvenal  there  was  much  in  common, 
much  more,  certainly,  than  between  Pope 
and  Horace. 

Johnson's  London  appeared  without  his 
name  in  May,  1738.  He  received  only  ten 
guineas  for  this  stately  and  vigorous  poem  ; 
but  the  sale  was  rapid  and  the  success  com- 
plete. A  second  edition  was  required  within 
a  week.  Those  small  critics  who  are  always 
desirous  to  lower  established  reputations 
ran  about  proclaiming  that  the  anonymous 
satire  was  superior  to  Pope  in  Pope's  own 
peculiar  department  of  literature.  It  ought 
to  be  remembered,  to  the  honour  of  Pope, 
that  he  joined  heartily  in  the  applause  with 
which  the  appearance  of  a  rival  genius  was 
welcomed.  He  made  inquiries  about  the 
author  of  London.  Such  a  man,  he  said, 
could  not  long  be  concealed.  The  name 
was  soon  discovered  ;  and  Pope,  with  great 
kindness,  exerted  himself  to  obtain  an  aca- 
demical degree  and  the  mastership  of  a 
grammar  school  for  the  poor  young  poet. 
The  attempt  failed  ;  and  Johnson  remained 
a  bookseller's  hack.  .  .  . 

Johnson  had  flattered  himself  that  he 
should  have  completed  his  Dictionary  by 
the  end  of  1750;  but  it  was  not  until  1755 
that  he  at  length  gave  his  huge  volumes  to 
the  world.  During  the  seven  years  which  he 
passed  in  the  drudgery  of  penning  definitions 
and  marking  quotations  for  transcription,  he 
sought  for  relaxation  in  literary  labours  of  a 
more  agreeable  kind.  In  1749  he  published 
the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  an  excellent 
imitation  of  the  Tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal. 
It  is  in  truth  not  easy  to  say  whether  the 
palm  belongs  to  the  ancient  or  to  the  modern 
poet.  The  couplets  in  which  the  fall  of 
Wolsey  is  described,  though  lofty  and  sonor- 
ous, are  feeble  when  compared  with  the 
wonderful  lines  which  bring  before  us  all 
Rome  in  tumult  on  the  day  of  the  fall  of 
Sejanus,  the  laurels  on  the  door-posts,  the 
white  bull  stalking  towards  the  Capitol,  the 
statues  rolling  down  from  their  pedestals, 
the  flatterers  of  the  disgraced  minister  run- 
ning to  see  him  dragged  with  a  hook  through 
the  streets,  and  to  have  a  kick  at  his  carcase 
before  it  is  hurled  into  the  Tiber.  It  must 
be  owned,  too,  that  in  the  concluding  pas- 
sago  the  Christian  moralist  has  not  made  the 
most  of  his  advantages,  and  has  fallen  de- 
cidedly short  of  his  Pagan  model.  On  the 
other  hand.  Juvenal's  Hannibal  must  yield 
to  Johnson's  Charles  ;  and  Johnson's  vigor- 


448 


THOMAS  BAB  ING  TON  MACAULAY. 


ous  and  pathetic  enumeration  of  the  miseries 
of  a  literary  life  must  be  allowed  to  be  supe- 
rior to  Juvenal's  lamentation  over  the  fate  of 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero. 

For  the  copyright  of  the  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes  Johnson  received  only  fifteen  guineas. 

A  few  days  after  the  publication  of  this 
poem,  his  tragedy,  begun  many  years  before, 
•was  brought  on  the  stage.  .  .  .  Garrick  now 
brought  Irene  out,  with  alterations  sufficient 
to  displease  the  author,  yet  not  sufficient  to 
make  the  piece  pleasing  to  the  audience. 
The  public,  however,  listened  with  little 
emotion,  but  with  much  civility,  to  five  acts 
of  monotonous  declamation.  After  nine  rep- 
resentations the  play  was  withdrawn.  It  is, 
indeed,  altogether  unsuited  to  the  stage,  and, 
even  when  perused  in  the  closet,  will  be 
found  hardly  worthy  of  the  author.  He  had 
not  the  slightest  notion  of  what  blank  verse 
should  be.  A  change  in  the  last  syllable  of 
every  line  would  make  the  versification  of 
the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  closely  re- 
semble the  versification  of  Irene.  The  poet, 
however,  cleared,  by  his  benefit  nights,  and 
by  the  sale  of  the  copyright  of  his  tragedy, 
about  three  hundred  pounds,  then  a  great 
sum  in  his  estimation. 

About  a  year  after  the  representation  of 
Irene  he  began  to  publish  a  series  of  short 
essays  on  morals,  manners,  and  literature. 
This  species  of  composition  had  been  brought 
into  fashion  by  the  success  of  the  Taller, 
and  by  the  still  more  brilliant  success  of  the 
Spectator.  A  crowd  of  small  writers  had 
vainly  attempted  to  rival  Addison.  The 
Lay  Monastery,  the  Censor,  the  Freethinker, 
the  Plain  Dealer,  the  Champion,  and  other 
works  of  the  same  kind,  had  had  their  short 
day.  None  of  them  had  obtained  a  perma- 
nent place  in  our  literature  :  and  they  are 
now  to  be  found  only  in  the  libraries  of  the 
curious.  At  length  Johnson  undertook  the 
adventure  in  which  so  many  aspirants  had 
failed.  In  the  thirty-sixth  year  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  last  number  of  the  Spectator 
appeared  the  first  number  of  the  Rambler. 
From  March,  1750,  to  March,  1752,  this 
paper  continued  to  come  out  every  Tuesday 
and  Saturday. 

From  the  first  the  Rambler  was  enthu- 
siastically admired  by  a  few  eminent  men. 
Richardson,  when  only  five  numbers  had 
appeared,  pronounced  it  equal,  if  not  supe- 
rior, to  the  Spectator.  Young  and  Hart- 
ley expressed  their  approbation  not  less 
warmly.  .  .  . 

By  the  public  the  Rambler  was  at  first 
very  coldly  received.  Though  the  price  of  a 
number  was  only  two  pence,  the  sale  did  not 
amount  to  five  hundred.  The  profits  were 
therefore  very  small.  But  as  soon  as  the 
flying  leaves  were  collected  and  reprinted 


they  became  popular.  The  author  lived  to 
see  thirteen  thousand  copies  spread  over 
England  alone.  Separate  editions  were  pub- 
lished for  the  Scotch  and  Irish  markets.  A 
large  party  pronounced  the  style  perfect,  so 
absolutely  perfect  that  in  some  essays  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  writer  himself 
to  alter  a  single  word  for  the  better.  Another 
party,  not  less  numerous,  vehemently  ac- 
cused him  of  having  corrupted  the  purity 
of  the  English  tongue.  The  best  critics  ad- 
mitted that  his  diction  was  too  monotonous, 
too  obviously  artificial,  and  now  and  then 
turgid  even  to  absurdity.  But  they  did  jus- 
tice to  the  acuteness  of  his  observations  on 
morals  and  manners,  to  the  constant  preci- 
sion and  frequent  brilliancy  of  his  language, 
to  the  weighty  and  magnificent  eloquence  of 
many  serious  passages,  and  to  the  solemn 
yet  pleasing  humour  of  some  of  the  lighter 
papers.  .  .  . 

The  Dictionary  came  forth  without  a  dedi- 
cation. In  the  preface  the  author  truly  de- 
clared that  he  owed  nothing  to  the  great, 
and  described  the  difficulties  with  which  ho 
had  been  left  to  struggle  so  forcibly  and  pa- 
thetically that  the  ablest  and  most  malevo- 
lent of  all  the  enemies  of  his  fame,  Homo 
Tooke,  never  could  read  that  passage  with- 
out tears. 

The  public,  on  this  occasion,  did  Johnson 
justice,  and  something  more  than  justice. 
The  best  lexicographer  may  well  be  content 
if  his  productions  are  received  by  the  world 
with  cold  esteem.  But  Johnson's  Dictionary 
was  hailed  with  an  enthusiasm  such  as  no 
similar  work  has  ever  excited.  It  was  in- 
deed the  first  dictionary  which  could  be  read 
with  pleasure.  The  definitions  show  so  much 
acuteness  of  thought  and  command  of  lan- 
guage, and  the  passages  quoted  from  poets, 
divines,  and  philosophers  are  so  skilfully  se- 
lected, that  a  leisure  hour  may  always  be 
very  agreeably  spent  in  turning  over  the 
pages.  The  faults  of  the  book  resolve  them- 
selves, for  the  most  part,  into  one  great  fault : 
Johnson  was  a  wretched  etymologist.  Ho 
knew  little  or  nothing  of  any  Teutonic  lan- 
guage except  English,  which  indeed,  as  ho 
wrote  it,  was  scarcely  a  Teutonic  language  ; 
and  thus  he  was  absolutely  at  the  inercy  of 
Junius  and  Skinner.  .  .  . 

In  October,  1705,  appeared,  after  a  delay 
of  nine  years,  the  new  edition  of  Shakspoarc. 

This  publication  saved  Johnson's  charac- 
ter for  honesty,  but  added  nothing  to  the 
fame  of  his  abilities  and  learning.  The  pref- 
ace, though  it  contains  some  good  passages, 
is  not  in  his  best  manner.  The  most  valua- 
ble notes  are  those  in  which  he  had  an  op- 
portunity of  showing  how  attentively  he  had 
during  many  years  observed  human  life  and 
manners.  The  best  specimen  is  the  note  on 


THOMAS  BASING  TON  MACAULAT. 


449 


the  character  of  Polonius.  Nothing  so  good 
is  to  be  found  even  in  Wilhehu  Meister's 
admirable  examination  of  Hamlet.  But  here 
praise  must  end.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
name  a  more  slovenly,  a  more  worthless 
edition  of  any  great  classic.  The  reader 
may  turn  over  piny  after  play  without  find- 
ing one  happy  conjectural  emendation,  or 
one  ingenious  and  satisfactory  explanation 
of  a  passage  which  had  baffled  preceding 
commentators.  Johnson  had.  in  his  pros- 
pectus, told  the  world  that  he  was  peculiarly 
fitted  for  the  task  which  he  had  undertaken, 
because  he  had,  as  a  lexicographer,  been 
under  the  necessity  of  taking  a  wider  view 
of  the  English  language  than  any  of  his 
predecessors.  That  his  knowledge  of  our 
literature  was  extensive  is  indisputable. 
But,  unfortunately,  he  had  altogether  neg- 
lected that  very  part  of  our  literature  with 
which  it  is  especially  desirable  that  an  editor 
of  Shakspeare  should  be  conversant.  It  is 
dangerous  to  assert  a  negative  :  yet  little  will 
be  risked  by  the  assertion  that  in  the  two 
folio  volumes  of  the  English  Dictionary  there 
is  not  a  single  passage  quoted  from  any 
dramatist  of  the  Elizabethan  age  except 
Shakspeare  and  Ben.  Even  from  Ben  the 
quotations  are  few.  Johnson  might  easily, 
in  a  few  months,  have  made  himself  well 
acquainted  with  every  old  play  that  was  ex- 
tant. But  it  never  seems  to  have  occurred 
to  him  that  this  was  a  necessary  preparation 
for  the  work  which  he  had  undertaken.  He 
would  doubtless  have  admitted  that  it  would 
be  the  height  of  absurdity  in  a  man  who 
was  not  familiar  with  the  works  of  ^Eschy- 
lus  and  Euripides  to  publish  an  edition  of 
Sophocles.  Yet  he  ventured  to  publish  an 
edition  of  Shakspeare,  without  having  ever 
in  his  life,  as  far  as  can  be  discovered,  read 
a  single  scene  of  Massinger,  Ford,  Decker, 
Webster,  Marlow,  Beaumont,  or  Fletcher. 
His  detractors  were  noisy  and  scurrilous. 
Those  who  most  loved  and  honoured  him 
hud  little  to  say  in  praise  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  discharged  the  duty  of  a  com- 
mentator. He  had,  however,  acquitted  him- 
self of  a  debt  which  had  long  lain  heavily 
on  his  conscience,  and  he  sank  back  into  the 
repose  from  which  the  sting  of  satire  had 
roused  him.  .  .  . 

But  though  his  pen  was  now  idle,  his 
tongue  was  active.  The  influence  exercised 
by  his  conversation,  directly  upon  those  with 
whom  he  lived,  and  indirectly  on  the  whole 
literary  world,  was  altogether  without  a  par- 
allel. His  colloquial  talents  were  indeed  of 
the  highest  order.  He  had  strong  sense,  quick 
discernment,  wit,  humour,  immense  knowl- 
edge of  literature  and  of  life,  and  an  infinite 
store  of  curious  anecdotes.  As  respected 
style,  he  spoke  far  better  than  he  wrote. 
29 


Every  sentence  which  dropped  from  his  lips 
was  as  correct  in  structure  as  the  most  nicely 
balanced  period  of  the  llambler.  But  in  his 
talk  there  were  no  pompous  triads,  and  little 
more  than  a  fair  proportion  of  words  in  osity 
and  ation.  All  was  simplicity,  ease,  and 
vigour.  He  uttered  his  short,  weighty,  and 
pointed  sentences  with  a  power  of  voice,  and 
a  justness  and  energy  of  emphasis,  of  which 
the  effect  was  rather  increased  than  dimin- 
ished by  the  rollings  of  his  huge  form,  and 
by  the  asthmatic  gaspings  and  puffings  in 
which  the  peals  of  his  eloquence  generally 
ended.  Nor  did  the  laziness  which  made  him 
unwilling  to  sit  down  to  his  desk  prevent 
him  from  giving  instruction  or  entertain- 
ment orally.  To  discuss  questions  of  taste, 
of  learning,  of  casuistry,  in  language  so 
exact,  and  so  forcible  that  it  might  have 
been  printed  without  the  alteration  of  a 
word,  was  to  him  no  exertion,  but  a  pleasure. 
He  loved,  as  he  said,  to  fold  his  legs  and  have 
his  talk  out.  He  was  ready  to  bestow  the 
overflowings  of  his  full  mind  on  anybody 
who  would  start  a  subject, — on  a  fellow-pas- 
senger in  a  stage-coach,  or  on  the  person 
who  sate  at  the  same  table  with  him  in  an 
eating-house.  But  his  conversation  was  no- 
where so  brilliant  and  striking  as  when  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  few  friends  whose  abili- 
ties and  knowledge  enabled  them,  as  he  once 
expressed  it,  to  send  him  back  every  ball  that 
he  threw.  .  .  . 

The  Lives  of  the  Poets  are,  on  the  whole, 
the  best  of  Johnson's  works.  The  narra- 
tives are  as  entertaining  as  any  novel.  The 
remarks  on  life  and  on  human  nature  are 
eminently  shrewd  and  profound.  The  criti- 
cisms are  often  excellent,  and  even  when 
grossly  and  provokingly  unjust,  well  de- 
serve to  be  studied.  For,  however  erro- 
neous they  may  be,  they  are  never  silly. 
They  are  the  judgments  of  a  mind  tram- 
melfed  by  prejudice  and  deficient  in  sensi- 
bility, but  vigorous  and  acute.  They  there- 
fore generally  contain  a  portion  of  valuable 
truth  which  deserves  to  be  separated  from 
the  alloy,  and,  at  the  very  worst,  they  mean 
something,  a  praise  to  which  much  of  what 
is  called  criticism  in  our  time  has  no  preten- 
sions. .  .  . 

Among  the  lives  the  best  are  perhaps 
those  of  Cowley,  Dryden,  and  Pope.  The 
very  worst  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  that  of  Gray. 

This  great  work  at  once  became  popular. 
There  was,  indeed,  much  just  and  much  un- 
just censure ;  but  even  those  who  were 
loudest  in  blame  were  attracted  by  the  book 
in  spite  of  themselves.  Malone  computed 
the  gains  of  the  publishers  at  five  or  six 
thousand  pounds.  But  the  writer  was  very 
poorly  remunerated.  Intending  at  first  to 
write  very  short  prefaces,  he  had  stipulated 


450 


ALONZO   POTTER. 


for  only  two  hundred  guineas.  The  book- 
sellers, when  they  saw  how  far  his  perform- 
ance had  surpassed  his  promise,  added  only 
another  hundred.  .  .  . 

He  had,  in  spite  of  much  mental  and 
much  bodily  affliction,  clung  vehemently 
to  life.  The  feeling  described  in  that  fine 
but  gloomy  paper  which  closes  the  series 
of  his  Idlers,  seemed  to  grow  stronger  in 
him  as  his  last  hour  drew  near.  He  fancied 
that  he  should  be  able  to  draw  his  breath 
more  easily  in  a  southern  climate,  and 
would  probably  have  set  out  for  Home  and 
Maples,  but  for  his  fear  of  the  expense  of 
the  journey.  The  expense,  indeed,  he  had 
the  means  of  defraying;  for  he  had  laid  up 
about  two  thousand  pounds,  the  fruit  of 
labours  which  had  made  the  fortune  of  sev- 
eral publishers.  But  he  was  unwilling  to 
break  in  upon  this  hoard  ;  and  he  seems  to 
have  wished  even  to  keep  its  existence  a  se- 
cret. Some  of  his  friends  hoped  that  the 
government  might  be  induced  to  increase  his 
pension  to  six  hundred  pounds  a  year:  but 
this  hope  was  disappointed  ;  and  he  resolved 
to  stand  one  English  winter  more.  That 
winter  was  his  last.  His  legs  grew  weaker  ; 
his  breath  grew  shorter ;  the  fatal  water 
gathered  fast,  in  spite  of  incisions  which  he, 
courageous  against  pain,  but  timid  against 
death,  urged  his  surgeons  to  make  deeper 
and  deeper.  Though  the  tender  care  which 
had  mitigated  his  sufferings  during  months 
of  sickness  at  Streatham  was  withdrawn,  he 
was  not  left  desolate.  The  ablest  physicians 
and  surgeons  attended  him,  and  refused  to 
accept  fees  from  him.  Burke  parted  from 
him  with  deep  emotion.  Windham  sate 
much  in  the  sick-room,  arranged  the  pillows, 
and  sent  his  own  servant  to  watch  a  night 
by  the  bed.  Frances  Burney,  whom  the  old 
man  had  cherished  with  fatherly  kindness, 
stood  weeping  at  the  door;  while  Langton, 
whose  piety  eminently  qualified  him  to  be 
an  adviser  and  comforter  at  such  a  time,  re- 
ceived the  last  pressure  of  his  friend's  hand 
within.  When  at  length  the  moment  dreaded 
through  so  many  years  came  close,  the  dark 
cloud  passed  away  from  Johnson's  mind. 
His  temper  became  unusually  patient  and 
gentle  ;  he  ceased  to  think  with  terror  of 
death,  and  of  that  which  lies  beyond  death; 
and  he  spoke  much  of  the  mercy  of  God,  and 
of  the  propitiation  of  Christ.  In  this  serene 
frame  of  mind  he  died  on  the  13th  of  De- 
cember, 1784.  He  was  laid,  a  week  later,  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  among  the  eminent  men 
of  whom  he  had  been  the  historian, — Cowley 
and  Denham,  Dryden  and  Congreve,  Gay, 
Prior,  and  Addison. 

Since  his  death  the  popularity  of  his  works 
—the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  and,  perhaps,  the 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  excepted — has 


greatly  diminished.  His  Dictionary  has 
been  altered  by  editors  till  it  can  scarcely 
be  called  his.  An  allusion  to  his  Rambler 
or  his  Idler  is  not  readily  apprehended  in 
literary  circles.  The  fame  even  of  Ilasselas 
has  grown  somewhat  dim.  But  though  the 
celebrity  of  the  writings  may  have  declined, 
the  celebrity  of  the  writer,  strange  to  say, 
is  as  great  as  ever.  Boswell's  book  has  done 
for  him  more  than  the  best  of  his  own  books 
could  do.  The  memory  of  other  authors  is 
kept  alive  by  their  works.  But  the  memory 
of  Johnson  keeps  many  of  his  works  alive. 
The  old  philosopher  is  still  among  us  in  the 
brown  coat  with  the  metal  buttons  and  the 
shirt  which  ought  to  be  at  wash,  blinking, 
puffing,  rolling  his  head,  drumming  with  his 
fingers,  tearing  his  meat  like  a  tiger,  and 
swallowing  his  tea  in  oceans.  No  human 
being  who  has  been  more  than  seventy  years 
in  the  grave  is  so  well  known  to  us.  And  it 
is  but  just  to  say  that  our  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  what  he  would  himself  have  called 
the  anfractuosities  of  his  intellect  and  of  his 
temper  serves  only  to  strengthen  our  convic- 
tion that  he  was  both  a  great  and  a  good  man. 
Encyclopaedia  Brilannica,  8th  edit.,  Dec. 
1856. 


ALONZO  POTTER,  D.D.,  LL.D., 

born  in  Dutchess  County,  New  York,  1800, 
graduated  with  first  honours  at  Union  Col- 
lege, Schenectady,  1818,  Professor  of  Math- 
ematics and  Natural  Philosophy  in  Union 
College,  1822-26,  Rector  of  St.  Paul's 
Church,  Boston,  1826-31,  Vice-President 
of,  and  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in, 
Union  College,  1831-45,  Bishop  of  the  Prot- 
estant Episcopal  Church  in  the  Diocese  of 
Pennsylvania,  from  Sept.  23,  1845,  until  his 
death  at  San  Francisco,  California,  on  a 
visit  for  his  health,  July  4,  1865. 

He  was  a  good  scholar,  a  wise  prelate,  a 
zealous  philanthropist,  and  adorned  every 
position  in  which  he  was  placed. 

See  his  Life  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  (now  Bishop) 
M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe,  Phila.,  1871,  8vo, 
and  Bishop  Stevens's  Funeral  Sermon  on 
Bishop  Potter,  Oct.  19,  1865,  Phila.,  1865, 
8vo ;  Treatise  on  Logarithms  (printed  for 
his  class) ;  Treatise  on  Descriptive  Geom- 
etry (printed  for  his  class)  ;  Political  Econ- 
omy, New  York,  1840,  '41,  '44,  18mo;  The 
Principles  of  Science  Applied  to  the  Domes- 
tic and  Mechanic  Arts,  and  to  Manufac- 
tures and  Agriculture,  Bost.,  1841,  12mo, 
New  York,  1850,  18rno;  with  G.  B.  Emer- 
son, The  School  [by  Dr.  Potter]  and  The 
Schoolmaster  [by  «•  B.  Emerson],  New 
York,  1842,  12mo,  again  1844,  12mo;  Hand- 
Book  for  Readers  and  Students,  New  York, 


ALONZO   POTTER. 


451 


1843,  18mo,  4th  edit,  1847,  18rao;  Plan  of 
Temperance  Organization  for  Cities ;  A 
Lecture  on  Drinking  Usages ;  Discourses, 
Charges,  Addresses,  Pastoral  Letters,  etc., 
etc.,  Phila.,  1858,  12mo.  He  contributed 
An  Introductory  Essay  to  Lectures  on  the 
Evidences  of  Christianity,  Phila.,  1855,  8vo, 
published  single  sermons,  and  edited  a  num- 
ber of  works. 

THE  BIBLE  AS  A  STUDY. 

What  an  instrument  have  we  here  for  re- 
generating universal  humanity !  Ours  is 
not  a  religion  for  a  favoured  family  or  a  pre- 
ferred people.  We  are  put  in  trust  of  the 
Gospel,  and  we  hold  it  for  mankind  ;  for  the 
distant,  the  benighted,  the  down-trodden, 
the  afflicted.  Nations  in  their  loftiest  suc- 
cesses, in  their  purest  forms  of  civilization, 
are  but  travelling  towards  the  ideal  pre- 
sented in  Scripture  ;  and  as  new  phases  of 
society  appear,  that  Scripture  will  be  found 
adapted  to  each,  so  far  as  it  may  be  legiti- 
mate, and  be  calculated  to  advance  each  to 
new  glory  and  perfection.  If  this  book  be 
of  God,  then  it  was  written  with  foresight 
of  all  coming  conditions  of  the  world,  and  it 
will  be  found  to  have  for  every  one  of  them 
appropriate  instructions  and  influences. 
What  higher  privilege  or  responsibility  then 
than  ours,  who  are  called  to  dispense  this 
word  to  all  who  need  it;  and  what  duty 
more  solemn  or  more  momentous  for  those 
who  are  appointed  to  study  and  to  teach  its 
truths,  than  to  unfold  such  as  are  most  ap- 
plicable to  the  dangers  and  the  difficulties 
of  our  own  times  !  There  are  signs  of  im- 
pending and  eventful  changes.  There  are 
fearful  struggles  between  capital  and  labour 
—  between  liberty  and  order  —  between 
Church  authority  and  private  judgment — 
between  spiritualism  and  formalism — be- 
tween asceticism  and  sensuality — between 
fatalism  and  freedom — between  mysticism 
and  dogmatism — between  belief  and  unbe- 
lief. For  these,  then,  let  us  be  prepared  by 
diligent  communion  with  this  word,  whose 
wisdom  alone  can  be  our  sufficient  guide. 
But  if  the  Bible  be  such  an  Educator  for 
nations  and  for  the  race,  it  must  have  capa- 
bilities equally  great  for  the  culture  and  im- 
provement of  the  individual.  And  what 
could  we  desire  in  a  book,  to  rouse  our  dor- 
mant faculties  or  to  invigorate  and  refine 
them,  that  we  may  not  find  here  ?  Holy 
Scripture  comprehendeth  History  and 
Prophecy,  Law  and  Ethics,  the  Philosophy 
of  Life  that  now  is,  the  Philosophy  of  Life 
that  is  to  come.  At  one  time  it  clotheth  its 
teaching  in  strains  of  the  sublimest  or  ten- 
derest  poetry,  at  another,  in  narratives,  as 
beautiful  and  touching  for  their  simplicity 


as  they  are  unrivalled  in  dignity.  It  has 
reasoning  for  the  logical  understanding;  it 
has  pictures  for  the  discursive  imagination  ; 
it  has  heart-searching  appeals  for  the  intui- 
tive powers  of  the  soul.  There  is  no  duty 
omitted  ;  there  is  no  grace  or  enjoyment  un- 
dervalued. It  provides  a  sphere  for  every 
faculty,  and  even  for  every  temperament  and 
disposition.  This  many-toned  voice  uses  now 
the  logic  of  a  Paul,  and  now  the  ethics  of  a 
James  ;  here  the  boldness  and  fervour  of  a 
Peter,  and  there  the  gentleness  and  sublim- 
ity of  a  John.  With  one  it  discourses  of  the 
awful  guilt  and  curse  of  sin,  and  points  us 
to  the  only  way  of  escape ;  while  with  an- 
other it  expatiates  on  the  unutterable  love 
of  God  and  the  attractions  of  the  Cross  of 
Christ.  The  Bible  is  no  formal,  lifeless 
system  of  propositions  and  inferences  and 
precepts.  It  is  as  rich  in  the  variety  and 
vivacity  of  its  methods,  as  it  is  in  the  over- 
flowing abundance  of  its  materials.  While 
it  draws  some  to  religion,  through  the  ideal, 
and  some  through  the  real  and  demonstra- 
ble, it  allures  others  by  means  of  the  affec- 
tions and  sensibilities,  and  others  it  over- 
awes, as  a  son  of  thunder,  by  its  appeals  to 
conscience  and  the  dread  of  an  hereafter. 

And  how  is  it  if  we  look  to  the  culture  of 
the  intellect  merely  ?  Ho\v  vast  is  the  field 
which  the  Bible  opens  to  our  inquiries ! 
What  rich  results  may  we  not  win  in  almost 
any  conceivable  line  of  research !  What 
discipline  does  not  the  proper  study  of  it 
provide  for  our  reason  and  our  faith,  for  pa- 
tience and  humility,  for  fortitude  and  mod- 
eration ?  And  in  respect  to  those  momen- 
tous questions  which  pertain  to  God  and  the 
soul's  destiny,  there  is  light  enough  for  every 
humble,  robust  mind ;  there  is  darkness 
enough  for  every  proud  and  self-confiding 
one.  To  attain  to  perfect  and  all-embracing 
knowledge  belongs  not  to  us,  who  are  still 
in  the  twilight  of  our  being,  and  who  are 
called  to  work  our  way,  through  patient  and 
ennobling  labour,  to  that  state  where  we  can 
see  even  as  we  are  seen,  and  know  even  as 
we  are  known.  That  way  will  open  gradu- 
ally but  surely  before  all  who  go  forward 
trustfully  and  manfully  with  the  Bible  as 
their  guide.  They  shall  have  no  infallible 
certainty,  but  they  shall  have  unshaken  and 
soul-satisfying  confidence.  To  the  question 
of  questions.  *'  What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved  ?" 
they  shall  find  an  answer  on  which  they 
can  stay  themselves  in  perfect  peace.  Their 
assurance  will  be  the  gift  of  no  ghostly  con- 
fessor; it  will  l>e  the  offspring  of  no  sudden 
and  undefinable  impression  or  inspiration. 
It  will  be  faith  well  grounded  and  settled, — 
an  anchor  to  the  soul.  It  will  have  the 
witness  within  that  we  love  and  strive  to 
serve  God ;  and  it  will  have  the  witness 


452 


HUGH  MILLER. 


without  that  they  who  do  Christ's  will  shall 
know  of  his  doctrine,  that  the  Holy  Spirit 
will  guide  the  meek  in  judgment  and  in- 
struct them  in  God's  way,  and  that  he  who 
conieth  with  a  faithful  and  penitent  heart  in 
Christ's  name,  shall  in  no  wise  be  cast  out. 
While  here,  in  this  state  of  warfare,  the 
Christian  must  expect  to  be  assailed  through 
his  understanding  as  well  as  through  his 
heart.  lie  may  never  hope  therefore  to  be 
exalted,  while  in  the  flesh,  above  all  neces- 
sity for  seeking  more  truth,  nor  above  the 
duty  of  guarding  against  the  beguilements 
of  his  own  frail  heart.  The  divisions  which 
rend  Christendom,  and  the  fierceness  of  con- 
tending sects,  are  not  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
insufficiency  of  Scripture.  They  are  to  be 
ascribed  to  the  insufficiency  of  man's  fallen, 
but  self-confident  mind, — its  insufficiency  to 
discuss  without  passion,  and  to  decide  with- 
out prejudice.  When  men  rise  superior  to 
selfish  pride  and  interest,  when  they  bring 
to  the  study  of  Scripture  a  devout  and  teach- 
able spirit;  when  they  gladly  avail  them- 
selves of  all  proper  help,  and  look  with 
becoming  deference  to  the  judgments  of  the 
wisest  and  best  of  all  ages  and  lands;  when 
they  seek  truth,  first  of  all  as  a  guide  in  ac- 
tion, and  not  as  a  weapon  for  controversy  ; 
when  they  apply  to  its  contemplation  both 
their  intellectual  and  their  moral  powers, 
their  reason,  their  conscience,  their  affec- 
tions, and  an  obedient  will,  they  shall  not  be 
left,  in  such  case,  greatly  to  err.  Says  Pas- 
cal, "  God,  willing  to  be  revealed  to  those 
who  seek  him  with  their  whole  heart,  and 
hidden  from  those  who  as  cordially  fly  from 
him,  has  so  regulated  the  means  of  knowing 
him  as  to  give  indications  of  himself  which 
are  plain  to  those  who  seek  him,  and  shrouded 
to  those  who  seek  him  not.  There  is  light 
enougli  for  those  whose  main  wish  is  to  see  ; 
and  darkness  enough  to  confound  those  of  an 
opposite  disposition."  [Thoughts,  ch.  xvii.] 
I  have  thus  indicated  some  of  the  reasons 
which  should  determine  us  as  ministers  of 
Christ  to  more  earnest  and  devoted  study  of 
Holy  Scripture.  The  more  we  read  and 
meditate  upon  it,  the  more  will  its  spirit 
and  influence  transpire  in  our  preaching  and 
deportment,  and  the  more  will  our  people  be 
taught  to  reverence  and  love  it.  It  will  be 
more  attentively  listened  to  in  public.  It 
will  be  more  thoughtfully  and  systematically 
perused  in  private.  The  congregations  will 
demand  of  the  clergy,  and  the  clergy  will 
gladly  furnish  to  the  congregations,  more 
full  and  copious  expositions  of  the  inspired 
word.  Its  authority  shall  rise  as  that  of 
mere  human  teachers  declines,  and  we  shall 
come  to  learn,  not  that  there  may,  on  this 
side  the  grave,  be  unity  in  all  things,  but 
that  in  all  things  there  may  be  charity,  and 


that  in  many  things  now  held  to  be  as  of  the 
essence  of  the  faith,  there  may  be  rightfully 
and  safely  more  of  toleration.  We  shall  have 
fewer  pretended  articles  of  faith.  WTe  shall 
have  more  allowed  diversity  of  opinion.  We 
shall  be  more  anxious  to  know  of  a  brother, 
whether  he  have  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  than 
whether  he  speak  precisely  according  to  our 
Shibboleth  ;  and  we  shall  not  recoil  from  a 
day  when  we  must  own  as  among  the  faith- 
ful and  the  accepted,  those  who  on  earth 
have  walked  not,  in  all  things,  according  to 
our  will. 

Discourses,  Addresses,   Charges,  etc.,  etc., 
127-183. 


HUGH    MILLER, 

an  eminent  geologist  and  excellent  author, 
born  at  Cromarty,  Scotland,  18U2,  learned 
the  trade  of  a  stone-mason,  and  in  1819  be- 
came a  quarrier;  was  employed  at  Edin- 
burgh as  a  stone-cutter,  1825-26;  in  1834 
entered  a  bank  in  Cromarty  as  an  account- 
ant; and  from  1840  until  his  suicide  in  a  fit 
of  insanity  on  the  night  of  Dec.  23,  1856, 
was  editor  of  The  Witness,  an  organ  of  The 
Free  Church  or  Non-Intrusionists,  published 
in  Edinburgh  semi-weekly. 

The  first  published  volume  was  anony- 
mous,— Poems  written  in  the  Leisure  Hours 
of  a  Journeyman  Stone-Mason,  1829.  Uni- 
form edition  of  his  works  (Catalogue  of  W. 
P.  Nimmo,  Lond.  and  Edin.,  1875),  13  vols. 
cr.  8vo,  viz. :  vol.  i.,  My  Schools  and  School- 
masters (1854).  24th  edit.;  ii.,  The  Testi- 
mony of  the  Rocks  (1857),  42d  1000;  iii., 
The  Cruise  of  the  Betsey,  llth  edit.;  iv., 
Sketch-Book  of  Popular  Geology,  7th  edit. ; 
v.,  First  Impressions  of  England  and  its 
People  (1847),  14th  edit. :  vi.,  Scenes  and 
Legends  of  the  North  of 'Scotland  (1835), 
13th  edit.;  vii.,  The  Old  lied  Sandstone 
(1841),  20th  edit,;  viii.,  The  Headship  of 
Christ  and  the  Rights  of  the  Christian  Peo- 
ple, 8th  edit. ;  ix.,  Footprints  of  the  Creator, 
or.  The  Asterolepis  of  Stromness  (1849), 
with  Preface  and  Notes  by  Mrs.  Miller,  and 
a  Biographical  Sketch  by  Professor  Agassi/., 
17th  edit. ;  x.,  Tales  and  Sketches,  Edited, 
with  a  Preface,  by  Mrs.  Miller,  7th  edit. ; 
xi.,  Essays,  Historical  and  Biographical, 
Political  and  Social,  Literary  and  Scientific, 
I7th  edit. ;  xii.,  Edinburgh  and  its  Neigh- 
bourhood, Geological  and  Historical,  with 
the  Geology  of  the  Bass  Rock  (1848),  6th 
edit. ;  xiii.,  Leading  Articles  on  Various 
Subjects,  Edited  by  his  Son-in-law,  the  Rev. 
John  Davidson,  etc.,  5th  edit. 

See  The  Life  and  Letters  of  Hugh  Miller, 
by  Peter  Bayne,  Lond.,  2  vols.  8vo  :  Lon. 
Gent.  Mag.,  1857,  i.  244  (Obituary) ;  Edin. 


HUGH  MILLER. 


453 


Review.  July,  1858;  N.  Amer.  Review,  Oct. 
1851  ;  N.  Brit.  Review,  Aug.  1854. 

"  On  his  style  it  is  not  easy  to  confer  too  high 
praise.  Dr.  Buckland  did  not  scruple  to  inform 
the  world  that  he  '  would  give  his  left  hand  to  pos- 
sess such  powers  of  description  [illustration]  as 
Hugh  Miller.'  Recollecting  the  staid  and  prosaic 
habits  of  professors,  we  cannot  but  feel  that  Dr. 
Buuklaml  must  have  been  very  much  struck  in- 
deed. The  style  in  question  is  one  of  very  rare 
excellence.  Easy,  fluent,  and  expressive,  it  adapts 
itself,  like  a  silken  shawl,  to  every  swell  and  mo- 
tion and  curve  of  a  subject.  It  is  graphic  yet  not 
extravagant,  strong  without  vociferation,  measured 
without  formality,  classically  chaste  yet  pleasingly 
adorned." — PETKU  BAYNE:  Esxays  in  Biuyniphy 
and  Criticism  :  Hiujh  Miller,  338,  339. 

FOSSILS  OF  THE  OLD  RED  SANDSTONE. 

The  different  degrees  of  entireness  in 
•which  the  geologist  finds  his  organic  re- 
mains, depends  much  less  on  their  age  than 
on  the  nature  of  the  rock  in  which  they  oc- 
cur ;  and  as  the  arenaceous  matrices  of  the 
Upper  and  Middle  Old  Red  Sandstones  have 
been  less  favourable  to  the  preservation  of 
their  peculiar  fossils  than  the  calcareous  and 
aluminous  matrices  of  the  Lower,  we  fre- 
quently find  the  older  organisms  of  the  sys- 
tem fresh  and  unbroken,  and  the  more  mod- 
ern existing  as  mere  fragments.  A  fish 
thrown  into  a  heap  of  salt  would  be  found 
entire  after  the  lapse  of  many  years ;  a  fish 
thrown  into  a  heap  of  sand  would  disappear 
in  a  mass  of  putrefaction  in  a  few  weeks ; 
and  only  the  less  destructible  parts,  such  as 
the  teeth,  the  harder  bones,  and  perhaps  a 
few  of  the  scales,  would  survive.  Now, 
limestone,  if  I  may  so  speak,  is  the  preserv- 
ing salt  of  the  geological  world;  and  the 
conservative  qualities  of  the  shales  and 
stratified  clays  of  the  Lower  Old  Red  Sand- 
stone are  not  much  inferior  to  those  of  lime 
itself;  while,  in  the  Upper  Old  Red,  we 
have  merely  beds  of  consolidated  sand,  and 
these,  in  most  instances,  rendered  less  con- 
servative of  organic  remains  than  even  the 
common  sand  of  our  shores,  by  a  mixture  of 
the  red  oxide  of  iron.  The  older  fossils, 
therefore,  like  the  mummies  of  Egypt,  can 
be  described  well  nigh  as  minutely  as  the 
existences  of  the  present  creation  ;  the 
newer,  like  the  comparatively  modern  re- 
mains of  our  churchyards,  exist,  except  in  a 
few  cases,  as  mere  fragments,  and  demand 
powers  such  as  those  of  Agassiz,  to  restore 
them  to  their  original  combination. 

But  cases,  though  few  and  rare,  do  occur 
in  which,  through  some  favourable  accident 
connected  with  the  death  or  sepulture  of 
some  individual  existence  of  the  period,  its 
remains  have  been  preserved  almost  entire  ; 
and  one  such  specimen  serves  to  throw  light 
on  whole  heaps  of  the  broken  remains  of  its 


contemporaries.  The  single  elephant,  pre- 
served in  an  iceberg  beside  the  Arctic  Ocean, 
illustrated  the  peculiarities  of  the  numerous 
extinct  family  to  which  it  belonged,  and 
whose  bones  and  huge  tusks  whiten  the 
wastes  of  Siberia.  The  human  body  found 
in  an  Irish  bog,  with  the  ancient  sandals  of 
the  country  still  attached  to  its  feet  by 
thongs,  and  clothed  in  a  garment  of  coarse 
hair,  gave  evidence  that  bore  generally  on 
the  degree  of  civilization  attained  by  the  in- 
habitants of  an  entire  district  in  a  remote 
age.  In  all  such  instances  the  character  and 
appearance  of  the  individual  bear  on  those 
of  the  tribe.  In  attempting  to  describe  the 
organisms  of  the  Lower  Old  Red  Sandstone, 
where  the  fossils  lie  as  thickly  in  some  lo- 
calities as  herrings  on  our  coasts  in  the  fish- 
ing season,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  whole  tribes  be- 
fore me.  In  describing  the  fossils  of  the 
Upper  Old  Red  Sandstone  I  shall  have  to 
draw  mostly  from  single  specimens.  But 
the  evidence  may  be  equally  sound  so  far  as 
it  goes. 

The  difference  between  the  superior  and 
inferior  groupes  of  the  system  which  first 
strikes  an  observer,  is  a  difference  in  the 
size  of  the  fossils  of  which  these  groupes  are 
composed.  The  characteristic  organisms  of 
the  Upper  Old  Red  Sandstone  are  of  much 
greater  bulk  than  those  of  the  Lower,  which 
seem  to  have  been  characterized  by  a  medi- 
ocrity of  size  throughout  the  entire  extent 
of  the  formation.  The  largest  ichthyolites 
of  the  group  do  not  seem  to  have  much  ex- 
ceeded two  feet  or  two  feet  and  a  half  in 
length  ;  its  smaller  average  from  an  inch  to 
three  inches.  A  jaw  in  the  possession  of 
Dr.  Traill — that  of  an  Orkney  species  of 
Platygnathus,  and  by  much  the  largest  in 
his  collection — does  not  exceed  in  bulk  the 
jaw  of  a  full-grown  coal-fish  or  cod ;  his 
largest  Coccosteiis  must  have  been  a  con- 
siderably smaller  fish  than  an  ordinary-sized 
turbot;  the  largest  ichthyolite  found  by  the 
writer  was  a  Diplopterus,  of,  however, 
smaller  dimensions  than  the  ichthyolite  to 
which  the  jaw  in  the  possession  of  Dr.  Traill 
must  have  belonged  ;  the  remains  of  another 
Diplopterus  from  Gainrie,  the  most  massy 
yet  discovered  in  that  locality,  seem  to  havo 
composed  the  upper  parts  of  an  individual 
about  two  feet  and  a  half  in  length.  The 
fish,  in  short,  of  the  lower  ocean  of  the  Old 
Red  Sandstone, — and  I  can  speak  of  it 
throughout  an  area  which  comprises  Ork- 
ney and  Inverness,  Cromarty  and  Gamrie, 
and  which  must  have  included  about  ten 
thousand  square  miles, — ranged  in  size  be- 
tween the  stickleback  and  the  cod  ;  whereas 
some  of  the  fish  of  its  upper  ocean  were 
covered  by  scales  as  large  as  oyster-shells, 
and  armed  with  teeth  that  rivalled  in  bulk 


454 


HARRIET  MAR  TINE AU. 


those  of  the  crocodile.  They  must  have  been 
tish  on  an  immensely  larger  scale  than  those 
with  which  the  system  began.  There  have 
been  scales  of  the  Holopiychius  found  in 
Clashbennie,  which  measure  three  inches  in 
length  by  two  and  a  half  in  breadth,  and  a 
full  eighth  of  an  inch  in  thickness.  There 
occur  occipital  plates  of  fishes  in  the  same 
formation  in  Moray,  a  full  foot  in  length  by 
half  a  foot  in  breadth.  The  fragment  of  a 
tooth  still  attached  to  a  piece  of  the  jaw, 
found  in  the  sandstone  cliffs  that  overhang 
the  Findhorn,  measures  an  inch  in  diameter 
at  the  base.  A  second  tooth  of  the  same 
formation,  of  a  larger  size,  disinterred  by 
Mr.  Patrick  Duff  from  out  the  conglomer- 
ates of  the  Scat-Craig,  near  Elgin,  and  now 
in  his  possession,  measures  two  inches  in 
length  by  rather  more  than  an  inch  in  di- 
ameter. There  occasionally  turn  up  in  the 
sandstones  of  Perthshire  ichthyodorulites 
that  in  bulk  and  appearance  resemble  the 
teeth  of  a  harrow  rounded  at  the  edges  by  a 
few  months'  wear,  and  which  must  have 
been  attached  to  fins  not  inferior  in  general 
bulk  to  the  dorsal  fin  of  an  ordinary-sized 
porpoise.  In  short,  the  remains  of  a  Patci- 
gonian  burying-ground  Avould  scarcely  con- 
trust  more  strongly  with  the  remains  of  that 
battle-field  described  by  Addison,  in  which 
the  pigmies  were  annihilated  by  the  cranes, 
than  the  organisms  of  the  upper  formation 
of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone  contrast  with 
those  of  the  lower. 

The  Old  Kcd  Sandstone;  or,  New  Walks 
in  an  Old  Field,  Chap.  ix. 


HARRIET    MARTINEAU, 

born  at  Norwich.  England,  1802,  died  1876, 
was  the  author  of  many  works  on  many  sub- 
jects, of  which  it  will  be  sufficient  to  chron- 
icle the  following:  Devotional  Exercises  for 
the  Young,  1823,  12rno;  Original  Hymns, 
1826  ;  The  Rioters,  1826, 18mo,  1842.  18mo  ; 
Tracts  on  Questions  relating  to  the  AVorking 
Classes,  1828;  Traditions  of  Palestine,  1830, 
2d  edit,.  1843,  fp.  8vo:  Five  Years  of  Youth, 
1831,  12mo;  Illustrations  of  Political  Econ- 
omy, 1832-34,  new  edit.,  1849,  8  vols.  18mo ; 
Poor-Law  and  Paupers,  1833,  2  vols.  12mo; 
Illustrations  of  Taxation,  1834,  5  vols.  18mo  : 
The  Tendency  of  Strikes  to  Produce  Low 
Wages,  1834,  12mo;  Addresses,  Prayers, 
and  Hymns,  2d  edit.,  1838,  12mo;  Society 
in  America,  1837,  3  vols.  post  8vo  (from  per- 
sonal observations  in  1835);  Retrospect  of 
Western  Travel,  1838,  3  vols.  p.  8vo ;  How 
to  Observe.  1838,  p.  8vo;  Deerbrook,  a 
Novel,  1839,  3  vols.  p.  8vo ;  Forest  and 
Game  Laws,  1840  (also  '45  and  !49),  3  vols. 


18mo ;  The  Hour  and  the  Man,  1840,  3  vols. 
post8vo,  1843, 12mo,  1855,  12mo;  The  Play- 
fellow, 1841,  4  vols.  18mo.  3d  edit.,  1856,  4 
vols.  18mo;  Life  in  the  Sick-Room,  1843,  p. 
8vo,  1844.  p.  8vo,  1849, 12mo;  Dawn  Island, 
a  Poem,  1845, 12mo ;  Letters  on  Mesmerism, 

1845,  fp.  8vo;  The  Billow  and  the  Rock. 

1846,  18mo,  1848,  18mo ;  Eastern  Life,  Past 
and  Present,  1848,  3  vols.  p.  8vo,  1850,  cr. 
8vo  ;  Household   Education.  1849,  fp.  8vo, 
1852,  fp.  8vo  ;  History  of  England  during 
the  Thirty  Years'  Peace,  1849-50,  2  vols.  r. 
8vo ;  Introduction  to  the   History  of  Eng- 
land during  the  Thirty  Years'  Peace,  1851,  r. 
8vo;  Haifa  Century  of  the  British  Empire, 
in  Pts.,  8vo,  1851,  etc. ;  Letters  between  Miss 
Martineau  and  Mr.  II.  G.  Atkinson  on  the 
Laws  of  Man's  Social  Nature  and  Develop- 
ment, 1851,  p.  8vo;  Letters   from   Ireland, 
1852,  p.  8vo;  The  Positive  Philosophy  of 
Auguste  Comte,  freely  Translated  and  Con- 
densed, 1853,  2  vols.  8vo ;  Complete  Guide 
to  the   English  Lakes,   1855,   12mo,    1856, 
12mo,  and  in  4to  ;  History  of  the  American 
Compromises,  1856;  Sketches  of  Life,  1856, 
12mo;  Corporation,  Tradition,  and  National 
Rights,  1857;  British  Rule  in  India,  1857: 
England  and  her  Soldiers,  1859 ;  Endowed 
Schools   in    Ireland,    1859;    Health,    Hus- 
bandry, and  Handicraft,   1861  ;  Biograph- 
ical Sketches,  1872 ;  Autobiography,  1876. 

FAITH  IN  PROVIDENCE. 

The  world  rolls  on,  let  what  will  be  hap- 
pening to  the  individuals  who  occupy  it. 
The  sun  rises  and  sets,  seed-time  and  har- 
vest come  and  go,  generations  arise  and  pass 
away,  law  and  authority  hold  on  their  course, 
while  hundreds  of  millions  of  human  hearts 
have  stirring  within  them  struggles  and 
emotions  eternally  new ;  and  experience  so 
diversified  as  that  no  two  days  appear  alike 
to  any  one,  and  to  no  two  does  any  one  day 
appear  the  same.  There  is  something  so 
striking  in  this  perpetual  contrast  between 
the  external  uniformity  and  internal  variety 
of  the  procedure  of  existence,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  that  multitudes  have  formed  a  con- 
ception of  Fate, — of  a  mighty  unchanging 
power,  blind  to  the  differences  of  spirits,  and 
deaf  to  the  appeals  of  human  delight  and 
misery;  a  huge  insensible  force,  beneath 
which  all  that  is  spiritual  is  sooner  or  later 
wounded,  and  is  ever  liable  to  be  crushed. 
This  conception  of  fate  is  grand,  is  natural, 
and  fully  warranted  to  minds  too  lofty  to  be 
satisfied  with  the  details  of  human  life,  but 
which  have  not  risen  to  the  far  higher  con- 
ception of  a  Providence  to  whom  this  uni- 
formity and  variety  are  but  means  to  a 
higher  end  than  they  apparently  involve. 
There  is  infinite  blessinc  in  having  reached 


HARRIET  MAR  TINE AU. 


455 


the  nobler  conception  ;  the  feeling  of  help- 
lessness is  relieved ;  the  craving  for  sympa- 
thy from  the  ruling  power  is  satisfied  ;  there 
is  a  hold  for  veneration  ;  there  is  room  for 
hope  ;  there  is,  above  all,  the  stimulus  and 
support  of  an  end  perceived  or  anticipated  ; 
a  purpose  which  steeps  in  sanctity  all  human 
experience.  Yet  even  where  this  blessing  is 
the  most  fully  felt  and  recognized,  the  spirit 
can  but  be  at  times  overwhelmed  by  the  vast 
regularity  of  aggregate  existence, — thrown 
back  upon  its  faith  for  support  when  it  re- 
flects how  all  things  go  on  as  they  did  before 
it  became  conscious  of  existence,  and  how 
all  would  go  on  as  now  if  it  were  to  die  to- 
day. On  it  rolls, — not  only  the  great  globe 
itself,  but  the  life  which  stirs  and  hums  on 
its  surface,  enveloping  it  like  an  atmosphere ; 
— on  it  rolls;  and  the  vastest  tumult  that 
may  take  place  among  its  inhabitants  can  no 
more  make  itself  seen  and  heard  above  the 
general  stir  and  hum  of  life,  than  Chimbo- 
razo  or  the  loftiest  Himalaya  can  lift  its 
peak  into  space  above  the  atmosphere.  On, 
on  it  rolls  ;  and  the  strong  arm  of  the  united 
race  could  not  turn  from  its  course  one 
planetary  mote  of  the  myriads  that  swim  in 
space  ;  no  shriek  of  passion,  nor  shrill  song 
of  joy,  sent  up  from  a  group  of  nations  or  a 
continent,  could  attain  the  ear  of  the  eternal 
silence,  as  she  sits  throned  among  the  stars. 
Death  is  less  dreary  than  life  in  this  view, — 
a  view  which  at  times,  perhaps,  presents 
itself  to  every  mind,  but  which  speedily 
vanishes  before  the  faith  of  those  who,  with 
the  heart,  believe  that  they  are  not  the  acci- 
dents of  fate,  but  the  children  of  a  Father. 
In  the  house  of  every  wise  parent  may  then 
be  seen  an  epitome  of  life, — a  sight  whose 
consolation  is  needed  at  times,  perhaps,  by 
all.  Which  of  the  little  children  of  a  vir- 
tuous household  can  conceive  of  his  entering 
into  his  parent's  pursuits,  or  interfering  with 
them?  How  sacred  are  the  study  and  the 
office,  the  apparatus  of  a  knowledge  and  a 
power  which  he  can  only  venerate  !  Which 
of  these  little  ones  dreams  of  disturbing  the 
course  of  his  parent's  thought  or  achieve- 
ment? Which  of  them  conceives  of  the 
daily  routine  of  the  household — its  going 
forth  and  coining  in,  its  rising  and  its  rest 
— having  been  different  before  his  birth,  or 
that  it  would  be  altered  by  his  absence?  It 
is  even  a  matter  of  surprise  to  him  when  it 
now  and  then  occurs  to  him  that  there  is 
anything  set  apart  for  him, — that  he  has 
clothes  and  couch,  and  that  his  mother 
thinks  and  cares  for  him.  If  he  lags  behind 
in  a  walk,  or  finds  himself  alone  among  the 
trees,  he  does  not  dream  of  being  missed  ; 
but  home  rises  up  before  him  as  he  has 
always  seen  it, — his  father  thoughtful,  his 
mother  occupied,  and  the  rest  gay,  with  the 


one  difference  of  his  not  being  there.  This 
he  believes,  and  has  no  other  trust  than  in 
his  shriek  of  terror,  for  being  even  remem- 
bered more.  Yet  all  the  while,  from  day  to 
day,  from  year  to  year,  without  one  mo- 
ment's intermission,  is  the  providence  of  his 
parent  around  him.  brooding  over  the  work- 
ings of  his  infant  spirit,  chastening  his 
passions,  nourishing  his  affections, — now 
troubling  it  with  salutary  pain,  now  ani- 
mating it  with  even  more  wholesome  de- 
light. All  the  while  is  the  order  of  house- 
hold affairs  regulated  for  the  comfort  and 
profit  of  these  lovely  little  ones,  though  they 
regard  it  reverently,  because  they  cannot 
comprehend  it.  They  may  not  know  all  this, 
— how  their  guardian  bends  over  their  pil- 
low nightly,  and  lets  no  word  of  their  care- 
less talk  drop  unheeded,  and  records  every 
sob  of  infant  grief,  hails  every  brightening 
gleam  of  reason  and  every  chirp  of  childish 
glee. — they  may  not  know  this  because  they 
could  not  understand  it  aright,  and  each 
little  heart  would  be  inflated  with  pride, 
each  little  mind  would  lose  the  grace  and 
purity  of  its  unconsciousness;  but  the  guar- 
dianship is  not  the  less  real,  constant,  and 
tender,  for  its  being  unrecognized  by  its  ob- 
jects. As  the  spirit  expands,  and  perceives 
that  it  is  one  of  an  innumerable  family,  it 
would  be  in  danger  of  sinking  into  the  de- 
spair of  loneliness  if  it  were  not  capable  of 

"  Belief 

In  meroy  carried  infinite  degrees 
Beyond  the  tenderness  of  human  hearts," 

while  the  very  circumstance  of  multitude 
obviates  the  danger  of  undue  exaltation. 
But  though  it  is  good  to  be  lowly,  it  be- 
hooves every  one  to  be  sensible  of  the  guar- 
dianship of  which  so  many  evidences  are 
around  all  who  breathe.  While  the  world 
and  life  roll  on  and  on,  the  feeble  reason  of 
the  child  of  Providence  may  be  at  times  over- 
powered by  the  vastness  of  the  system 
amidst  which  he  lives;  but  his  faith  will 
smile  upon  his  fear,  rebuke  him  for  averting 
his  eyes,  and  inspire  him  with  the  thought, 
"  Nothing  can  crush  me,  for  I  am  made  for 
eternity.  I  will  do,  suffer,  and  enjoy  as  my 
Father  wills;  and  let  the  world  and  life  roll 
on!" 

Such  is  the  faith  which  supports,  which 
alone  can  support,  the  many  who,  having 
been  whirled  into  the  eddying  stream  of 
social  affairs,  are  withdrawn,  by  one  cause 
or  another,  to  abide  in  some  still  little  creek, 
the  passage  of  the  mighty  tide.  The  broken- 
down  statesman,  who  knows  himself  to  be 
spoken  of  as  politically  dead,  and  sees  hia 
successors  at  work,  building  on  his  founda- 
tions, without  more  than  a  passing  thought 
on  him  who  had  laboured  before  them,  has 


456 


DOUGLAS  J ERR  OLD. 


need  of  this  faith.  The  aged,  who  find 
affairs  proceeding  at  the  will  of  the  young 
and  hardy,  whatever  the  gray-haired  may 
think  and  say,  have  need  of  this  faith.  So 
have  the  sick,  when  they  find  none  but 
themselves  disposed  to  look  on  life  in  the 
light  which  comes  from  beyond  the  grave. 
So  have  the  persecuted,  when,  with  or  with- 
out cause,  they  see  themselves  pointed  at  in 
the  street;  and  the  despised,  who  find  them- 
selves neglected  whichever  wr.y  they  turn. 
So  have  the  prosperous,  during  those  mo- 
ments which  must  occur  to  all,  when  sym- 
patliy  fails,  and  means  to  much  desired 
ends  are  wanting,  or  when  satiety  makes  the 
spirit  roam  abroad  in  search  of  something 
better  than  it  has  found.  This  universal, 
eternal,  filial  relation  is  the  only  universal 
and  eternal  refuge.  It  is  the  solace  of  roy- 
alty weeping  in  the  inner  chambers  of  its 
palaces,  and  of  poverty  drooping  beside  its 
cold  hearth.  It  is  the  glad  tidings  preached 
to  the  poor,  and  in  which  all  must  be  poor 
in  spirit  to  have  part.  If  they  be  poor  in 
spirit,  it  matters  little  what  is  their  external 
state,  or  whether  the  world,  which  rolls  on 
beside  or  over  them,  be  the  world  of  a  solar 
system,  or  of  a  conquering  empire,  or  of  a 
small-sou  led  village. 
Deerbrook,  a  Novel. 


DOUGLAS  JERROLD, 

well  known  as  the  author  of  Black-Eyed 
Susan,  The  Ilent  Day,  and  many  other 
dramas,  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain-Lectures, 
etc.,  in  Punch,  and  other  productions,  was 
born  in  London  in  1S03,  served  for  some 
time  in  the  Royal  Navy,  and  also  as  a 
printer,  and  died  in  1857. 

Men  of  Character,  1838,  3  vols.  p.  8vo  ; 
Bubbles  of  the  Day,  a  Comedy,  1842  ;  Cakes 
and  Ale,  1842,  2  vols.  fp.  8vo ;  Prisoner  of 
War,  1842,  8vo ;  Punch's  Letters  to  his  Son, 
1843,  fp.  8vo;  Punch's  Complete  Letter- 
Writer;  Story  of  a  Feather,  1844,  fp.  8vo  ; 
Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain-Lectures,  new  edit., 
1846,  fp.  8vo ;  Chronicles  of  Clovernook, 
1846,  fp.  8vo;  A  Man  Made  of  Money,  1849. 
p.  8vo  ;  The  Catspaw,  a  Comedy,  1850,  8vo; 
Retired  from  Business,  a  Comedy,  1851. 
12mo;  St.  Giles  and  St.  James,  185'l,  12mo; 
Time  Works  Wonders,  1854,  fp.  8vo ;  A 
Heart  of  Gold,  a  Drama,  1854,  12mo  ;  Come- 
dies and  Dramas.  1854,  12mo,  new  edit.,  2 
vols.  8vo.  To  these  may  be  added  Nell 
Gwynne,  Cupid,  etc.,  and  many  papers  in 
The  Heads  of  the  People,  The  Illuminated 
Magazine,  The  Shilling  Magazine,  and 
Lloyd's  Weekly,  all  of  which  he  edited. 
After  his  death  appeared  The  Barber's 
Chain,  and  The  Hedgehog  Letters,  cr.  8vo, 


Brownrigg's  Papers  and  other  Stories,  new 
edit.,  I860,  p.  8vo,  Life  and  Remains  of 
Douglas  Jerrold,  1859.  8vo,  The  Wit  and 
Opinions  of  Douglas  Jerrold,  1859,  12mo, 
all  edited  by  his  son  William  Blanchard 
Jerrold,  author  of  The  Life  of  Napoleon 
III.,  4  vols.  8vo,  etc.  There  are  collective 
editions  of  Jerrold's  Works,  Lond.,  1851-54. 
8  vols.  IvJmo.  and  1863-G5,  5  vols.  p.  8vo. 

"Jerrold  was  truly  a  man  of  a  large  heart,  ns 
well  as  of  a  great  original  genius.  He  never  lost 
an  opportunity  of  labouring  in  any  act  of  benevo- 
lence that  his  sense  of  duty  set  before  him  ;  and 
his  last  words  were  those  of  affection  towards  all 
with  whom  he  had  been  associated  in  friendship, — 
to  him  a  sacred  relation." — Lond.  Gent.  May.,  July, 
1857,  94,  q.  v.  See  also  Jerrold,  Tennyson,  Mitcau- 
l«y,  and  oilier  Critical  Essays,  by  J.  II.  Stirling, 
LL.D.,  1868,  fp.  8vo:  New  Spirit  of  the  Aye,  by 
R.  H.  Home,  1844,  2  vols.  p.  8vo;  JV.  Brit.  Rev., 
May,  1859. 

CLOVERXOOK  AXD  ITS  INN. 

We  have  yet  no  truthful  map  of  England. 
No  offence  to  the  publishers ;  but  the  verity 
must  be  uttered.  We  have  pored  and  pon- 
dered, and  gone  to  our  sheets  with  weak, 
winking  eyes,  having  vainly  searched,  we 
cannot  trust  ourselves  to  say  how  many 
hundred  maps  of  our  beloved  land,  for  the 
exact  whereabout  of  Clovernook.  We  can- 
not find  it.  More:  we  doubt — so  imperfect 
are  all  the  maps — if  any  man  can  drop  his 
finger  on  the  spot,  can  point  to  the  blessed 
locality  of  that  most  blissful  village.  He 
could  as  easily  show  to  us  the  hundred  of 
Utopia :  the  glittering  weathercocks  of  the 
New  Atlantis. 

And  shall  we  be  more  communicative  than 
the  publishers  ?  No ;  the  secret  shall  be 
buried  with  us ;  we  will  hug  it  under  our 
shroud.  We  have  heard  of  shrewd,  short- 
speeched  men  who  were  the  living  caskets 
of  some  healing  jewel ;  some  restorative 
recipe  to  draw  the  burning  fangs  from  gout; 
some  anodyne  to  touch  away  sciatica  into 
the  lithesomeness  of  a  kid  ;  and  these  men 
have  died,  and  have,  to  their  own  satisfac- 
tion at  least,  carried  the  secret  into  their 
coffins,  as  though  the  mystery  would  com- 
fort them  as  they  rotted.  There  have  been 
such  men  ;  and  the  black,  begrimed  father 
of  all  uncharitableness  sits  cross-legged 
upon  their  tombstones,  and  sniggers  over 
them. 

Nevertheless,  we  will  not  tell  to  the  care- 
less and  irreverent  world — a  world  noisy 
with  the  ringing  of  shillings — the  where- 
about of  Clovernook.  We  might,  would  we 
condescend,  give  an  all-sufficient  reason  for 
our  closeness:  we  will  do  no  such  thing. 
No :  the  village  is  our  own,  consecrated  to 
our  own  delicious  leisure,  when  time  runs 
by  like  a  summer  brook,  dimpling  and 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


457 


sweetly  murmuring  as  it  runs.  We  have 
the  most  potent  right  of  freehold  in  the 
soil;  nay,  it  is  our  lordship.  We  have  there 
droits  du  seigneur  ;  and  in  the  very  despot- 
ism of  our  ownership  might,  if  we  would, 
turn  oaks  into  gibbets.  Let  this  knowledge 
suffice  to  the  reader;  for  we  will  not  vouch- 
safe to  him  another  pippin's-worth. 

Thus  much,  however,  we  will  say  of  the 
history  of  Clovernook :  there  is  about  it  a 
very  proper  mist  and  haziness;  it  twinkles 
far,  far  away  through  the  darkness  of  time, 
like  a  taper  through  a  midnight  casement. 
The  spirit  of  fable  that  dallies  with  the 
vexed  heart  of  man,  and  incarnates  his 
dreams  in  living  presences, — for  mightiest 
of  the  mighty  is  oft  the  muscle  of  fiction. — 
fable  says  that  Clovernook  was  the  work  of 
some  sprite  of  Fancy,  that  in  an  idle  and 
extravagant  mood  made  it  a  choice  country- 
seat, — a  green  .and  flowery  place,  peopled 
with  happy  faces.  And  it  was  created,  says 
fable,  after  this  fashion  : 

The  sprite  took  certain  pieces  of  old,  fine 
linen,  which  were  torn  and  torn,  and  re- 
duced to  a  very  pulp,  and  then  made  into  a 
substance,  thin  and  spotless.  And  then  the 
sprite  flew  away  to  distant  woods,  and  gath- 
ered certain  things,  from  which  was  ex- 
pressed a  liquid  of  darkest  dye.  And  then, 
after  the  old  time-honoured  way,  a  living 
thing  was  sacrificed;  a  bird  much  praised 
by  men  at  Michaelmas,  fell  with  bleeding 
throat ;  and  the  sprite,  plucking  a  feather 
from  the  poor  dead  thing,  waved  and  waved 
it,  and  the  village  of  Clovernook  grew  and 
grew  ;  and  cottages,  silently  as  trees,  rose 
from  the  earth  ;  and  men  and  women  came 
there  by  twos  and  fours ;  and  in  good  time 
smoke  rose  from  chimneys,  and  cradles  were 
rocked.  And  this,  so  saith  fable,  was  the 
beginning  of  Clovernook. 

Although  we  will  not  let  the  rabble  of  the 
world  know  the  whereabout  of  our  village, 
• — and  by  the  rabble,  be  it  understood,  we  do 
not  mean  the  wretches  who  are  guilty  of 
daily  hunger,  and  are  condemned  in  the 
court  of  poverty  of  the  high  misdemeanour 
of  patches  and  rags, — but  we  mean  the  mere 
money-changers,  the  folks  who  carry  their 
sullen  souls  in  the  corners  of  their  pockets, 
and  think  the  site  of  Eden  is  covered  with 
the  Mint;  although  we  will  not  have  Clover- 
nook  startled  from  its  sweet,  dreamy  seren- 
ity—  and  we  have  sometimes  known  the 
very  weasels  in  mid-day  to  doze  there,  given 
up  to  the  delicious  influence  of  the  place — • 
by  the  chariot-wheels  of  that  stony-hearted 
old  dowager,  Lady  Mammon,  with  her  false 
locks  and  ruddled  cheeks,  we  invite  all 
others  to  our  little  village ;  where  they  may 
loll  in  the  sun  or  shade  as  suits  them  ;  lie 
along  on  the  green  turfy  sward,  and  kick 


their  heels  at  fortune:  where  they  may  jig 
an  evening  dance  in  the  meadows,  and  after 
retire  to  the  inn. — the  one  inn  of  Clover- 
nook, — glorified  under  the  sign  of  ''Gratis!" 

Match  us  that  sign  if  you  can.  What  are 
your  Georges  and  Dragons,  your  Kinds' 
Heads  and  Queens'  Arms  ;  your  Lions,  Red, 
White,  and  Black  ;  your  Mermaids  and  your 
Dolphins,  to  that  large,  embracing  benev- 
olence,— Gratis?  Doth  not  the  word  seem 
to  throw  its  arm  about  you  with  a  hugging 
welcome?  Gratis!  It  is  the  voice  of  Na- 
ture, speaking  from  the  fulness  of  her  large 
heart.  The  word  is  written  all  over  the 
blue  heaven.  The  health-giving  air  whis- 
pers it  about  us.  It  rides  the  sunbeam  (save 
when  statesmen  put  a  pane 'twixtus  and  it). 
The  lark  trills  it  high  up  in  its  skyey  dome  ; 
the  little  wayside  flower  breathes  gratis 
from  its  pinky  mouth;  the  bright  brook 
murmurs  it;  it  is  written  in  the  harvest 
moon.  Look  and  move  where  we  will,  de- 
lights—  all  "gratis,"  all  breathing  and 
beaming  beauty — are  about  us ;  and  yet 
how  rarely  do  we  seize  the  happiness,  be- 
cause, forsooth,  it  is  a  joy  gratis? 

But  let  us  back  to  Clovernook.  We  offer 
it  as  a  country  tarrying-place  for  all  who 
will  accept  its  hospitality.  We  will  show 
every  green  lane  about  it ;  every  clump  of 
trees;  every  bit  of  woodland,  mead,  and 
dell.  The  villagers,  too,  may  be  found, 
upon  acquaintance,  not  altogether  boors. 
There  are  some  strange  folk  among  them. 
Men  who  have  wrestled  in  the  world,  and 
have  had  their  victories  and  their  trippings- 
up  ;  and  now  they  have  nothing  to  do  but  keep 
their  little  bits  of  garden-ground  pranked 
with  the  earliest  flowers  ;  their  only  enemies, 
weeds,  slugs,  and  snails.  Odd  people,  we 
say  it,  are  amongst  them.  Men  whose 
minds  have  been  strangely  carved  and  fash- 
ioned by  the  world  ;  cut  like  odd  fancies  in 
walnut-tree  ;  but  though  curious  and  gro- 
tesque, the  minds  are  sound,  with  not  a 
worm-hole  in  them.  And  these  men  meet 
in  summer  under  the  broad  mulberry-tree 
before  the  "Gratis,"  and  tell  their  stories, — • 
thoughts,  humours;  yea,  their  dreams.  They 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  consider  that 
curious  bit  of  clock-work — the  mind — within 
them;  and  droll  it  sometimes  is,  to  mark 
how  they  will  try  to  take  it  to  pieces,  and 
then  again  to  adjust  its  little  wheels,  its 
levers,  and  springs. 

The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,-  with  some 
Account  of  the  Hermit  of  Bdlyfulle. 


RALPH  WALDO    EMERSON, 

the  son  of  a  Unitarian  minister,  was  born  in 
Boston  in  1803,  graduated  at  Harvard  Col- 


458 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON. 


lege,  1821,  and  officiated  for  some  time  as 
minister  of  the  Second  Unitarian  Church  of 
Boston.  He  has  for  many  years  been  living 
in  retirement  at  Concord,  Massachusetts. 

Works  :  vol.  i.,  Essays,  Bost.,  1841,  12mo, 
with  Preface  by  Thomas  Carlyle,  Lond., 
1853, 12mo  ;  ii.,  Essays,  Second  Series,  Bost., 
1844, 12mo,  2d  edit.,  1855,  12mo  ;  iii.,  Poems, 
Bost.,  1847,  12mo  ;  iv.,  Representative  Men, 
Seven  Lectures,  Bost.,  1850,  12mo  ;  v.,  Mis- 
cellanies: embracing  Nature  [1839J,  Ad- 
dresses, and  Lectures,  Bost,  1849,  12mo; 
vi.,  English  Traits,  Bost.,  1856,  12mo;  vii., 
Conduct  of  Life,  Bost.,  I860,  12mo;  viii., 
May  Day  and  other  Pieces,  Bost.,  16mo; 
ix.,  Society  and  Solitude,  Bost.,  1869,  16mo ; 
x.,  Poetry  and  Criticism,  Bost.,  1875,  12mo  ; 
xi.,  Fortune  of  the  llepublic,  Bost.,  1878, 
16mo. 

In  1851  appeared  Memoirs  of  Margaret 
Fuller  Ossoli,  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 
William  Henry  Channing,  and  James  Free- 
man Clarke,  Bost.,  2  vols.  12mo,  Lond.,  1852, 
3  vols.  p.  Svo.  Mr.  Emerson  edited  The  Dial, 
Bost.,  1840-44,  and  has  contributed  to  the 
North  American  Review,  vols.  44 :  1  (Mi- 
chael Angelo),  47:  56  (Milton),  102:  356 
(Character),  106  :  543  (Quotation  and  Origi- 
nality), 124:  179  (Demonology),  125:  271 
(Perpetual  Forces),  and  The  Christian  Ex- 
aminer. 

BEAUTY. 

The  presence  of  a  higher,  namely,  of  the 
spiritual  element  is  essential  to  its  perfec- 
tion. The  high  and  divine  beauty  which 
can  be  loved  without  effeminacy  is  that 
which  is  found  in  combination  with  the 
human  will,  and  never  separate.  Beauty 
is  the  mark  God  sets  upon  virtue.  Every 
natural  action  is  graceful.  Every  heroic  act 
is  also  decent,  and  causes  the  place  and  the 
bystanders  to  shine.  We  are  taught  by 
great  actions  that  the  universe  is  the  prop- 
erty of  every  individual  in  it.  Every  ra- 
tional creature  has  all  nature  for  his  dowry 
and  estate.  It  is  his,  if  he  will.  He  may 
divest  himself  of  it;  he  may  creep  into  a 
corner,  and  abdicate  his  kingdom,  as  most 
men  do ;  but  he  is  entitled  to  the  world  by 
his  constitution.  In  proportion  to  the  en- 
ergy of  his  thought  and  will,  he  takes  up 
the  world  into  himself.  "  All  those  things 
for  which  men  plough,  build,  or  sail,  obey 
virtue,"  said  an  ancient  historian.  "The 
winds  and  waves,"  said  Gibbon,  "are  al- 
ways on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators." 
So  are  the  sun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars 
of  heaven.  When  a  noble  act  is  done, — 
perchance  in  a  scene  of  great  natural  beauty  ; 
when  Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred  war- 
riors consume  one  day  in  dying,  and  the  sun 
and  moon  come  each  and  look  at  them  once 


in  the  steep  defile  of  Thermopylae  ;  when 
Arnold  Winkelried,  in  the  high  Alps  under 
the  shadow  of  the  avalanche,  gathers  in  his 
side  a  sheaf  of  Austrian  spears  to  break  the 
line  for  his  comrades:  are  not  these  heroes 
entitled  to  add  the  beauty  of  the  scene  to 
the  beauty  of  the  deed?  When  the  bark 
of  Columbus  nears  the  shore  of  America, — 
before  it,  the  beach  lined  with  savasres  fleeing 
out  of  all  their  huts  of  cane ;  the  sea  be- 
hind ;  and  the  purple  mountains  of  the  In- 
dian Archipelago  around,  can  we  separate 
the  man  from  the  living  picture?  Does  not 
the  New  World  clothe  his  form  with  her 
palm-groves  and  savannahs  as  fit  drapery? 
Ever  does  natural  beauty  steal  in  like  air, 
and  envelop  great  actions.  When  Sir  Harry 
Vane  was  dragged  up  the  Tower-hill,  sitting 
on  a  sled,  to  suffer  death,  as  the  champion 
of  the  English  laws,  one  of  the  multitude 
cried  out  to  him,  "  You  never  sate  on  BO 
glorious  a  seat."  Charles  II.,  to  intimidate 
the  citizens  of  London,  caused  the  patriot 
Lord  Russell  to  be  drawn  in  an  open  coach, 
through  the  principal  streets  of  the  city,  on 
his  way  to  the  scaffold.  "But,"  to  use  the 
simple  narrative  of  his  biographer,  "  the 
multitude  imagined  they  saw  liberty  and 
virtue  sitting  by  his  side."  In  private 
places,  among  sordid  objects,  an  act  of  truth 
or  heroism  seems  at  once  to  draw  to  itself 
the  sky  as  its  temple,  the  sun  as  its  candle. 
Nature  stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  embrace 
man,  only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal 
greatness.  Willingly  does  she  follow  his 
steps  with  the  rose  and  the  violet,  and  bend 
her  lines  of  grandeur  and  grace  to  the  dec- 
oration of  her  darling  child.  Only  let  his 
thoughts  be  of  equal  scope,  and  the  frame 
will  suit  the  picture.  A  virtuous  man  is  in 
unison  with  her  works,  and  makes  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  the  visible  sphere. 
Nature. 

THE  POWER  OF  LOVE. 

Be  our  experience  in  particulars  what  it 
may,  no  man  ever  forgot  the  visitations  of 
that  power  to  his  heart  and  brain,  which 
created  all  things  new  ;  which  was  the  dawn 
in  him  of  music,  poetry,  and  art ;  which 
made  the  face  of  nature  radiant  with  purple 
light,  the  morning  and  the  night  varied  en- 
chantments ;  when  a  single  tone  of  one 
voice  could  make  the  heart  beat,  and  the 
most  trivial  circumstances  associated  with 
one  form  is  put  in  the  amber  of  memory  : 
when  we  became  all  eye  when  one  was  pres- 
ent, and  all  memory  when  one  was  gone  ; 
when  the  youth  becomes  a  watcher  of  win- 
dows, and  studious  of  a  glove,  a  veil,  a  rib- 
bon, or  the  wheels  of  a  carriage  ;  when  no 
place  is  too  solitary,  and  none  too  silent  for 
him  who  has  richer  company,  and  sweeter 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


459 


conversation  in  his  new  thoughts,  than  any 
old  friends,  though  best  and  purest,  can  give 
him  :  for  the  figures,  the  motions,  the  words, 
of  the  beloved  object  are  not  like  other  im- 
ages written  in  water,  but  as  Plutarch  said, 
"  enamelled  in  fire,"  and  made  the  study  of 
midnight. 

"  Thou  art  not  gone  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art, 
Thou  leav'st  in  him  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  him 
thy  loving  heart." 

In  the  noon  and  afternoon  of  life,  we  still 
throb  at  the  recollection  of  days  when  hap- 
piness was  not  happy  enough,  but  must  be 
drugged  with  the  relish  of  pain  and  fear; 
for  he  touched  the  secret  of  the  matter  who 
said  of  love, 

"All  other  pleasures  are  not  worth  its  pains:" 

and  when  the  day  was  not  long  enough,  but 
the  night  too  must  be  consumed  in  keen 
recollections  ;  when  the  head  boiled  all  night 
on  the  pillow  with  the  generous  deed  it  re- 
solved on  ;  when  the  moonlight  was  a  pleas- 
ing fever,  and  the  stars  were  letters,  and  the 
ilo\vers  ciphers,  and  the  air  was  coined  into 
song;  when  all  business  seemed  an  imperti- 
nence, and  all  the  men  and  women  running 
to  and  fro  in  the  streets  mere  pictures. 

The  passion  remakes  the  world  for  the 
youth.  It  makes  all  things  alive  and  sig- 
nificant. Nature  grows  conscious.  Every 
bird  on  the  boughs  of  the  tree  sings  now  to 
his  heart  and  soul.  Almost  the  notes  are 
articulate.  The  clouds  have  faces,  as  he 
looks  on  them.  The  trees  of  the  forest, 
the  waving  grass,  and  the  peeping  flowers 
have  grown  intelligent ;  and  almost  he  fears 
to  trust  them  with  the  secret  which  they 
seem  to  invite.  Yet  nature  soothes  and 
sympathizes.  In  the  green  solitude  he  finds 
a  dearer  home  than  with  men : 

"  Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves, 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  safely  housed,  save  bats  and  owls, 
A  midnight  bell,  a  passing  groan  : 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon." 

Behold  there  in  the  wood  the  fine  mad- 
man !  He  is  a  palace  of  sweet  sounds  and 
sights ;  he  dilates  ;  he  is  twice  a  man  ;  he 
walks  with  arms  akimbo;  he  soliloquizes; 
he  accosts  the  grass  and  the  trees ;  he  feels 
the  blood  of  the  violet,  the  clover,  and  the 
lily  in  his  veins  ;  and  he  talks  with  the  brook 
that  wets  his  foot. 

The  causes  that  have  sharpened  his  per- 
ceptions of  natural  beauty  have  made  him 
love  music  and  verse.  It  is  a  fact  often  ob- 
served, that  men  have  written  good  verses 
under  the  inspiration  of  passion,  who  cannot 
write  well  under  any  other  circumstances. 


The  like  force  has  passion  over  all  his 
nature.  It  expands  the  sentiment ;  it  makes 
the  clown  gentle,  and  gives  the  coward  heart. 
Into  the  most  pitiful  and  abject  it  will  infuse 
a  heart  and  courage  to  defy  the  world,  so 
only  it  have  the  countenance  of  the  beloved 
object.  In  giving  him  to  another,  it  still 
more  gives  him  to  himself.  He  is  a  new 
man,  with  new  perceptions,  new  and  keener 
purposes,  and  a  religious  solemnity  of  char- 
acter and  aims.  He  does  not  longer  apper- 
tain to  his  family  and  society.  He  is  some- 
what. He  is  a  person,  lie  is  a  soul. 

Essay  on  Love. 

STATELINESS  AND  COURTESY. 

I  like  that  every  chair  should  be  a  throne, 
and  hold  a  king.  I  prefer  a  tendency  to 
state! i ness,  to  an  excess  of  fellowship.  Let 
the  incommunicable  objects  of  nature  and 
the  metaphysical  isolation  of  man  teach  us 
independence.  Let  us  not  be  too  much  ac- 
quainted. I  would  have  a  man  enter  his 
house  through  a  hall  filled  with  heroic  and 
sacred  sculptures,  that  he  might  not  want 
the  hint  of  tranquillity  and  self-poise.  We 
should  meet  each  moi-ning,  as  from  foreign 
countries,  and  spending  the  day  together, 
should  depart  at  night,  as  into  foreign  coun- 
tries. In  all  things  I  would  have  the  island 
of  a  man  inviolate.  Let  us  sit  apart  as 
the  gods,  talking  from  peak  to  peak  all 
round  Olympus.  No  degree  of  affection 
need  invade  this  religion.  This  is  myrrh 
and  rosemary  to  keep  the  other  sweet. 
Lovers  should  guard  their  strangeness.  If 
they  forgive  too  much,  all  slides  into  confu- 
sion and  meanness.  It  is  easy  to  push  this 
defence  to  a  Chinese  etiquette  ;  but  coolness 
and  absence  of  heat  and  haste  indicate  fine 
qualities.  A  gentleman  makes  no  noise  ;  a 
lady  is  serene.  Proportionate  is  our  disgust 
at  those  invaders  who  fill  a  studious  house 
with  blast  and  running  to  secure  some  pal- 
try convenience.  Not  less  I  dislike  a  low 
sympathy  of  each  with  his  neighbour's  needs. 
Must  we  have  a  good  understanding  with  one 
another's  palates  ?  as  foolish  people,  who 
have  lived  long  together,  know  when  each 
wants  salt  or  sugar.  I  pray  my  companion, 
if  he  wishes  for  bread,  to  ask  me  for  bread, 
and  if  he  wishes  for  sassafras  or  arsenic,  to 
ask  me  for  them,  and  not  to  hold  out  hia 
plate  as  if  I  knew  already.  Every  natural 
function  can  be  dignified  by  deliberation  and 
privacy.  Let  us  leave  hurry  to  shaves.  The 
compliments  and  ceremonies  of  our  breeding 
should  signify,  however  remotely,  the  recol- 
lection of  the  grandeur  of  our  destiny. 

The  flower  of  courtesy  does  not  very  well 
bide  handling,  but  if  we  dare  to  open  another 
leaf,  and  explore  what  parts  go  to  its  con- 


460 


RALPH   WALDO  EMERSON. 


formation,  we  shall  find  also  an  intellectual 
quality.  To  the  leaders  of  men,  the  brain 
as  well  as  the  flesh  and  the  heart  must  fur- 
nish a  proportion.  Defect  in  manners  is 
usually  the  defect  of  fine  perceptions.  Men 
are  too  coarsely  made  for  the  delicacy  of 
beautiful  carriage  and  customs.  It  is  not 
quite  sufficient  to  good-breeding,  a  union  of 
kindness  and  independence.  We  impera- 
tively require  a  perception  of,  and  a  homage 
to.  beauty  in  our  companions.  Other  virtues 
are  in  request  in  the  field  and  work-yard, 
but  a  certain  degree  of  taste  is  not  to  be 
spared  in  those  we  sit  with.  I  could  better 
eat  with  one  who  did  not  respect  the  trutli 
or  the  laws,  than  with  a  sloven  and  unpre- 
sentable person.  Moral  qualities  rule  the 
world,  but  ut  short  distances  the  senses  are 
despotic.  The  same  discrimination  of  fit  and 
fair  runs  out,  if  with  less  rigour,  into  all 
parts  of  life.  The  average  spirit  of  the  ener- 
getic class  is  good  sense,  acting  under  cer- 
tain limitations  and  to  certain  ends.  It  en- 
tertains every  natural  gift.  Social  in  its 
nature,  it  respects  every  thing  which  tends 
to  unite  men.  It  delights  in  measure.  The 
love  of  beauty  is  mainly  the  love  of  measure 
or  proportion.  The  person  who  screams,  or 
uses  the  superlative  degree,  or  converses 
with  heat,  puts  whole  drawing-rooms  to 
flight.  If  you  wish  to  be  loved,  love  meas- 
ure. You  must  have  genius,  or  a  prodigious 
usefulness,  if  you  will  hide  the  want  of 
measure.  This  perception  comes  in  to  polish 
and  perfect  the  parts  of  the  social  instru- 
ment. Society  will  pardon  much  to  genius 
and  special  gifts,  but,  being  in  its  nature  a 
convention,  it  loves  what  is  conventional, 
or  what  belongs  to  coining  together.  That 
makes  the  good  and  bad  of  manners,  namely, 
what  helps  or  hinders  fellowship.  For, 
fashion  is  not  good  sense  absolute,  but  rela- 
tive ;  not  good  sense  private,  but  good  sense 
entertaining  company.  It  hates  corners  and 
sharp  points  of  character,  hates  quarrelsome, 
egotistical,  solitary  and  gloomy  people ;  hates 
whatever  can  interfere  with  total  blending 
of  parties;  whilst  it  values  all  peculiarities 
as  in  the  highest  degree  refreshing,  which 
can  consist  with  good  fellowship.  And  be- 
sides the  general  infusion  of  wit  to  heighten 
civility,  the  direct  splendour  of  intellectual 
power  is  ever  welcome  in  fine  society  as  the 
costliest  addition  to  its  rule  and  its  credit. 
Essay  on  Manners, 

GENIUS. 

And  what  is  genius  but  finer  love,  a  love 
impersonal,  a  love  of  the  flower  and  perfec- 
tion of  things,  and  a  desire  to  draw  a  new 
picture  or  copy  of  the  same  ?  It  looks  to 
the  cause  and  life :  it  proceeds  from  within 


outward,  while  talent  goes  from  without  in- 
ward. Talent  finds  its  models  and  methods 
and  ends  in  society,  exists  for  exhibition, 
and  goes  to  the  soul  only  for  power  to  work. 
Genius  is  its  own  end,  and  draws  its  moans 
and  the  style  of  its  architecture  from  within, 
going  abroad  only  for  audience  and  specta- 
tor, as  we  adapt  our  voice  and  phrase  to  the 
distance  and  character  of  the  ear  we  speak 
to.  All  your  learning  of  all  literatures  would 
never  enable  you  to  anticipate  one  of  its 
thoughts  or  expressions,  and  yet  each  is  nat- 
ural and  familiar  as  household  words.  Here 
about  us  coils  for  ever. the  ancient  enigma, 
so  old  and  so  unutterable.  Behold  !  there  is 
the  sun,  and  the  rain,  and  the  rocks:  the  old 
sun,  the  old  stones.  How  easy  were  it  to 
describe  all  this  fitly  :  yet  no  word  can  pass. 
Nature  is  a  mute,  and  man,  her  articulate 
speaking  brother,  lo  !  he  .also  is  a  mute.  Yet 
when  genius  arrives,  its  speech  is  like  a 
river,  it  has  no  straining  to  describe,  more 
than  there  is  straining  m  nature  to  exist. 
When  thought  is  best,  there  is  most  of  it. 
Genius  sheds  wisdom  like  perfume,  and  ad- 
vertises us  that  it  flows  out  of  a  deeper 
source  than  the  foregoing  silence,  that  it 
knows  so  deeply  and  speaks  so  musically 
because  it  is  itself  a  mutation  of  the  thing 
it  describes.  It  is  sun  and  moon  and  wave 
and  fire  in  music,  as  astronomy  is  thought 
and  harmony  in  masses  of  matter. 
Method  of  Nature. 

THE  COMPENSATIONS  OF  CALAMITT. 

The  changes  which  break  up  at  short  in- 
tervals the  prosperity  of  men  are  advertise- 
ments of  a  nature  whose  law  is  growth. 
Evermore  it  is  the  order  of  nature  to  grow, 
and  every  soul  is  by  this  intrinsic  necessity 
quitting  its  whole  system  of  things,  its 
friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith,  as 
the  shell-fish  crawls  out  of  its  beautiful  but 
stony  case,  because  it  no  longer  admits  of  its 
growth,  and  slowly  forms  a  new  house.  In 
proportion  to  the  vigour  of  the  individual 
these  revolutions  are  frequent,  until  in  some 
happier  mind  they  are  incessant,  and  all 
worldly  relations  hang  very  loosely  about 
him,  becoming,  as  it  were,  a  transparent 
fluid  membrane  through  which  the  form  is 
always  seen,  and  not  as  in  most  men  an  in- 
durated heterogeneous  fabric  of  many  dates, 
and  of  no  settled  character,  in  which  the 
man  is  imprisoned.  Then  there  can  be  en- 
largement, and  the  man  of  to-day  scarcely 
recognizes  the  man  of  yesterday.  And  such 
should  be  the  outward  biography  of  man  in 
time,  a  putting  off  of  dead  circumstances 
day  by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment  day 
by  day.  But  to  us,  in  our  lapsed  state,  rest- 
ing not  advancing,  resisting  not  co-operating 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


461 


with  the  divine  expansion,  this  growth  comes 
by  shocks. 

We  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We 
cannot  let  our  angels  go.  We  do  not  see 
that  they  only  go  out  that  archangels  may 
come  in.  We  are  idolaters  of  the  old.  We 
do  not  believe  in  the  riches  of  the  soul,  in 
its  proper  eternity  and  omnipresence.  We 
do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in  to-day 
to  rival  or  recreate  that  beautiful  yesterday. 
We  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  tent,  where 
once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and  organs, 
nor  believe  that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover, 
and  nerve  us  again.  We  cannot  again  find 
aught  so  dear,  so  sweet,  so  graceful.  But 
we  sit  and  weep  in  vain.  The  voice  of  the 
Almighty  saith,  "  Up  and  onward  for  ever- 
more !"  We  cannot  stay  amid  the  ruins. 
Neither  will  we  rely  on  the  new  ;  and  so 
we  walk  ever  with  reverted  eyes,  like  those 
monsters  who  look  backwards. 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity 
are  made  apparent  to  the  understanding 
also,  after  long  intervals  of  time.  A  fever, 
a  mutilation,  a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss 
of  wealth,  a  loss  of  friends,  seems  at  the 
moment  unpaid  loss,  and  unpayable.  But 
the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force 
that  underlies  all  facts.  The  death  of  a  dear 
friend,  wife,  brother,  lover,  which  seemed 
nothing  but  privation,  somewhat  Inter  as- 
sumes the  aspect  of  a  guide  or  genius;  for 
it  commonly  operates  revolutions  in  our 
way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch  of  infancy 
or  of  youth  which  was  waiting  to  be  closed, 
breaks  up  a  wonted  occupation,  or  a  house- 
hold, or  style  of  living,  and  allows  the  for- 
mation of  new  ones  more  friendly  to  the 
growth  of  character.  It  permits  or  con- 
strains the  formation  of  new  acquaintances, 
and  the  reception  of  new  influences  that 
prove  of  the  first  importance  to  the  next 
years ;  and  the  man  or  woman  who  would 
have  remained  a  sunny  garden  flower,  with 
no  room  for  its  roots  ami  too  much  sunshine 
for  its  head,  by  the  falling  of  its  walls  and 
the  neglect  of  its  gardener,  is  made  the  ban- 
ian of  the  forest,  yielding  shade  and  fruit  to 
wide  neighbourhoods  of  men. 

Essay  on  Compensation. 

TRAVELLING. 

It  is  for  want  of  self-culture  that  the  idol 
of  travelling,  the  idol  of  Italy,  of  England, 
of  Egypt,  remains  for  all  educated  Ameri- 
cans. They  who  made  England,  Italy,  or 
Greece  venerable  to  the  imagination,  did  so 
not  by  rambling  round  creation  as  a  moth 
round  a  lamp,  but  by  sticking  fast  where 
they  were,  like  an  axis  of  the  earth.  In 
manly  hours,  we  feel  that  duty  is  our  place, 
and  that  the  merry-men  of  circumstance 


should  follow  as  they  may.  The  soul  is  no 
traveller:  the  wise  man  stays  at  home  with 
the  soul,  and  when  his  necessities,  his  du- 
ties, or  any  occasion  call  him  from  his  IIOUM;, 
or  into  foreign  lands,  he  is  at  home  still,  and 
is  not  gadding  abroad  from  himself,  and 
shall  make  men  sensible  by  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  that  he  goes  the  mission- 
ary of  wisdom  and  virtue,  and  visits  cities 
and  men  like  a  sovereign,  and  not  like  an 
interloper  or  a  valet. 

I  have  no  churlish  objection  to  the  cir- 
cumnavigation of  the  globe,  for  the  purposes 
of  art.  of  study,  and  benevolence,  so  that  the 
man  is  first  domesticated,  or  does  not  go 
abroad  witli  the  hope  of  finding  somewhat 
greater  than  he  knows.  He  who  travels  to 
be  amused,  or  to  get  somewhat  which  he 
does  not  carry,  travels  away  from  himself, 
and  grows  old  even  in  youth  among  old 
things.  In  Thebes,  in  Palmyra,  his  will 
and  mind  have  become  old  and  dilapidated 
as  they,  lie  carries  ruins  to  ruins. 

Travelling  is  a  fool's  paradise.  We  owe 
to  our  first  journeys  the  discovery  that  place 
is  nothing.  At  home  I  dream  that  at  Na- 
ples, at  Rome,  I  can  be  intoxicated  with 
beauty,  and  lose  my  sadness.  I  pack  my 
trunk,  embrace  my  friends,  embark  on  the 
sea,  and  at  last  wake  up  at  Naples,  and 
there  beside  me  is  the  stern  fact,  the  sad 
self,  unrelenting,  identical,  that  I  fled  from. 
I  seek  the  Vatican  and  the  palaces.  I  affect 
to  lie  intoxicated  with  sights  and  sug- 
gestions, but  I  am  not  intoxicated.  My 
giant  goes  with  me  wherever  I  go. 

But  the  rage  of  travelling  is  itself  only  a 
symptom  of  a  deeper  unsoundness  affecting 
the  whole  intellectual  action.  The  intellect 
is  vagabond,  and  the  universal  system  of 
education  fosters  restlessness.  Our  minds 
travel  when  our  bodies  are  forced  to  stay  at 
home.  We  imitate  ;  and  what  is  imitation 
but  the  travelling  of  the  mind?  Our  houses 
are  built  with  foreign  taste;  our  shelves  are 
garnished  with  foreign  ornaments;  our 
opinions,  our  tastes,  our  whole  minds,  lean, 
and  follow  the  past  and  the  distant,  as  the 
eyes  of  a  maid  follow  her  mistress.  The 
soul  created  the  arts  wherever  they  have 
flourished.  It  was  in  his  own  mind  that  the 
artist  sought  his  model.  It  was  an  applica- 
tion of  his  own  thought  to  the  thing  to  be 
done  and  the  conditions  to  be  observed. 
And  why  need  we  copy  the  Doric  or  the 
Gothic  model?  Beauty,  convenience,  gran- 
deur of  thought,  and  quaint  expression  are 
as  near  to  us  as  to  any,  and  if  the  American 
artist  will  study  with  hope  and  love  the  pre- 
cise thing  to  he  done  by  him,  considering 
the  climate,  the  soil,  the  length  of  the  day, 
the  wants  of  the  people,  the  habit  and  form 
of  the  government,  he  will  create  a  house  in 


4G2 


NA  THANIEL  HA  WTHORNE. 


•which  all  these  will  find  themselves  fitted, 
und  taste  and  sentiment  will  be  satisfied 
also. 

Insist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your 
own  gift  you  can  present  every  moment  with 
the  cumulative  force  of  a  whole  life's  culti- 
vation ;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another, 
you  have  only  an  extemporaneous  half  pos- 
session. That  which  each  can  do  best,  none 
but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No  man  yet 
knows  what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person 
has  exhibited  it.  Where  is  the  master  who 
could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washing- 
ton, or  Bacon,  or  Newton  ?  Every  great 
man  is  a  unique.  The  Scipionism  of  Scipio 
is  precisely  that  part  he  could  not  borrow. 
If  anybody  will  tell  me  whom  the  great  man 
imitates  in  the  original  crisis  when  he  per- 
forms a  great  act,  I  will  tell  him  who  else 
than  himself  can  teach  him.  Shakspeare 
will  never  be  made  by  the  study  of  Shak- 
speare. Do  that  which  is  assigned  thee,  and 
thou  canst  not  hope  too  much  or  dare  too 
much.  There  is  at  this  moment,  there  is  for 
me  an  utterance  bare  and  grand  as  that  of 
the  colossal  chisel  of  Phidias,  or  trowel  of 
the  Egyptians,  or  the  pen  of  Moses,  or  Dante, 
but  different  from  all  these.  Not  possibly 
will  the  soul  all  rich,  all  eloquent,  with 
thousand-cloven  tongue,  deign  to  repeat 
itself;  but  if  I  can  hear  what  these  patri- 
archs say,  surely  I  can  reply  to  them  in  the 
saine  pitch  of  voice :  for  the  ear  and  the 
tongue  are  two  organs  of  one  nature.  Dwell 
up  there  in  the  simple  and  noble  regions  of 
thy  life,  obey  thy  heart,  and  thou  shalt  re- 
produce the  Foreworld  again. 

Essay  on  Self- Reliance. 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE, 

born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  1804,  gradu- 
ated at  Bowdoin  College,  1825,  was  Ameri- 
can Consul  at  Liverpool,  1853-57,  died  1864. 
Works,  collective  edition,  Boston,  J.  R. 
Osgood  &  Co.,  21  vols.  IGmo  :  vols.  i.,  ii., 
Twice-Told  Talcs,  1837,  Second  Series,  1842; 
iii.,  iv.,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Mnnse,  1846; 
v.,  The  Scarlet  Letter  :  vi.,  The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gablos,  1851  ;  vii.,  True  Stories  from 
History  and  Biography,  1851  ;  viii.,  The 
Wonder-Book  for  Girls  and  Boys,  1851  ;  ix., 
The  Snow-Image  and  other  Twice-Told  Tales, 
1852;  x.,  The  Blithedale  Romance,  1852  ;  xi., 
Tanglewood  Tales  for  Boys  and  Girls;  a  Sec- 
ond Wonder-Book,  1853  ;  xii.,  xiii.,  The  Mar- 
ble Faun,  1860,  2  vols. ;  London,  Trans- 
formation, or,  The  Romance  of  Monte  Beni, 
1860,  3  vols.  p.  8vo;  xiv.,  Our  Old  Home, 
1863 ;  xv.,  Septimius  Felton,  or,  The  Elixir 
of  Life ;  xvi.,  xvii.,  American  Note-Books, 


1868;  xviii.,  xix.,  English  Note-Books,  1870; 
xx.,  xxi.,  French  and  Italian  Note-Books, 
1871.  Illustrated  Library  Edition,  Boston, 
J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  9  vols.  12mo:  vol.  i., 
Twice-Told  Tales  ;  ii.,  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Manse ;  iii.,  The  Scarlet  Letter,  and  The 
Blithedale  Romance:  iv.,  The  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,  and  The  Snow-Image  ;  v.,  The 
Marble  Faun;  vi.,  English  Note-Books:  vii., 
American  Note-Books ;  viii.,  French  and 
Italian  Note-Books  ;  ix.,  Our  Old  Home,  and 
Septimius  Felton.  There  are  also  a  new  Il- 
lustrated Library  Edition  in  12  vols.  12mo, 
a  collective  edition  in  23  vols.  16mo,  and  the 
Little  Classic  Edition,  in  23  vols.  18mo. 

Hawthorne  edited  Journal  of  an  African 
Cruiser,  etc.,  from  the  MSS.  of  Horatio 
Bridge,  U.S.N.,  New  York,  1853,  12mo, 
and  published  a  Life  of  Franklin  Pierce, 
Bost.,  1852.  16rno.  lie  contributed  many 
articles  to  The  Token  and  to  The  Democratic 
Review. 

"The  characteristics  of  Hawthorne  which  first 
arrest  the  attention  nre  imagination  and  reflection  : 
and  these  are  exhibited  in  remarkable  power  and 
activity  in  tales  and  essays  of  which  the  style  is 
distinguished  for  great  simplicity,  purity,  and  tran- 
quillity. .  .  .  His  style  is  studded  with  the  most 
poetical  imagery,  and  marked  in  every  part  with 
the  happiest  graces  of  expression,  while  it  is  calm, 
chaste,  and  flowing,  and  transparent  as  water." — 
RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD,  D.D. :  Prose  Writers  of  Amer- 
ica, 4th  edit.,  Phila.,  1852. 

"  Another  characteristic  of  this  writer  is  the  ex- 
ceeding beauty  of  his  style.  It  is  clear  as  running 
waters  are.  Indeed,  he  uses  words  merely  as  step- 
ping-stones, upon  which,  with  a  free  and  you'tht'ul 
bound,  his  spirit  crosses  and  re-crosses  the  bright 
and  rushing  stream  of  thought." — II.  W.  LONGFEL- 
LOW: N.  Amer.  Reriew  (July,  1837,  63).  See  also 
Atlantic  Monthly,  May,  1860  (by  E.  P.  Whipple) ; 
Tnckernian's  Mental  1'ortraits  ;  Homes  of  Americnn 
Author*  (sketch  by  G.  W.  Curtis);  and  especially 
Yeftterflayv  with  A  iitliors,  an  excellent  book  by  our 
friend  James  T.  Fields,  Boston,  1872,  12mo  '(who 
induced  Hawthorne  to  give  to  the  world  The  Scarlet 
Letter),  and  A  Study  of  Hawthorne,  by  G.  P.  La- 
throp,  Boston,  ISmo. 

A  RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP. 

SCENE. — The  corner  of  two  principal 
streets.  The  TOWN  PUMP  talking  through 
its  nose. 

Noon  by  the  north  clock  I  Noon  by  the 
east!  High  noon,  too,  by  these  hot  sun- 
beams, which  fall,  scarcely  aslope,  upon  my 
head,  and  almost  make  the  water  bubble 
and  smoke  in  the  trough  under  my  7ioso. 
Truly,  we  public  characters  have  a  tough 
time  of  it!  And,  among  all  the  town  offi- 
cers, chosen  at  March  meeting,  where  is  he 
that  sustains,  for  a  single  year,  the  burden 
of  such  manifold  duties  as  are  imposed  in 
perpetuity,  upon  the  Town  Pump?  The 
title  of  "  Town  Treasurer"  is  rightfully 


NA  THANIEL  HA  WTHORNE. 


463 


mine,  as  guardian  of  the  best  treasure  that 
the  town  has.  The  Overseers  of  the  Poor 
ought  to  make  me  their  chairman,  since  I 
provide  bountifully  for  the  pauper,  without 
expense  to  him  that  pays  taxes.  I  am  at  the 
head  of  the  Fire  Department,  and  one  of  the 
Physicians  to  the  Board  of  Health.  As  a 
keeper  of  the  peace  all  water-drinkers  will 
confess  me  equal  to  the  constable.  I  perform 
some  of  the  duties  of  the  Town  Clerk,  by 
promulgating  public  notices,  when  they  are 
posted  on  my  front.  To  speak  within 
bounds,  I  am  the  chief  person  of  the  mu- 
nicipality, and  exhibit,  moreover,  an  ad- 
mirable pattern  to  my  brother  officers,  by 
the  cool,  steady,  upright,  downright,  and 
impartial  discharge  of  my  business,  and  the 
constancy  with  which  I  stand  to  my  post. 
Summer  or  winter,  nobody  seeks  me  in  vain  ; 
for,  all  day  long,  I  am  seen  at  the  busiest 
corner,  just  above  the  market,  stretching  out 
my  arms  to  rich  and  poor  alike  ;  and  at  night 
I  hold  a  lantern  over  my  head,  both  to  show 
where  I  am,  and  keep  people  out  of  the 
gutters. 

At  this  sultry  noontide  I  am  cup-bearer  to 
the  parched  populace,  for  whose  benefit  an 
iron  goblet  is  chained  to  my  waist.  Like 
a  dram-seller  on  the  mall,  at  muster-day, 
I  cry  aloud  to  all  and  sundry,  in  my  plain- 
est accents,  and  at  the  very  tiptop  of  my 
voice : 

Here  it  is,  gentlemen  !  Here  is  the  good 
liquor!  Walk  up,  walk  up,  gentlemen,  walk 
up,  walk  up!  Here  is  the  superior  stuff! 
Here  is  the  unadulterated  ale  of  Father 
Adam, —  better  than  Cognac,  Hollands, 
Jamaica,  strong  beer,  or  wine  of  any 
price  ;  here  it  is  by  the  hogshead  or  the 
single  glass,  and  not  a  cent  to  pay  !  Walk 
up,  gentlemen,  walk  up,  and  help  your- 
selves! 

It  were  a  pity  if  all  this  outcry  should 
draw  no  customers.  Here  they  come.  A 
hot  day,  gentlemen  !  Quaff,  and  away  again, 
so  as  to  keep  yourselves  in  a  nice,  cool  sweat. 
You,  my  friend,  will  need  another  cup-full 
to  wash  the  dust  out  of  your  throat,  if  it  be 
as  thick  there  as  it  is  on  your  cow-hide  shoes. 
I  see  that  you  have  trudged  half  a  score  of 
miles  to-day;  and,  like  a  wise  man,  have 
passed  by  the  ttiverns,  and  stopped  at  the 
running  brooks  and  well-curbs.  Otherwise, 
betwixt  heat  without  and  fire  within,  you 
would  have  been  burnt  to  a  cinder,  or  melted 
down  to  nothing  at  all,  in  the  fashion  of  a 
jelly-fish.  Drink,  and  make  room  for  that 
other  fellow,  who  seeks  my  aid  to  quench 
the  fiery  fever  of  last  night's  potations, 
which  he  drained  from  no  cup  of  mine. 
Welcome,  most  rubicund  sir !  You  and  I 
have  been  great  strangers,  hitherto  ;  nor,  to 
confess  the  truth,  will  my  nose  be  anxious 


for  a  closer  intimacy,  till  the  fumes  of  your 
breath  be  a  little  less  potent.  Mercy  on  you, 
man  !  the  water  absolutely  hisses  down  your 
red-hot  gullet,  and  is  converted  quite  to 
steam,  in  the  miniature  tophet  which  you 
mistake  for  a  stomach.  Fill  again,  and  tell 
me,  on  the  word  of  an  honest  toper,  did 
you  ever,  in  cellar,  tavern,  or  any  kind  of  a 
dram-shop,  spend  the  price  of  your  children's 
food  for  a  swig  half  so  delicious?  Now,  for 
the  first  time  of  these  ten  years,  you  know 
the  flavour  of  cold  water.  Good-by  ;  and, 
whenever  you  are  thirsty,  remember  that  I 
keep  a  constant  supply,  at  the  old  stand. 
Who  next?  Oh,  my  little  friend,  you  are 
let  loose  from  school,  and  come  hither  to 
scrub  your  blooming  face,  and  drown  the 
memory  of  certain  taps  of  the  ferule,  and 
other  school-boy  troubles,  in  a  draught  from 
the  Town  Pump.  Take  it.  pure  as  the  cur- 
rent of  your  young  life.  Take  it,  and  may 
your  heart  and  tongue  never  be  scorched 
with  a  fiercer  thirst  than  now!  There,  my 
dear  child,  put  down  the  cup,  and  yield  your 
place  to  this  elderly  gentleman,  who  treads 
so  tenderly  over  the  paving-stones  that  I 
suspect  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  them. 
What!  he  limps  by  without  so  much  as 
thanking  me,  as  if  my  hospitable  offers  were 
meant  only  for  people  who  have  no  wine- 
cellars.  Well,  well,  sir, — no  harm  done,  I 
hope  !  Go,  draw  the  cork,  tip  the  decanter ; 
but,  when  your  great  toe  shall  set  you  a-roar- 
ing,  it  will  be  no  affair  of  mine.  If  gentle- 
men love  the  pleasant  titillation  of  the  gout, 
it  is  all  one  to  the  Town  Pump.  This  thirsty 
dog,  with  his  red  tongue  lolling  out,  does 
not  scorn  my  hospitality,  but  stands  on  his 
hind  legs,  and  laps  eagerly  out  of  the  trough. 
See,  how  lightly  he  capers  away  again ! 
Jowler,  did  your  worship  ever  have  the 
gout? 

Are  you  all  satisfied?  Then  wipe  your 
mouths,  my  good  friends  ;  and,  while  my 
spout  has  a  moment's  leisure,  I  will  delight 
the  town  with  a  few  historical  reminiscences. 
In  far  antiquity,  beneath  a  darksome  shadow 
of  venerable  boughs,  a  spring  bubbled  out 
of  the  leaf-strown  earth  in  the  very  spot 
where  you  now  behold  me,  on  the  sunny 
pavement.  The  water  was  as  bright  and 
clear,  and  deemed  as  precious,  as  liquid  dia- 
monds. The  Indian  sagamores  drank  of  it, 
from  time  immemorial,  till  the  fatal  deluge 
of  the  fire-water  burst  upon  the  red  men, 
and  swept  their  whole  race  away  from  the 
cold  fountains.  Endicott  and  his  followers 
came  next,  and  often  knelt  down  to  drink, 
dipping  their  long  beards  in  the  spring. 
The  richest  goblet  then  was  of  birch  bark. 
Governor  Winthrop,  after  a  journey  afoot 
from  Boston,  drank  here,  out  of  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  The  elder  Higginson  here  wet 


464 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


his  palm,  and  laid  it  on  the  hrow  of  the  first 
town-horn  child.  For  many  years  it  was 
the  watering-place,  and,  us  it  were,  the 
wash-bowl,  of  the  vicinity, — whither  all  de- 
cent folks  resorted  to  purify  their  visages, 
and  gaze  at  them  afterwards, — at  least  the 
pretty  maidens  did, — in  the  mirror  which  it 
made.  On  Sabbath-days,  whenever  a  bahe 
was  to  be  baptized,  the  sexton  filled  his 
basin  here,  and  placed  it  on  the  communion- 
table of  the  humble  meeting-house  which 
partly  covered  the  site  of  yonder  stately 
brick  one.  Thus  one  generation  after  an- 
other was  consecrated  to  Heaven  by  its 
waters,  and  cast  their  waxing  and  waning 
shadows  into  its  glassy  bosom,  and  vanished 
from  the  earth,  as  if  mortal  life  were  but  a 
flitting  image  in  a  fountain.  Finally,  the 
fountain  vanished  also.  Cellars  were  dug  on 
all  sides,  and  cart-loads  of  gravel  flung  from 
its  source,  whence  oozed  a  turbid  stream, 
forming  a  mud-puddle  at  the  corner  of  two 
streets.  In  the  hot  months,  when  its  re- 
freshment was  most  needed,  the  dust  flew  in 
clouds  over  the  forgotten  birth-place  of  the 
waters,  now  their  grave.  But  in  the  course 
of  time  a  Town  Pump  was  sunk  into  the 
source  of  the  ancient  spring  ;  and  when  the 
first  decayed,  another  took  its  place, — and 
then  another,  and  still  another, — till  here, 
stand  I,  gentlemen  and  ladies,  to  serve  you 
with  my  iron  goblet.  Drink  and  be  re- 
freshed !  The  water  is  pure  and  cold  as  that 
which  slaked  the  thirst  of  the  red  sagamore, 
beneath  the  aged  boughs,  though  now  the 
gem  of  the  wilderness  is  treasured  under 
these  hot  stones,  where  no  shadow  falls  but 
from  the  brick  buildings.  And  be  it  the 
moral  of  my  story  that,  as  this  wasted  and 
long-lost  fountain  is  now  known  and  prized 
again,  so  shall  the  virtues  of  cold  water, 
too  little  valued  since  your  fathers'  days,  be 
recognized  by  all. 

Your  pardon,  good  people  !  I  must  inter- 
rupt my  stream  of  eloquence,  and  spout  forth 
a  stream  of  water,  to  replenish  the  trough  for 
this  teamster  and  his  two  yoke  of  oxen,  who 
have  come  from  Topsfield,  or  somewhere 
along  that  way.  No  part  of  my  business 
is  pleasanter  than  the  watering  of  cattle. 
Look  !  how  rapidly  they  lower  the  water- 
mark on  the  sides  of  the  trough,  till  their 
capacious  stomachs  are  moistened  with  a 
gallon  or  two  apiece,  and  they  can  afford  to 
breathe  it  in,  with  sighs  of  cairn  enjoyment. 
Now  they  roll  their  quiet  eyes  around  the 
brim  of  their  monstrous  drinking-vessels. 
An  ox  is  your  true  toper. 

But  I  perceive,  my  dear  auditors,  that  you 
are  impatient  for  the  remainder  of  my  dis- 
course. Impute  it,  I  beseech  you,  to  no  de- 
fect of  modesty  if  I  insist  a  little  longer  on 
so  fruitful  a  topic  as  my  own  multifarious 


merits.  It  is  altogether  for  your  good.  The 
better  you  think  of  me  the  better  men  and 
women  will  you  find  yourselves.  I  shall  say 
nothing  of  my  all-important  aid  on  washing 
days;  though,  on  that  account  alone,  I  might 
cafl  myself  the  household  god  of  a  hundred 
families.  Far  be  it  from  me  also,  to  hint, 
my  respectable  friends,  at  the  show  of  dirty 
faces  which  you  would  present,  without  my 
pains  to  keep  you  clean.  Nor  will  I  remind 
you  how  often,  when  the  midnight  bolls 
make  you  tremble  for  your  combustible 
town,  you  have  fled  to  the  Town  Pump,  and 
found  me  always  at  my  post,  firm  amid  the 
confusion,  and  ready  to  drain  my  vital  cur- 
rent in  your  behalf.  Neither  is  it  worth 
while  to  lay  much  stress  on  my  claims  to  a 
medical  diploma,  as  the  physician  whose 
simple  rule  of  practice  is  preferable  to  all 
the  nauseous  lore  which  has  found  men  sick 
or  left  them  so,  since  the  days  of  Hippoc- 
rates. Let  us  take  a  broader  view  of  iny 
beneficial  influence  on  mankind. 

No;  these  are  trifles  compared  with  the 
merits  which  wise  men  concede  to  me — if 
not  in  my  single  self,  yet  as  the  representa- 
tive of  a  class — of  being  the  grand  reformer 
of  the  age.  From  my  spout,  and  such  spouts 
as  mine,  must  flow  the  stream  that  shall 
cleanse  our  earth  of  the  vast  portion  of  its 
crime  and  anguish  which  has  gushed  from 
the  fiery  fountains  of  the  still.  In  this 
mighty  enterprise  the  cow  shall  be  my  great 
confederate.  Milk  and  water !  The'Towx 
PUMP  and  the  Cow  ! 

Such  is  the  glorious  copartnership  that 
shall  tear  down  the  distilleries  and  brew- 
houses,  uproot  the  vineyards,  shatter  the 
cider-presses,  ruin  the  tea  and  coffee  trade, 
and  finally  monopolize  the  whole  business 
of  quenching  thirst.  Blessed  consumma- 
tion !  Then  Poverty  shall  pass  away  from 
the  land,  finding  no  hovel  so  wretched  where 
her  squalid  form  may  shelter  itself.  Then 
Disease,  for  lack  of  other  victims,  shall  gnaw 
its  own  heart,  and  die.  Then  Sin,  if  she  do 
not  die,  shall  lose  half  her  strength.  Until 
now,  the  phrensy  of  hereditary  fever  has 
raged  in  the  human  blood,  transmitted  from 
sire  to  son,  and  rekindled,  in  every  genera- 
tion, by  fresh  draughts  of  liquid  flame. 
When  that  in  ward  fire  shall  be  extinguished, 
the  heat  of  passion  cannot  but  grow  cool, 
and  war — the  drunkenness  of  nations — per- 
haps will  cease.  At  least,  there  will  be  no 
war  of  households.  The  husband  and  wife, 
drinking  deep  of  peaceful  joy, — a  calm  bliss 
of  temperate  affections, — shall  pass  hand  in 
hand  through  life,  and  lie  down,  not  reluc- 
tantly at  its  protracted  close.  To  them  the 
past  will  be  no  turmoil  of  mad  dreams,  nor 
the  future  an  eternity  of  such  moments  as 
follow  the  delirium  of  the  drunkard.  Their 


EDWARD    GEORGE  EARLE  LYTTON  BULWER  LYTTON.    465 


dead  faces  shall  express  what  their  spirits 
were,  and  are  to  be,  by  a  lingering  smile  of 
memory  and  hope. 

Ahem  !  Dry  work,  this  speechifying  ;  es- 
pecially to  an  unpractised  orator.  I  never 
conceived  till  now  what  toil  the  temperance 
lecturers  undergo  for  my  sake.  Hereafter, 
they  shall  have  the  business  to  themselves. 
Do,  some  kind  Christian,  pump  a  stroke  or 
two,  just  to  wet  my  whistle.  Thank  you, 
Sir!  My  dear  hearers,  when  the  world  shall 
have  been  regenerated  by  my  instrumen- 
tality, you  will  collect  your  useless  vats  and 
liquor  casks  into  one  great  pile,  and  make 
a  bonfire  in  honour  of  the  Town  Pump. 
And  when  I  shall  have  decayed,  like  my 
predecessors,  then,  if  you  revere  my  mem- 
ory, let  a  marble  fountain,  richly  sculptured, 
take  my  place  upon  the  spot.  Such  monu- 
ments should  be  erected  everywhere,  and 
inscribed  with  the  names  of  the  distin- 
guished champions  of  my  cause.  Now  lis- 
ten ;  for  something  very  important  is  to 
come  next. 

There  are  two  or  three  honest  friends  of 
mine — and  true  friends  I  know  they  are — 
who,  nevertheless,  by  their  fiery  pugnacity 
in  my  behalf,  do  put  me  in  fearful  hazard 
of  a  broken  nose,  or  even  a  total  overthrow 
upon  the  pavement,  and  the  loss  of  the  treas- 
ure which  I  guard.  I  pray  you,  gentlemen, 
let  this  fault  be  amended.  Is  it  decent, 
think  you,  to  get  tipsy  with  zeal  for  tem- 
perance, and  take  up  the  honourable  cause 
of  the  Town  Pump  in  the  style  of  a  toper 
fighting  for  his  brandy  bottle?  Or  can  the 
excellent  qualities  of  cold  water  be  no  other- 
wise exemplified  than  by  plunging,  slap- 
dash, into  hot  water,  and  wofully  scalding 
yourselves  and  other  people?  Trust  me, 
they  may.  In  the  moral  warfare  which  you 
are  to  wage, — and,  indeed,  in  the  whole  con- 
duct of  your  lives, — you  cannot  choose  a 
better  example  than  myself,  who  have  never 
permitted  the  dust  and  sultry  atmosphere, 
the  turbulent  and  manifold  disquietudes  of 
the  world  around  me,  to  reach  that  deep,  calm 
well  of  purity,  which  may  be  called  my  soul. 
And  whenever  I  pour  out  that  soul,  it  is  to 
cool  earth's  fever,  or  cleanse  its  stains. 

One  o'clock!  Nay,  then,  if  the  dinner- 
bell  begins  to  speak,  I  may  as  well  hold  my 
peace.  Here  comes  a  pretty  young  girl  of 
my  acquaintance  with  a  large  stone  pitcher 
for  me  to  fill.  May  she  draw  a  husband, 
while  drawing  her  water,  as  Rachel  did  of 
old.  Hold  out  your  vessel,  my  dear  !  There 
it  is,  full  to  the  brim :  so  now  run  home, 
peeping  at  your  sweet  image  in  the  pitcher, 
as  you  go  ;  and  forget  not,  in  a  glass  of  my 
own  liquor,  to  drink — "  SUCCESS  to  the  TOWN 
PUMP!" 

Ticice-Told  Tales. 
30 


EDWARD  GEORGE  EARLE 
LYTTON  BULWER  LYTTON, 
LORD  LYTTON, 

was  born  at  Heydon  Hall,  Norfolk,  Eng- 
land, 1805,  graduated  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cam- 
bridge, 1826,  made  a  baronet,  1838,  Lord 
Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  1856, 
Secretary  of  State  for  the  Colonies,  1858, 
raised  to  the  peeraire  as  Baron  Lytton,  1866, 
died  1873. 

Novels  and  Romances  :  London,  Saunders 
&  Otley,  1840-45,  14  vols.  p.  8vo:  Chapman 
&  Hall,  1848-53.  20  vols.  cr.  8vo ;  Edin- 
burgh, 1859-60,  43  vols.  12mo;  author's 
last  revised  library  edition,  London,  48  vols. 
cr.  8vo :  contents :  Rienzi,  Paul  Clifford, 
Pelharn,  Eugene  Aram,  Last  of  the  Barons, 
Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  Godolphin,  Pilgrims 
of  the  Rhine,  Night  and  Morning,  Ernest 
Mai travers,  Alice,  Disowned,  Devereux,  Za- 
noni,  Leila,  Calderon  the  Courtier,  Harold, 
the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings,  Lucretia,  The 
Caxtons,  My  Novel,  What  will  He  do  with 
It?  Strange  Story,  Kenelm  Chillingly,  The 
Parisians,  The  Coming  Race;  new  edition, 
Lond.,  27  vols.  cr.  8vo :  contents:  same  as 
the  48  vols.  edition,  excepting  Calderon  the 
Courtier,  which  is  omitted.  There  is  an  il- 
lustrated edition,  Avith  16  engravings,  of 
Leila  and  Calderon,  Lond.,  1838,  r.  8vo,  and 
another  of  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,  with 
a  portrait  and  27  engravings,  Lond.,  1866, 
cr.  8vo. 

Miscellaneous  Prose  Works,  Lond.,  1868, 
3  vols.  8vo ;  England  and  the  English, 
Lond.,  1833,  2  vols.  12mo;  The  Student, 
Lond.,  1835,  2  vols.  8vo  (papers  from  The 
New  Monthly  Magazine) ;  Athens,  its  Rise 
and  Fall,  Lond.,  1837,  2  vols.  8vo ;  The 
Lost  Tales  of  Miletus,  Lond.,  1867,  p.  8vo : 
Speeches,  with  Memoir  by  his  Son,  Lord 
Robert  Lytton,  Lond.,  1874  ;  Pausanius  the 
Spartan,  edited  with  a  Preface  by  Lord 
Robert  Lytton,  Lond.,  1876,  p.  8vo. 

Poetical  and  Dramatic  Works,  Lond., 
1852-53-54,  5  vols.  p.  8vo:  contents:  vol. 
i.,  Beacon;  Constance,  or,  The  Portrait; 
Eva  ;  Fairy  Bride :  Lay  of  the  Minstrel's 
Heart;  Milton;  Narrative  Lyrics,  or,  The 
Parcse ;  New  Tirnon.  Vol.  ii.,  King  Ar- 
thur. Vol.  iii.,  King  Arthur;  Corn  Flow- 
ers ;  Earlier  Poems.  Vol.  iv.,  Duchess  de 
la  Valliere;  Lady  of  Lyons;  Richelieu. 
Vol.  v.,  Money ;  Not  so  Bad  as  We  Seem. 
Poetical  Works,  complete,  Lond.,  1860,  cr. 
8vo,  new  edit.,  1865.  Dramatic  Works, 
complete,  1863,  12mo ;  The  Rightful  Heir, 
a  Play,  1868 ;  Walpole,  1869. 

Other  publications  :  Ismael,  an  Oriental 
Tale,  1820,  12mo,  was  published  when  he 
was  fifteen. 

In  1831  he  succeeded  Campbell  as  editor 


466     EDWARD    GEORGE  EARLE  LYTTON  BULWER  LYTTON. 


of  The  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  held 
this  post  until  1833. 

"  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer  has  vigorous  and  va- 
ried powers:  in  all  that  he  has  touched  on  he  has 
shown  great  mastery;  his  sense  of  the  noble,  the 
beautiful,  or  the  ludicrous,  is  strong;  he  can  move 
at  will  into  the  solemn  or  the  sarcastic ;  he  is 
equally  excellent  in  describing  a  court  or  a  cot- 
tage, and  is  familiar  with  gold  spurs  and  with 
clouted  shoon.  .  .  .  Bulwer  is  devoted  to  the  cause 
of  literature:  all  his  speeches  allude  to  it;  his 
motions  in  Parliament  refer  to  it;  and  in  private 
as  well  as  public  life  he  is  its  warm  and  eloquent 
advocate." — ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM  :  Bloij.nnd  Urit. 
Hist,  of  the  Lit.  of  the  Last  Fifty  Years,  1833. 
See  also  liayite's  Essays  on  Biography  and  Criti- 
cism ;  Essays,  by  George  Brimley  ;  Essays  on  Fic- 
tion, by  N.  W,  Senior;  Essays,  by  \V.  C.  Roscoe; 
Sir  A.  Alison's  Essays,  1850,  iii.  113,  and  his  His- 
tory of  Europe,  1815-1852,  chap.  v. ;  Edin.  Rev., 
July,  1837;  Eraser's  Man.,  Jan.  1850;  Blackw. 
May.,  Feb.  1855,  and  March,  1873;  (Lond.)  Qitar. 
Kev.,  Jan.  1 8(55.  Selections  from  the  Correspondence 
of  the  Late  Macvey  Napier,  Esq.,  Lond.,  1879,  8vo. 

THE  CANDID  MAN. 

One  bright  laughing  day  I  threw  down 
my  book  an  hour  sooner  than  usual,  and 
sallied  out  with  a  lightness  of  foot  and  ex- 
hilaration of  spirit  to  which  I  had  long  been 
a  stranger.  I  had  just  sprung  over  a  stile 
that  led  into  one  of  those  green  shady  lanes 
which  make  us  feel  that  the  old  poets  who 
loved  and  lived  for  nature  were  right  in 
calling  our  island  "  the  merry  Englfind," 
when  I  was  startled  by  a  short,  quick  bark 
on  one  side  of  the  hedge.  I  turned  sharply 
round ;  and,  seated  upon  the  sward  was  a 
man,  apparently  of  the  pedlar  profession  ;  a 
great  deal  box  was  lying  open  before  him  : 
a  few  articles  of  linen  and  female  dress  were 
scattered  round,  and  the  man  himself  ap- 
peared earnestly  occupied  in  examining  the 
deeper  recesses  of  his  itinerant  warehouse. 
A  small  black  terrier  flew  towards  me  with 
no  friendly  growl.  "Down  !"  said  I:  "All 
strangers  are  not  foes, — though  the  English 
generally  think  so." 

The  man  hastily  looked  up  ;  perhaps  he 
was  struck  with  the  quaintness  of  my  re- 
monstrance to  his  canine  companion;  for, 
touching  his  hat  civilly,  he  said,  "  The  dog, 
sir,  is  very  quiet;  he  only  means  to  give  me 
the  alarm  by  giving  it  to  you;  for  dogs  seem 
to  have  no  despicable  insight  into  human 
nature,  and  know  well  that  the  best  of  us 
may  be  taken  by  surprise." 

''  You  are  a  moralist,"  said  I,  not  a  little 
astonished  in  my  turn  by  such  an  address 
from  such  a  person.  "  I  could  not  have  ex- 
pected to  stumble  upon  a  philosopher  so 
easily.  Have  you  any  wares  in  your  box 
likely  to  suit  me?  If  so,  I  should  like  to 
purchase  of  so  moralising  a  vender." 

"No,    sir,"    said    the    seeming    pedlar, 


smiling,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  hurrying 
his  goods  into  his  box,  and  carefully  turning 
the  key — "No,  sir;  I  am  only  a  bearer  of 
other  men's  goods ;  my  morals  are  all  that 
I  can  call  my  own,  and  those  I  will  sell  you 
at  your  own  price." 

"  You  are  candid,  my  friend,"  said  I, 
"  and  your  frankness,  alone,  would  be  ines- 
timable in  this  age  of  deceit,  and  country  of 
hypocrisy." 

"  Ah,  sir !"  said  my  new  acquaintance, 
"  I  see  already  that  you  are  one  of  those  per- 
sons who  look  to  the  dark  side  of  things  : 
for  my  part,  I  think  the  present  age  the  best 
that  ever  existed,  and  our  country  the  most 
virtuous  in  Europe." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Optimist,  on 
your  opinions,"  quoth  I  ;  "  but  your  ob- 
servation leads  me  to  suppose  that  you 
are  both  an  historian  and  a  traveller :  am 
1  right?" 

"  Why,"  answered  the  box-bearer,  "  I 
have  dabbled  a  little  in  books,  and  wandered 
not  a  little  among  men.  I  am  just  returned 
from  Germany,  and  am  now  going  to  my 
friends  in  London.  I  am  charged  with  this 
box  of  goods :  God  send  me  the  luck  to  de- 
liver it  safe." 

"Amen,"  said  I,  "and  with  that  prayer 
and  this  trifle  I  wish  you  a  good  morn- 
ing." 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  sir,  for 
both,"  replied  the  man, — "but  do  add  to 
your  favours  by  informing  me  of  the  right 
road  to  the  town  of " 

"  I  am  going  in  that  direction  myself: 
if  you  choose  to  accompany  me  part  of 
the  way  I  can  insure  you  not  missing  the 
rest." 

"  Your  honour  is  too  good  !"  returned  he 
of  the  box,  rising,  and  slinging  his  fardel 
across  him, — "  it  is  but  seldom  that  a  gentle- 
man of  your  rank  will  condescend  to  walk 
three  paces  with  one  of  mine.  You  smile, 
sir,  perhaps  you  think  I  should  not  class 
myself  among  gentlemen ;  and  yet  I  have 
as  good  a  right  to  the  name  as  most  of  the 
set.  I  belong  to  no  trade, — I  follow  no 
calling:  I  rove  where  I  list,  and  rest  where 
I  please :  in  short,  I  know  no  occupation 
but  my  indolence,  and  no  law  but  my  will. 
Now,  sir,  may  I  not  call  myself  a  gentle- 
man ?" 

"  Of  a  surety  !"  quoth  I.  "  You  seem  to 
me  to  hold  a  middle  rank  between  a  half- 
pay  captain  and  the  king  of  the  gipsies." 

"  You  have  it,  sir,"  rejoined  my  companion, 
with  a  slight  laugh.  He  was  now  by  my 
side,  and,  as  we  walked  on,  I  had  leisure 
more  minutely  to  examine  him.  lie  was  a 
middle-sized  and  rather  athletic  man  ;  appar- 
ently about  the  age  of  thirty-eight.  He  was 
attired  in  a  dark  blue  frock  coat,  which  was 


EDWARD    GEORGE  EARLE  LYTTON  BULWER  LYTTON.    467 


neither  shabby  nor  new,  but  ill-made,  and 
much  too  large  and  long  for  its  present  pos- 
sessor ;  beneath  this  was  a  faded  velvet  waist- 
coat, that  had  formerly,  like  the  Persian 
ambassador's  tunic,  "  blushed  with  crimson, 
and  blazed  with  gold  ;"  but  which  might 
now  have  been  advantageously  exchanged 
in  Monmouth  Street  for  the  lawful  sum  of 
two  shillings  and  ninepence  ;  under  this  was 
an  inner  vest  of  the  Cashmere  shawl  pattern, 
which  seemed  much  too  new  for  the  rest  of 
the  dress.  Though  his  shirt  was  of  a  very 
unwashed  hue,  I  remarked  with  some  sus- 
picion, that  it  was  of  a  very  respectable  fine- 
ness ;  and  a  pin,  which  might  be  paste,  or 
could  be  diamond,  peeped  below  a  tattered 
and  dingy  black  kid  stock,  like  a  gipsy's 
eye  between  her  hair. 

His  trousers  were  of  a  light  gray,  and 
the  justice  of  Providence,  or  of  the  tailor, 
avenged  itself  upon  them  for  the  prodigal 
length  bestowed  upon  their  ill-assorted  com- 
panion the  coat ;  for  they  were  much  too 
tight  for  the  muscular  limbs  they  concealed, 
and,  rising  far  above  the  ankle,  exhibited 
the  whole  of  a  thick  Wellington  boot,  which 
•was  the  very  picture  of  Italy  upon  the 
map. 

The  face  of  the  man  was  commonplace  and 
ordinary  :  one  sees  a  hundred  such  every  day 
in  Fleet  Street,  or  on  the  'Change:  the  feat- 
ures were  small,  irregular,  and  somewhat 
flat;  yet,  when  you  looked  twice  upon  the 
countenance,  there  was  something  marked 
and  singular  in  the  expression,  which  fully 
atoned  for  the  commonness  of  the  features. 
The  right  eye  turned  away  from  the  left  in 
that  watchful  squint  which  seems  con- 
structed on  the  same  considerate  plan  as 
those  Irish  guns  made  for  shooting  round  a 
corner  ;  his  eyebrows  were  large  and  shaggy, 
and  greatly  resembled  bramble  bushes,  in 
Avhich  his  fox-like  eyes  had  taken  refuge. 
Hound  these  vulpine  retreats  was  a  laby- 
rinthean  maze  of  those  wrinkles  vulgarly 
called  crows'  feet:  deep,  intricate,  and  in- 
tersected, they  seemed  for  all  the  world  like 
the  web  of  a  Chancery  suit.  Singularly 
enough,  the  rest  of  the  countenance  was 
perfectly  smooth,  and  unindented  ;  even  the 
lines  from  the  nostril  to  the  corners  of  the 
mouth,  usually  so  deeply  traced  in  men  of 
his  age,  were  scarcely  more  apparent  than 
in  a  boy  of  eighteen. 

His  smile  was  frank, — his  voice  clear  and 
hearty, — his  address  open,  and  much  supe- 
rior to  his  apparent  rank  of  life,  claiming 
somewhat  of  equality,  yet  conceding  a  great 
deal  of  respect ;  but,  notwithstanding  all 
these  certainly  favourable  points,  there  was 
a  sly  and  cunning  expression  in  his  perverse 
and  vigilant  eye  and  all  the  wrinkled  de- 
mesnes in  its  vicinity,  that  made  me  distrust 


even  while  I  liked  my  companion  :  perhaps, 
indeed,  he  was  too  frank,  too  familiar,  too  de- 
gage  to  be  quite  natural.  Your  honest  men 
soon  buy  reserve  by  experience,  llogues  are 
communicative,  because  confidence  and  open- 
ness cost  them  nothing.  To  finish  the  de- 
scription of  my  new  acquaintance,  I  should 
observe  that  there  was  something  in  his 
countenance  which  struck  me  as  not  wholly 
unfamiliar  ;  it  was  one  of  those  which  we 
have  not,  in  all  human  probability,  seen  be- 
fore, and  yet  which  ( perl  laps  from  their  very 
commonness)  we  imagine  we  have  encoun- 
tered a  hundred  times. 

We  walked  on  briskly,  notwithstanding 
the  warmth  of  the  day ;  in  fact,  the  air  was 
so  pure,  the  grass  so  green,  the  laughing 
noonday  so  full  of  the  hum,  the  motion,  and 
the  life  of  creation,  that  the  feeling  produced 
was  rather  that  of  freshness  and  invigora- 
tion  than  of  languor  and  heat. 

li  We  have  a  beautiful  country,  sir,"  said 
my  hero  of  the  box.  "  It  is  like  walking 
through  a  garden,  after  the  more  sterile  and 
sullen  features  of  the  continent.  A  pure 
mind,  sir,  loves  the  country  ;  for  my  part,  I 
am  always  disposed  to  burst  out  in  thanks- 
giving to  Providence  when  I  behold  its 
works,  and,  like  the  valleys  in  the  psalm,  I 
am  ready  to  laugh  and  sing." 

''  An  enthusiast,"  said  I,  "  as  wellas  a  phi- 
losopher! perhaps  (and  I  believed  it  likely)  I 
have  the  honour  of  addressing  a  poet  also." 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "I  have 
made  verses  in  my  life  ;  in  short,  there  is 
little  I  have  not  done,  for  I  was  always  a 
lover  of  variety  ;  but,  perhaps,  your  honour 
will  let  me  return  the  suspicion.  Are  you 
not  a  favourite  of  the  muse?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  am,"  said  I.  "  I 
value  myself  only  on  my  common  sense, — 
the  very  antipodes  to  genius,  you  know,  ac- 
cording to  the  orthodox  belief." 

'•  Common  sense !"  repeated  my  com- 
panion, with  a  singular  and  meaning  smile, 
and  a  twinkle  with  his  left  eye.  "  Common 
sense !  Ah,  that  is  not  my  forte,  sir.  You, 
I  dare  say,  are  one  of  those  gentlemen  whom 
it  is  very  difficult  to  take  in,  either  passively 
or  actively,  by  appearance,  or  in  act?  For 
my  part,  I  have  been  a  dupe  all  my  life, — a 
child  might  cheat  me!  I  am  the  most  un- 
suspicious person  in  the  world." 

"  Too  candid  by  half,"  thought  I.  "  This 
man  is  certainly  a  rascal;  but  what  is  that 
to  me  ?  I  shall  never  see  him  again  ;"  and 
true  to  my  love  of  never  losing  an  oppor- 
tunity of  ascertaining  individual  character, 
I  observed  that  I  thought  such  an  iicquaint- 
ance  very  valuable,  especially  if  he  were  in 
trade  ;  it  was  n  pity,  therefore,  for  my  sake, 
that  my  companion  had  informed  me  that  he 
followed  no  calling. 


468    EDWARD    GEORGE  EARLE  LYTTON  BULWER  LYTTON. 


\  "Why,  sir,'1  said  he,  "I  am  occasionally 
in  employment;  my  nominal  profession  is 
that  of  a  broker.  I  buy  shawls  and  hand- 
kerchiefs of  poor  countesses,  and  retail  them 
to  rich  plebeians.  I  fit  up  new  married 
couples  with  linen  at  a  more  moderate  rate 
than  the  shops,  and  procure  the  bridegroom 
his  present  of  jewels  at  forty  per  cent,  less 
than  the  jewellers  ;  nay,  I  am  as  friendly  to 
an  intrigue  as  a  marriage  ;  and  when  I  can- 
not sell  my  jewels,  I  will  my  good  offices. 
A  gentleman  so  handsome  as  your  honour 
may  have  an  affair  upon  your  hands;  if  so, 
you  may  rely  upon  my  secrecy  and  zeal. 
In  short,  I  am  an  innocent  good-natured 
fellow,  who  does  harm  to  no  one  or  nothing, 
and  good  to  every  one  for  something." 

"  I  admire  your  code,"  quoth  I,  "  and, 
whenever  I  want  a  mediator  between  Venus 
and  myself,  will  employ  you.  Have  you 
always  followed  your  present  idle  profession, 
or  were  you  brought  up  to  any  other?" 

"I  was  intended  for  a  silversmith,"  an- 
swered my  friend  :  "  but  Providence  willed 
it  otherwise  :  they  taught  me  from  childhood 
to  repeat  the  Lord's  prayer:  Heaven  heard 
me,  and  delivered  me  from  temptation, — 
there  is,  indeed,  something  terribly  seducing 
in  the  face  of  a  silver  spoon." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "you  are  the  honestest 
knave  that  ever  I  met,  and  one  would  trust 
you  with  one's  purse  for  the  ingenuousness 
with  which  you  own  you  would  steal  it. 
Pray,  think  you,  is  it  probable  that  1  have 
ever  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you 
before?  I  cannot  help  fancying  so, — as  yet 
I  have  never  been  in  the  watch-house  or  the 
Old  Bailey,  my  reason  tells  me  that  I  must 
be  mistaken." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  returned  my  worthy :  "  I 
remember  you  well,  for  I  never  saw  a  face 
like  yours  that  I  did  not  remember.  I  had 
the  honour  of  sipping  some  British  liquors 
in  the  same  room  with  yourself  one  evening  : 
you  were  then  in  company  with  my  friend 
Mr.  Gordon." 

"  Ha  !"  said  I,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  hint. 
I  now  remember  well,  by  the  same  token 
that  he  told  me  you  were  the  most  ingenious 
gentleman  in  England,  and  that  you  had  a 
happy  propensity  of  mistaking  other  people's 
possessions  for  your  own  :  I  congratulate  my- 
self  upon  so  desirable  an  acquaintance." 

My  friend  smiled  with  his  usual  bland- 
ness,  and  made  me  a  low  bow  of  acknowl- 
edgment before  he  resumed :  "  No  doubt, 
sir,  Mr.  Gordon  informed  you  right.  I  flat- 
ter myself  few  gentlemen  understand  better 
than  myself  the  art  of  appropriation,  though 
I  say  it  who  should  not  say  it.  I  deserve 
the  reputation  I  have  acquired,  sir;  I  have 
always  had  ill-fortune  to  struggle  against, 
and  always  have  remedied  it  by  two  virtues, 


— perseverance  and  ingenuity.  To  give  you 
an  idea  of  my  ill-fortune,  know  that  I  have 
been  taken  up  twenty-three  times  on  sus- 
picion ;  of  my  perseverance,  know  that 
twenty-three  times  I  have  been  taken  justly  ; 
and  of  my  ingenuity,  know  that  I  have  been 
twenty-three  times  let  off,  because  there  was 
not  a  tittle  of  legal  evidence  against  me!" 

"  I  venerate  your  talents,  Mr.  Jonson,"  I 
replied,  "  if  by  the  name  of  Jonson  it  pleaseth 
you  to  be  called,  although,  like  the  heathen 
deities,  I  presume  that  you  have  many  titles, 
whereof  some  are  more  grateful  to  your 
ears  than  others." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  man  of  two  virtues, 
"  I  am  never  ashamed  of  my  name  ;  indeed, 
I  have  never  done  anything  to  disgrace  me. 
I  have  never  indulged  in  low  company,  nor 
profligate  debauchery :  whatever  I  have  ex- 
ecuted by  way  of  profession  has  been  done 
in  a  superior  and  artist-like  manner;  not 
in  the  rude,  bungling  fashion  of  other  ad- 
venturers. Moreover,  I  have  always  had 
a  taste  for  polite  literature,  and  went  once 
as  an  apprentice  to  a  publishing  bookseller, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  reading  the  new  works 
before  they  came  out.  In  fine,  I  have  never 
neglected  any  opportunity  of  improving  my 
mind  ;  and  the  worst  that  can  be  said  against 
me  is,  that  I  have  remembered  my  catechism, 
and  taken  all  possible  pains  to  learn  and 
labour  truly  to  get  my  living,  and  to  do  my 
duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  call  me!" 

"  1  have  often  heard,"  answered  I,  "  that 
there  is  honour  among  thieves  ;  I  nm  happy 
to  learn  from  you  that  there  is  also  religion  : 
your  baptismal  sponsors  must  be  proud  of  so 
diligent  a  godson." 

"  They  ought  to  be,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Jon- 
son, "  for  I  gave  them  the  first  specimens 
of  my  address:  the  story  is  long,  lint,  if 
you  ever  give  me  an  opportunity,  I  will  re- 
late it." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I :  "  meanwhile  I 
must  wish  you  good  morning:  your  way 
now  lies  to  the  right.  I  return  you  my  best 
thanks  for  your  condescension  in  accom- 
panying so  undistinguished  an  individual 
as  myself." 

"Oh,  never  mention  it,  your  honour," 
rejoined  Mr.  Jonson.  "  I  am  always  too 
happy  to  walk  with  a  gentleman  of  your  com- 
mon sense.  Farewell,  sir;  may  we  meet 
again  !"  So  saying,  Mr.  Jonson  struck  into 
his  new  road,  and  we  parted. 

I  went  home,  musing  on  my  adventure, 
and  delighted  with  my  adventurer.  When 
I  was  about  three  paces  from  the  door  of 
my  home,  I  was  accosted  in  a  most  pitiful 
tone  by  a  poor  old  beggar,  apparently  in 
the  last  extreme  of  misery  and  disease. 
Notwithstanding  my  political  economy,  I 


EDWARD    GEORGE  EARLE  LYTTON  BULWER   LYTTON.     4G9 


was  moved  into  alms-giving  by  a  spectacle 
so  wretched.  I  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket, 
my  purse  was  gone;  and  on  searching  the 
other,  lo,  my  handkerchief,  my  pocket-book. 
and  a  gold  locket  which  had  l>elonge.d  to 
Madame  D'Anville,  had  vanished  too. 

One  does  not  keep  company  with  men  of 
two  virtues,  and  receive  compliments  upon 
one's  common  sense  for  nothing!  The  beg- 
gar still  continued  to  importune  me. 

''Give  him  some  food  and  half-a-crown," 
said  I  to  my  landlady.  Two  hours  after- 
wards she  came  up  to  me, — 

"  0  sir !  my  silver  tea-pot — that  villain 
the  beggar .'" 

A  light  flashed  upon  me, — "  Ah,  Mr.  Job 
Jonson  !  Mr.  Job  Jonson  !"  cried  I,  in  an  in- 
describable rage  ;  ''  out  of  my  sight,  woman  ! 
out  of  my  sight!"  I  stopped  short;  my 
speech  failed  me.  Never  tell  me  that  shame 
is  the  companion  of  guilt, — the  sinful  knave 
is  never  so  ashamed  of  himself  as  is  the 
innocent  fool  who  suffers  by  him. 

I'elham,  or.  The  Adventures  of  a  Gentleman. 

RlCCABOCCA    ON    REVOLUTION. 

Out  of  the  Tinker's  bag  Leonard  Fail-field 
had  drawn  a  translation  of  Condorcet's 
'•  Progress  of  Man,"  and  another  of  Rous- 
seau's "  Social  Contract."  AVorks  so  eloquent 
had  induced  him  to  select  from  the  tracts  in 
the  Tinker's  miscellany  those  which  abounded 
most  in  professions  of  philanthropy,  and 
predictions  of  some  coming  Golden  Age,  to 
which  old  Saturn's  was  a  joke, — tracts  so 
mild  and  mother-like  in  their  language,  that 
it  required  a  much  more  practical  experi- 
ence than  Lenny's  to  perceive  that  you 
would  have  to  pass  a  river  of  blood  before 
you  had  the  slightest  chance  of  setting  foot 
on  the  flowery  banks  on  which  they  invited 
you  to  repose, — tracts  which  rouged  poor 
Christianity  on  the  cheeks,  clapped  a  crown 
of  innocent  daffodillies  on  her  head,  and  set 
her  to  dancing  a  pas  de  zephyr  in  the  pas- 
toral ballet  in  which  St.  Simon  pipes  to  the 
flock  he  shears  ;  or  having  first  laid  it  down 
as  a  preliminary  axiom  that 

"  The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, — 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve," 

substituted  in  place  thereof  Monsieur  Fou- 
rier's symmetrical  phalanstere,  or  Mr.  Owen's 
architectural  parallelogram.  It  was  with 
some  such  tract  that  Lenny  was  seasoning 
his  crusts  and  his  radishes,  when  Ricca- 
bocca,  bending  his  long  dark  face  over  the 
student's  shoulder,  said  abruptly. — 

"Diavolo,  my  friend  !  what  on  earth  have 
you  got  there  ?  Just  let  me  look  at  it.  will 
you?" 


Leonard  rose  respectfully,  and  coloured 
deeply  as  he  surrendered  the  tract  to  Ricca- 
bocca. 

The  wise  man  read  the  first  page  atten- 
tively, the  second  more  cursorily,  and  ohly 
ran  his  eye  over  the  rest.  He  had  gone 
through  too  vast  a  range  of  problems  polit- 
ical, not  to  have  passed  over  that  venerable 
Pans  Asinorum  of  Socialism,  on  which  Fou- 
riers  and  St.  Simons  sit  straddling,  and  cry 
aloud  that  they  have  arrived  at  the  last 
boundary  of  knowledge! 

"  All  this  is  as  old  as  the  hills."  quoth 
Riccabocca,  irreverently;  "but  the  hills 
stand  still,  and  this — there  it  goes !"  and 
the  sage  pointed  to  a  cloud  emitted  from  his 
page.  "  Did  you  ever  read  Sir  David  Brew- 
ster  on  Optical  Delusions?  No!  Well,  I'll 
lend  it  to  you.  You  will  find  therein  a  story 
of  a  lady  who  always  saw  a  black  cat  on 
her  hearth-rug.  The  black  cat  existed  only 
in  her  fancy,  but  the  hallucination  was 
natural  and  reasonable — eh — what  do  you 
think  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  not  catching 
the  Italian's  meaning,  "  I  don't  exactly  see 
that  it  was  natural  and  reasonable." 

"  Foolish  boy,  yes !  because  black  cats  are 
things  possible  and  known.  But  who  ever 
saw  upon  earth  a  community  of  men  such  as 
sit  on  the  hearth-rugs  of  Messrs.  Owen  and 
Fourier?  If  the  lady's  hallucination  was 
not  reasonable,  what  is  his  who  believes  in 
such  visions  as  these?" 

Leonard  bit  his  lips. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  cried  Riccabocca  kindly, 
"  the  only  thing  sure  and  tangible  to  which 
these  writers  would  lead  you,  lies  at  the  first 
step,  and  that  is  what  is  commonly  called  a 
Revolution.  Now,  I  know  what  that  is.  I 
have  gone,  not  indeed  through  a  Revolution, 
but  an  attempt  at  one." 

Leonard  raised  his  eyes  towards  his  mas- 
ter with  a  look  of  profound  respect,  and 
great  curiosity. 

"  Yes,"  added  Riccabocca,  and  the  face  on 
which  the  boy  gazed  exchanged  its  usual  gro- 
tesque and  sardonic  expression  for  one  ani- 
mated, noble,  and  heroic,  "  Yes,  not  a  revo- 
lution for  chimeras,  but  for  that  cause  which 
the  coldest  allow  to  be  good,  and  which, 
when  successful,  all  time  approves  as  divine, 
— the  redemption  of  our  native  soil  from  the 
rule  of  the  foreigner !  I  have  shared  in  such 
an  attempt.  And,"  continued  the  Italian 
mournfully,  "  recalling  now  all  the  evil  pas- 
sions it  arouses,  all  the  ties  it  dissolves,  all  the 
blood  that  it  commands  to  flow,  all  the  health- 
ful industry  it  arrests,  all  the  madmen  that 
it  arms,  all  the  victims  that  it  dupes,  I  ques- 
tion whether  one  man  really  honest,  pure, 
and  humane,  who  has  once  gone  through 
such  an  ordeal,  would  ever  hazard  it  again, 


470 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


unless  he  was  assured  that  the  victory  was 
certain, — ay,  and  the  object  for  which  he 
fights  not  to  be  wrested  from  his  hands 
amidst  the  uproar  of  the  elements  that  the 
battle  has  released." 

The  Italian  paused,  shaded  his  brow  with 
his  hand,  and  remained  long  silent.  Then, 
gradually  resuming  his  ordinary  tone,  he 
continued, — 

"  Revolutions  that  have  no  definite  objects 
made  clear  by  the  positive  experience  of  his- 
tory ;  revolutions,  in  a  word,  that  aim  less 
at  substituting  one  law  or  one  dynasty  for 
another,  than  at  changing  the  whole  scheme 
of  society,  have  been  little  attempted  by  real 
statesmen.  Even  Lycurgus  is  proved  to  be 
a  myth  who  never  existed.  Such  organic 
changes  are  but  in  the  day-dreams  of  philoso- 
phers who  lived  apart  from  the  actual  world, 
and  whose  opinions  (though  generally  they 
were  very  benevolent  good  sort  of  men,  and 
wrote  in  an  elegant  poetical  style)  one 
would  no  more  take  on  a  plain  matter  of 
life,  than  one  would  look  upon  Virgil's  '  Ec- 
logues' as  a  faithful  picture  of  the  ordinary 
pains  and  pleasures  of  the  peasants  who  tend 
our  sheep.  Read  them  as  you  would  read 
poets,  and  they  are  delightful.  But  attempt 
to  shape  the  world  according  to  the  poetry, 
and  fit  yourself  for  a  madhouse.  The  farther 
•off  the  age  is  from  the  realization  of  such 
projects,  the  more  these  poor  philosophers 
have  indulged  them.  Thus,  it  was  amidst 
the  saddest  corruption  of  court  manners  that 
it  became  the  fashion  in  Paris  to  sit  for  one's 
picture  with  a  crook  in  one's  hand,  as  Alexis 
or  Daphne.  Just  as  liberty  was  fast  dying 
out  of  Greece,  and  the  successors  of  Alexan- 
der were  founding  their  monarchies,  and 
Rome  was  growing  up  to  crush  in  its  iron 
grasp  all  states  save  its  own,  Plato  with- 
draws his  eyes  from  the  world,  to  open  them 
in  his  dreamy  Atlantis.  Just  in  the  grim- 
mest period  of  English  history,  with  the  axe 
hanging  over  his  head.  Sir  Thomas  More 
gives  you  his  Utopia.  Just  when  the  world 
is  to  be  the  theatre  of  a  new  Sesostris,  the 
sages  of  France  tell  you  that  the  age  is  too 
enlightened  for  war,  that  man  is  henceforth 
to  be  governed  by  pure  reason  and  live  in  a 
paradise.  Very  pretty  reading  all  this  to  a 
man  like  me,  Lenny,  who  can  admire  and 
smile  at  it.  But  to  you,  to  the  man  who  has 
to  work  for  his  living,  to  the  man  who 
thinks  it  would  be  so  much  more  pleasant 
to  live  at  his  ease  in  a  phalanstere  than  to 
work  eight  or  ten  hours  a  day ;  to  the  man 
of  talent,  and  action,  and  industry,  whose 
future  is  invested  in  that  tranquillity  and 
order  of  a  state  in  which  talent  and  action, 
and  industry  are  a  certain  capital;  why, 
Messrs.  Coutts,  the  great  bankers,  had  bet- 
ter encourage  a  theory  to  upset  the  system 


of  banking !  Whatever  disturbs  society,  yea, 
even  by  a  causeless  panic,  much  more  by  an 
actual  struggle,  falls  first  upon  the  market 
of  labour,  and  thence  affects  prejudicially 
every  department  of  intelligence.  In  such 
times  the  arts  are  arrested,  literature  is  neg- 
lected, people  are  too  busy  to  read  anything 
save  appeals  to  their  passions.  And  capital, 
shaken  in  its  sense  of  security,  no  longer 
ventures  boldly  through  the  land,  calling 
forth  all  the  energies  of  toil  and  enterprise, 
and  extending  to  every  workman  his  reward. 
Now,  Lenny,  take  this  piece  of  advice.  You 
are  young,  clever,  and  aspiring:  men  rarely 
succeed  in  changing  the  world ;  but  a  man 
seldom  fails  of  success  if  he  lets  the  world 
alone,  and  resolves  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
You  are  in  the  midst  of  the  great  crisis  of 
your  life  :  it  is  the  struggle  between  the  new 
desires  knowledge  excites,  and  that  sense  of 
poverty  which  those  desires  convert  either 
into  hope  and  emulation,  or  into  envy  and 
despair.  I  grant  that  it  is  an  up-hill  work 
that  lies  before  you  ;  but  don't  you  think  it 
is  always  easier  to  climb  a  mountain  than  it 
is  to  level  it?  These  books  call  on  you  to 
level  the  mountain  ;  and  that  mountain  is 
the  property  of  other  people,  subdivided 
amongst  a  great  many  proprietors,  and  pro- 
tected by  law.  At  the  first  stroke  of  the 
pickaxe  it  is  ten  to  one  but  what  you  are 
taken  up  for  a  trespass.  But  the  path  up 
the  mountain  is  a  right  of  way  uncontested. 
You  may  be  safe  at  the  summit  before  (even 
if  the  owners  are  fools  enough  to  let  you) 
you  could  have  levelled  a  yard.  Cospctto .'" 
quoth  the  Doctor,  "it  is  more  than  two  thou- 
sand years  ago  since  poor  Plato  began  to  level 
it,  and  the  mountain  is  as  high  as  ever !" 

Thus  saying,  Riccabocca  came  to  the  end 
of  his  pipe,  and  stalking  thoughtfully  away, 
he  left  Leonard  Fail-field  trying  to  extract 
light  from  the  smoke. 

My  Novel ;  or,  Varieties  in  English  Life, 
Vol.  i.,  Book  iv.,  Chap.  8. 


born  at  Portland,  Maine,  1807,  graduated  at 
Bowdoin  College,  1825,  was  soon  afterwards 
appointed  Professor  of  Modern  Languages 
and  Literature  in  the  same,  and,  after  spend- 
ing three  years  and  a  half  in  Europe,  as- 
sumed the  duties  of  his  office  ;  in  1835  suc- 
ceeded George  Ticknor  in  the  professorship 
of  Modern  Languages  and  Belles-Lettres, 
and  after  a  second  visit  to  Europe,  1835  to 
1838,  in  the  latter  year  entered  upon  the 
labours  connected  with  this  chair,  which  he 
held  until  1854,  when  he  was  succeeded  by 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 


471 


James  Russell  Lowell.  Here  he  is  to  be  con- 
sidered only  as  a  prose  writer  :  for  notices 
and  specimens  of  his  poems  we  refer  to  Alli- 
bone's  Every-Day  Book  of  Poetry  and  Alli- 
bone's  Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Litera- 
ture and  British  and  American  Authors. 
Outre-Mer:  a  Pilgrimage  Beyond  the  Sea, 
New  York,  1835,  2  vo'ls.,  4th  edit.,  1850, 
16mo  ;  Hyperion,  a  Ho  in  an  ce,  New  York, 
1839,  2  vols.  12mo,  13th  edit.,  Bost.,  1853, 
12ino  ;  Kavanagh,  a  Tale,  Bost.,  1849,  16mo. 
Prose  Works,  Boston,  Ticknor  &  Fields,  1857, 
2  vols.  32mo :  vol.  i.,  Outre-Mer ;  Drift- 
Wood  :  a  Collection  of  Essays ;  vol.  ii.,  Hy- 
perion ;  Kavanagh. 

To  the  North  American  Review  Longfel- 
low has  contributed  the  following  articles: 
Origin  and  Progress  of  the  French  Lan- 
guage, vol.  32  :  227  ;  Defence  of  Poetry,  34  : 
56  ;  History  of  the  Italian  Language  and 
Dialects,  35:  283;  Spanish  Language  and 
Literature,  36:  316;  Old  English  Romances, 
37:  374;  The  Great  Metropolis,  44  :  461; 
Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales,  49 :  59 ; 
Tegner's  Frithiofs  Saga,  45:  149;  Anglo- 
Saxon  Literature,  47  :  90  ;  The  French  Lan- 
guage in  England,  51:  285;  Clark's  Liter- 
ary Remains,  59 :  239. 

"  He  [Dom  Pedro  II.,  Emperor  of  Brazil]  made 
some  remarks  on  Irving,  Cooper,  and  Prescott, 
showing  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  each.  His 
eye  falling  upon  the  name  of  Longfellow,  he  asked 
me,  in  great  haste  and  eagerness,  'Monsieur 
Fletcher,  avez  vouz  les  poe'mes  de  M.  Longfellow?' 
It  was  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw.  in  Dom  Pedro 
II.  an  enthusiasm  which  in  its  earnestness  and 
simplicity  resembled  the  warmth  of  childhood 
when  about  to  possess  itcelf  of  some  long-cherished 
object.  I  replied,  'I  believe  not,  your  Mnjesty.' 
'Oh,'  said  he,  '  I  am  exceedingly  sorry,  for  I  have 
sought  in  every  book-store  of  Rio  de  Janeiro  for 
Longfellow,  and  I  cannot  find  him.  I  have  a  num- 
ber of  beautiful  morceaiix  from  him  ;  but  I  wish  the 
•whole  work.  I  admire  him  so  much.'  Mr.  Fletcher 
afterwards  presented  him  with  the  Poets  and  Poetry 
of  America,  informing  the  emperor  that  it  con- 
tained some  choice  selections  from  the  American 
poet  whom  he  so  much  admired,  and  whom  he 
called  '  My  Longfellow.'  Afterward,  at  the  palace 
of  S.  Christopher,  when  Mr.  F.  took  leave  of  the 
emperor,  the  latter  said  to  him,  '  When  you  return 
to  your  country  have  the  kindness  to  say  to  Mr. 
Longfellow  how  much  pleasure  he  has  given  me, 
and  be  pleased  to  tell  him  combien  je  I'eatime,  cnm- 
bienje  I'uiine.' " — Brazil  and  the  Brazilian*,  in  His- 
torical and  Descriptive  Sketches,  by  Rev.  D.  P. 
Kidder  and  Rer.  J.  C.  Fletcher,  Phila.,  1857,  8vo. 

RURAL   LIFE  IN  SWEDEN. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  linger- 
ing about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders 
it  a  fit  theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval 
simplicity  reigns  over  that  northern  land. — 
almost  primeval  solitude  and  stillness.  You 
pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and  as  if 
by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a  wild  wood- 


land landscape.  Around  you  are  forests 
of  fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long  fan-like 
branches,  trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy 
with  red  and  blue  cones.  Underfoot  is  a 
carpet  of  yellow  leaves;  and  the  air  is  warm 
and  balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge  you  cross 
a  little  silver  stream  ;  and  anon  come  forth 
into  a  pleaScint  and  sunny  land  of  farms. 
Wooden  fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields. 
Across  the  road  are  gates,  which  are  opened 
by  troops  of  children.  The  peasants  take 
off  their  hats  as  you  pass ;  you  sneeze,  and 
they  cry,  "  God  bless  you  !"  The  houses  in 
the  villages  and  smaller  towns  are  all  built 
of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the  most  part 
painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are 
strewed  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir-boughs. 
In  many  villages  there  are  no  taverns,  and 
the  peasants  take  turns  in  receiving  travel- 
lers. The  thrifty  housewife  shows  you  into 
the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  which  are 
hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the 
Bible;  and  brings  you  her  heavy  silver 
spoons — an  heirloom — to  dip  the  curdled 
milk  from  the  pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes 
baked  some  months  before,  or  bread  with 
aniseseed  and  coriander  in  it,  or  perhaps  a 
little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought 
his  horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed 
them  to  your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers 
come  and  go  in  uncouth  one-horse  chaises. 
Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
and  hanging  around  their  necks  in  front  a 
leather  wallet,  in  which  they  carry  tobacco, 
and  the  great  bank-notes  of  the  country,  as 
large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet  also 
groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant  women,  trav- 
elling homeward,  or  townward  in  pursuit  of 
work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their 
hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels 
under  the  hollow  of  the  foot,  and  soles  of 
birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches 
standing  by  the  road-sides,  esich  in  its  own 
little  garden  of  Gethsemane.  In  the  parish 
register  great  events  are  doubtless  recorded. 
Some  old  king  was  christened  or  buried  in 
that  church  ;  and  a  little  sexton,  with  a  rusty 
key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font  or  the 
coffin.  In  the  church-yard  are  a  few  flowers, 
and  much  green  grass  ;  and  daily  the  shadow 
of  the  church  spire,  with  its  long  tapering 
finger,  counts  the  tombs,  representing  a  dial- 
plate  of  human  life,  on  which  the  hours  and 
minutes  are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones 
are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps 
sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On 
some  are  armorial  bearings;  on  others  only 
the  initials  of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a  date, 
as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all 
sleep  with  their  heads  to  the  westward. 
Each  held  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when 


47: 


HENRY   WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


he  died  ;  and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his 
little  heart-treasures,  and  a  piece  of  money 
for  his  last  journey.  Babes  that  came  life- 
less into  the  world  were  carried  in  the  arms 
of  gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle 
they  ever  slept  in ;  and  in  the  shroud  of  the 
dead  mother  were  laid  the  little  garments  of 
the  child  that  lived  and  died  in  her  bosom. 
And  over  this  scene  the  village  pastor  looks 
from  the  window  in  the  stillness  of  midnight, 
and  says  in  his  heart,  "  How  quietly  they 
rest,  all  the  departed  !" 

Near  the  church-yard  gate  stands  a  poor- 
box,  fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and 
secured  by  a  padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden 
roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday, 
the  peasants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and  con 
their  psalm-books.  Others  are  coming  down 
the  road  with  their  beloved  pastor,  who  talks 
to  them  of  holy  things  from  beneath  his 
broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and 
harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower 
that  went  forth  to  sow.  lie  leads  them  to 
the  Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pas- 
tures of  the  Spirit-land.  He  is  their  patri- 
arch, and  like  Melchizedek,  both  priest  and 
king,  though  he  has  no  other  throne  than 
the  church  pulpit.  The  women  carry  psalm- 
books  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good 
man's  words  ;  but  the  young  men,  like  Gal- 
lic, care  for  none  of  these  things.  They  are 
busy  counting  the  plaits  in  the  kirtlesof  the 
peasant  girls,  their  number  being  an  indica- 
tion of  the  wearer's  wealth.  It  may  end  in 
a  wedding. 

I  will  endeavour  to  describe  a  village 
wedding  in  Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer- 
time, that  there  may  be  flowers,  and  in  a 
northern  province,  that  the  bride  may  be 
fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark  and  chanti- 
cleer are  mingling  in  the  clear  morning  air, 
and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bridegroom  with 
golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east,  just  as  our 
earthly  bridegroom,  with  yellow  hair,  arises 
in  the  south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound 
of  voices  and  trampling  of  hoofs,  and  horses 
are  led  forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that 
is  to  bear  the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of 
flowers  upon  his  forehead,  and  a  garland  of 
corn-flowers  around  his  neck.  Friends  from 
the  neighbouring  farms  come  riding  in,  their 
blue  cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind;  and 
finally  the  happy  bridegroom,  with  a  whip 
in  his  hand,  and  a  monstrous  nosegay  in  the 
breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes  forth  from 
his  chamber  ;  and  then  to  horse  and  away 
towards  the  village,  where  the  bride  already 
sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  spokesman,  followed 
by  some  half-dozen  village  musicians.  Next 
comes  the  bridegroom  between  his  two 
groomsmen,  and  then  forty  or  fifty  friends 


and  wedding  guests,  half  of  them  perhaps 
with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands.  A 
kind  of  baggage-wagon  brings  up  the  rear, 
laden  with  food  and  drink  for  these  merry 
pilgrims.  At  the  entrance  of  every  village 
stands  a  triumphal  arch,  adorned  with  flow- 
ers, and  ribands,  and  evergreens  ;  and  as 
they  pass  beneath  it,  the  wedding  guests  fire 
a  salute,  and  the  whole  procession  stops  : 
and  straight  from  every  pocket  flies  a  black- 
jack, filled  with  punch  or  brandy.  It  is 
passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  crowd  : 
provisions  are  brought  from  the  wagon, 
and,  after  eating  and  drinking  and  hurrah- 
ing, the  procession  moves  forward  again, 
and  at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the 
bride.  Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  an- 
nounce that  a  knight  and  his  attendants  are 
in  the  neighbouring  forest,  and  pray  for 
hospitality.  "  How  many  are  you  ?"  asks  the 
bride's  father.  "  At  least  three  hundred/' 
is  the  answer  ;  and  to  this  the  last  replies, 
"Yes;  were  you  seven  times  as  many  you 
should  all  be  welcome  ;  and  in  token  thereof 
receive  this  cup."  Whereupon  each  herald 
receives  a  cup  of  ale ;  and  soon  after  the 
whole  jovial  company  comes  storming  into 
the  farmer's  yard,  and  riding  round  the 
May-pole,  which  stands  in  the  centre,  alight 
amid  a  grand  salute  and  flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  upon 
her  head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  old  Church  paintings.  She  is  dressed 
in  a  red  bodice  and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen 
sleeves.  There  is  a  gilded  belt  around  her 
waist ;  and  around  her  neck  strings  of  golden 
beads,  and  a  golden  chain.  On  the  crown 
rests  a  wreath  of  wild  roses,  and  below  it  an- 
other of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoulders 
falls  her  flaxen  hair;  and  her  blue  innocent 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  Oh,  thou 
good  soul !  thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft 
heart.  Thou  art  poor.  The  very  ornaments 
thou  wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have  been 
hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  thou  art  rich, 
rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first, 
young,  fervent  love.  The  blessing  of  Heaven 
be  upon  thee  !  So  thinks  the  parish  priest, 
as  he  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride  and 
bridegroom,  saying  in  deep  solemn  tones,  "  I 
give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy 
wedded  wife  in  all  honour,  and  to  share  the 
half  of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every 
third  penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or 
may  inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which  Upland's 
laws  provide,  and  the  holy  King  Erik  gave." 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride 
sits  between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest. 
The  spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the 
ancient  custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards 
it  well  with  quotations  from  the  Bible,  and 
invites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at  this 
marriage-feast,  as  He  was  at  the  marriage- 


RICHARD    CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


473 


feast  of  Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table  is  not 
sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a  long 
arm,  and  the  feast  goes  cheerily  on.  Punch 
and  brandy  pass  round  between  the  courses, 
and  here  and  there  a  pipe  is  smoked,  while 
•waiting  for  the  next  dish.  They  sit  long  at 
table  ;  but,  as  all  tilings  must  have  an  end, 
so  must  a  Swedish  dinner.  Then  the  dance 
begins.  It  is  led  off  by  the  bride  and  the 
priost,  who  perform  a  solemn  minuet  to- 
gether. Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the 
last  dance.  The  girls  form  a  ring  around 
the  bride,  to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the 
married  women,  who  endeavour  to  break 
through  the  magic  circle,  and  seize  their 
new  sister.  After  long  struggling,  they  suc- 
ceed ;  and  the  crown  is  taken  from  her  head 
and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and  her  bodice 
is  unlaced,  and  her  kirtle  taken  off,  and,  like 
a  vestal  virgin,  clad  all  in  white,  she  goes, — 
but  it  is  to  her  marriage-chamber,  not  to  the 
grave  ;  .and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her 
with  lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And 
this  is  a  village-bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  suddenly  changing 
seasons  of  the  northern  clime.  There  is  no 
long  and  lingering  spring,  unfolding  leaf 
and  blossom  one  by  one ;  no  long  and  lin- 
gering autumn,  pompous  with  many-coloured 
leaves  and  the  glow  of  Indian  summers.  But 
winter  and  summer  are  wonderful,  and  pass 
into  each  other.  The  quail  has  hardly  ceased 
piping  in  the  corn,  when  winter,  from  the 
folds  of  trailing  clouds,  sows  broadcast  over 
the  land  snow,  icicles,  and  rattling  hail. 
The  days  wane  apace.  Ere  long  the  sun 
hardly  rises  above  the  horizon,  or  does  not 
rise  at  all.  The  moon  and  the  stars  shine 
through  the  day  ;  only,  at  noon,  they  are 
pale  and  wan,  and  in  the  southern  sky  a  red 
fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns  along  the 
horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly 
under  the  silver  moon,  and  under  the  silent, 
solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel  shoes  of  the 
skaters  on  the  frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and 
the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  northern  lights  begin  to 
burn,  faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing 
on  the  waters  of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft 
crimson  glow  tinges  the  heavens.  There  is 
a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  night.  The  colours 
come  and  go,  and  change  from  crimson  to 
gold,  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow 
is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from 
the  zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery 
sword ;  and  a  broad  band  passes  athwart 
the  heavens  like  a  summer  sunset.  Soft 
purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the  sky, 
and  through  their  vapoury  folds  the  wink- 
ing stars  shine  white  as  silver.  With  such 
pomp  as  this  is  merry  Christmas  ushered  in, 
though  only  a  single  star  heralded  the  first 
Christmas.  And  in  memory  of  that  day  the 


Swedish  peasants  dance  on  straw,  and  the 
peasant  girls  throw  straws  at  the  timbered 
roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that  sticks 
in  a  crack  shall  a  groomsman  come  to  their 
wedding.  Merry  Christmas,  indeed  !  For 
pious  souls  there  shall  be  church-songs  and 
sermons,  but  for  Swedish  peasants  brandy 
and  nut-brown  ale  in  wooden  bowls  :  and 
the  great  Yule-cake,  crowned  with  a  cheese, 
and  garlanded  with  apples,  and  upholding  a 
three-armed  candlestick  over  the  Christmas 
feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons 
Lundsbraka,  and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great 
Kiddar-Finke  of  Pingsdada. 

And  now  the  glad  leafy  midsummer,  full 
of  blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is 
come  !  Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers 
and  festival  of  heathen  Balder  ;  and  in  every 
village  there  is  a  May-pole  fifty  feet  high, 
with  wreaths  and  roses,  and  ribands  stream- 
ing in  the  wind,  and  a  noisy  weathercock 
on  the  top,  to  tell  the  village  whence  the 
wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth.  The 
sun  does  not  set  till  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and 
the  children  are  at  play  in  the  streets  an 
hour  later.  The  windows  and  doors  are  all 
open,  and  you  may  sit  and  read  till  midnight 
without  a  candle.  Oh,  how  beautiful  is  the 
summer  night,  which  is  not  night,  but  a 
sunless  yet  unclouded  day,  descending  upon 
earth  with  dews,  and  shadows,  and  refresh- 
ing coolness  !  How  beautiful  the  long  mild 
twilight,  which,  like  a  silver  clasp,  unites 
to-day  with  yesterday !  How  beautiful  the 
silent  hour,  when  morning  and  evening  thus 
sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the  star- 
less sky  of  midnight !  From  the  church 
tower  in  the  public  square  the  bells  toll  the 
hour  with  a  soft  musical  chime ;  and  the 
watchman  whose  watch-tower  is  the  belfry, 
blows  a  blast  on  his  horn  for  each  stroke  of 
the  hammer,  and  four  times,  to  the  four  cor- 
ners of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous  voice  he 
chants  : 

"  Ho  !  watchman,  ho ! 

Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 

God  keep  our  town 

From  fire  and  brand, 

And  hostile  hand! 

Twelve  is  the  clock  !" 

From  his  swallow's-nest  in  the  belfry  he 
can  see  the  sun  all  night  long;  and  farther 
north  the  priest  stands  at  his  door  in  the 
warm  midnight,  and  lights  his  pipe  with  a 
common  burning-glass. 

Preface  to  Longfellow's  translation  of  The 
Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 


RICHARD    CHENEVIX 
TRENCH,    D.D., 

born  1807,  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  1864,  is 
the  author  of  many  valuable  works, — Bibli- 


474 


RICHARD    CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


cal,  theological,  poetical,  and  philological, — 
of  which  the  best  known  is  entitled  On  the 
Study  of  Words,  Lond.,  1851,  12mo,  fre- 
quently republished  in  England  and  Amer- 
ica. 

"  Teachers  of  all  grades  will  find  it  an  invalua- 
ble aid  both  to  their  own  private  improvement 
and  the  instruction  of  their  scholars.  .  .  .  Nobody 
can  think  the  study  of,  words,  as  pursued  by  this 
writer,  is  dry  or  barren." — Loud.  Alhen.,  1852, 
378.  See  also  1855,  290  ;  1859,  ii.  255. 

"  It  is  a  book  which  ought  to  be  introduced  into 
all  normal  schools." — Lou.  Lit.  Gaz.,  1852,  278. 

THE  ADVANTAGES  TO  BE  DERIVED  FROM  A 
STUDY  OF  WORDS. 

There  are  few  who  would  not  readily  ac- 
knowledge that  mainly  in  worthy  books  are 
preserved  and  hoarded  the  treasures  of  wis- 
dom and  knowledge  which  the  world  has 
accumulated  ;  and  that  chiefly  by  aid  of 
these  they  are  handed  down  from  one  gen- 
eration to  another.  I  shall  urge  on  you  in 
these  lectures  something  different  from  this  ; 
namely,  that  not  in  books  only,  which  all 
acknowledge,  nor  yet  in  connected  oral  dis- 
course, but  often  also  in  words  contemplated 
singly,  there  are  boundless  stores  of  moral 
and  historic  truth,  and  no  less  of  passion 
and  imagination,  laid  up, — that  from  these 
lessons  of  infinite  worth  may  be  derived,  if 
only  our  attention  is  roused  to  their  exist- 
ence. I  shall  urge  on  you  (though  with 
teaching  such  as  you  enjoy,  the  subject  will 
not  be  new)  how  well  it  will  repay  you  to 
study  the  words  which  you  are  in  the  habit 
of  using  or  of  meeting,  be  they  such  as  re- 
late to  highest  spiritual  things,  or  our  com- 
mon words  of  the  shop  and  the  market,  and 
of  all  the  familiar  intercourse  of  life.  It  will 
indeed  repay  you  far  better  than  you  can 
easily  believe.  I  am  sure,  at  least,  that  for 
many  a  young  man  his  first  discovery  of  the 
fact,  that  words  are  living  powers,  are  the 
vesture,  yea  even  the  body,  which  thoughts 
weave  for  themselves,  has  been  like  the 
dropping  of  scales  from  his  eyes,  like  the 
acquisition  of  another  sense,  or  the  intro- 
duction into  a  new  world  ;  he  is  never  able 
to  cease  wondering  at  the  moral  marvels 
that  surround  him  on  every  side,  and  ever 
reveal  themselves  more  and  more  to  his 
gaze.  ...  A  great  writer  not  very  long  de- 
parted from  us  has  borne  witness  at  once  to 
the  pleasantness  and  profit  of  this  study. 
"  In  a  language,"  he  says,  "like  ours,  where 
so  many  words  are  derived  from  other  lan- 
guages, there  are  few  modes  of  instruction 
more  useful  or  more  amusing  than  that  of 
accustoming  young  people  to  seek  for  the 
etymology  or  primary  meaning  of  the  words 
they  use.  There  are  cases  in  which  more 
knowledge  of  more  value  may  be  conveyed 


by  the  history  of  a  word  than  by  the  history 
of  a  campaign." 

Impressing  the  same  truth,  Emerson  has 
somewhere  characterized  language  as  "  fos- 
sil poetry."  He  evidently  means  that  just 
as  in  some  fossil,  curious  and  beautiful 
shapes  of  vegetable  or  animal  life,  the  grace- 
ful fern  or  the  finely  vertebrated  lizard,  .such 
as  now,  it  may  be,  have  been  extinct  for 
thousands  of  years,  are  permanently  bound 
up  with  the  stone,  and  rescued  from  that 
perishing  which  would  otherwise  have  been 
theirs, — so  in  words  are  beautiful  thoughts 
and  images,  the  imagination  and  the  feeling 
of  past  ages,  of  men  long  since  in  their 
graves,  of  men  whose  very  names  have  per- 
ished, these,  which  would  so  easily  have  per- 
ished too,  preserved  and  made  safe  forever. 
The  phrase  is  a  striking  one ;  the  only 
fault  which  one  might  be  tempted  to  find 
with  it  is,  that  it  is  too  narrow.  Language 
may  be,  and  indeed  is,  this  "  fossil  poetry  ;" 
but  it  may  be  affirmed  of  it  with  exactly  the 
same  truth  that  it  is  fossil  ethics  or  fossil  his- 
tory. Words  quite  as  often  and  as  effectu- 
ally embody  facts  of  history,  or  convictions 
of  the  moral  common  sense,  as  of  the  im- 
agination or  passion  of  men  :  even  as,  so 
far  as  that  moral  sense  may  be  perverted, 
they  will  bear  witness  and  keep  a  record  of 
that  perversion. 

On  the  Study  of  Words. 

ON  THE  MORALITY  IN  WORDS. 

But  has  man  fallen,  and  deeply  fallen, 
from  the  heights  of  his  original  creation  ? 
We  need  no  more  than  his  language  to  prove 
it.  Like  everything  else  about  him,  it  bears 
at  once  the  stamp  of  his  greatness  and  of  his 
degradation,  of  his  glory  and  of  his  shame. 
What  dark  and  sombre  threads  he  must  have 
woven  into  the  tissue  of  his  life,  before  we 
could  trace  those  threads  of  darkness  which 
run  through  the  tissue  of  his  language  !  What 
facts  of  wickedness  and  woe  must  have  ex- 
isted in  the  one,  ere  such  words  could  exist 
to  designate  these  as  are  found  in  the  other ! 
There  have  never  wanted  those  who  would 
make  light  of  the  hurts  which  man  has  in- 
flicted on  himself,  of  the  sickness  with  which 
he  is  sick  ;  who  would  persuade  themselves 
and  others  that  moralists  and  divines,  if 
they  have  not  quite  invented,  have  yet  enor- 
mously exaggerated,  these.  But  are  state- 
ments of  the  depths  of  his  fall,  the  malignity 
of  the  disease  with  which  he  is  sick,  found 
only  in  Scripture  and  in  sermons?  Are 
those  who  bring  forward  these,  libellers  of 
human  nature?  Or  are  not  mournful  cor- 
roborations  of  the  truth  of  these  imprinted 
deeply  upon  every  promise  of  man's  natural 
and  spiritual  life,  and  on  none  more  deeply 


GEORGE  STILLMAN  HILLARD: 


475 


than  on  his  language  ?  It  needs  but  to 
open  a  dictionary,  and  to  cast  our  eye 
thoughtfully  down  a  few  columns,  and  we 
shall  find  abundant  confirmation  of  this 
sadder  and  sterner  estimate  of  man's  moral 
and  spiritual  condition.  How  else  shall  we 
explain  this  long  catalogue  of  words  having 
all  to  do  with  sin  or  with  sorrow,  or  with 
both?  How  came  they  there?  We  may  be 
quite  sure  that  they  were  not  invented  with- 
out being  needed,  and  they  have  each  a  cor- 
relative in  the  world  of  realities.  I  open  the 
first  letter  of  the  alphabet ;  what  means  this 
"Ah,"  this  "Alas,"  these  deep  and  long- 
drawn  sighs  of  humanity,  which  at  once 
encounter  me  there  ?  And  then  presently 
there  meet  me  such  words  as  these  :  "  Afflic- 
tion," "Agony,"  "Anguish,"  "Assassin," 
"Atheist,"  "  Avarice,"  and  a  hundred  more, 
— words,  you  will  observe,  not  laid  up  in  the 
recesses  of  the  language,  to  be  drawn  forth 
on  rare  occasions,  but  many  of  them  such  as 
must  be  continually  on  the  lips  of  men.  And 
indeed,  in  the  matter  of  abundance,  it  is  sad 
to  note  how  much  richer  our  vocabularies  are 
in  words  that  set  forth  sins,  than  in  those 
that  set  forth  graces.  When  St.  Paul  (Gal. 
v.  19-23)  would  put  these  against  those, 
"  the  works  of  the  flesh"  against  "the  fruit 
of  the  Spirit,"  those  are  seventeen,  these 
only  nine;  and  where  do  we  find  in  Scrip- 
ture such  lists  of  graces  as  we  do  at  2  Tim. 
iii.  2,  Rom.  i.  29-31,  of  their  contraries  ? 

Nor  can  I  help  noting,  in  the  oversight 
and  muster  from  this  point  of  view  of  the 
words  which  constitute  a  language,  the 
manner  in  which  its  utmost  resources  have 
been  taxed  to  express  the  infinite  varieties, 
now  of  human  suffering,  now  of  human  sin. 
Thus,  what  a  fearful  thing  is  it  that  any 
language  should  possess  a  word  to  express 
the  pleasure  which  men  feel  at  the  calami- 
ties of  others  ;  for  the  existence  of  the  word 
bears  testimony  to  the  existence  of  the 
thing.  And  yet  such  in  more  languages 
than  one  may  be  found.  Nor  are  there 
wanting,  I  suppose,  in  any  language,  words 
which  are  the  mournful  record  of  the  strange 
wickednesses  which  the  genius  of  man,  so 
fertile  in  evil,  has  invented.  What  whole 
process  of  cruelty  are  sometimes  wrapped  up 
in  a,  single  word  ! 

On  the  Study  of  Words. 


GEORGE    STILLMAN     HIL- 
LARD, 

born  at  Machias,  Maine,  1808,  graduated  at 
Harvard  University,  1828,  and  was  admitted 
to  the  Suffolk  County  (Boston)  bar,  1833; 
died  1879.  lie  was  a  member  of  the  Com- 


mon Council  of  Boston  (of  which  he  was  fur 
six  months  the  president),  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts State  Legislature,  and  of  its  Senate, 
and  was  one  of  the  best  writers  that  the 
United  States,  have  produced. 

The  Life  and  Adventures  of  Captain  John 
Smith,  Bost.,  1834,  16mo  (Sparks's  Amer. 
Biog.,  Ser.  1,  vol.  ii.)  ;  Fourth  of  July  Ora- 
tion before  the  City  Authorities  of  Boston, 
Bost.,  1835;  The  Relation  of  the  Poet  to  His 
Age,  a  Discourse,  Bost.,  1843,  8vo;  Connec- 
tion between  Geography  and  History,  Bost., 
1846,  12mo;  Address  before  the  Mercantile 
Library  Association  of  Boston,  Bost.,  1850; 
Address  before  the  New  York  Pilgrim  So- 
ciety, 1851  ;  Discourse  before  the  New  Eng- 
land Society,  New  York,  1852,  8vo ;  Eulogy 
on  Daniel  Webster,  1852  (in  A  Memorial  of 
Daniel  Webster  from  the  City  of  Boston, 
Bost.,  1853,  8vo,  edited  by  G.  S.  Ilillard) ; 
Oration  before  the  Inhabitants  of  Boston, 
July  4,  1853,  Bost.,  1853,  8vo ;  Six  Months 
in  Italy,  Bost.,  1853,  2  vols.  12mo,  Lond., 
1853,  2  vols.  12ino,  and  later  edits,  (a  stan- 
dard work  of  great  excellence)  ;  Dangers 
and  Duties  of  the  Mercantile  Profession, 
Bost.,  1854, 8vo  ;  A  Memoir  of  James  Brown, 
Bost.,  1856,  8vo ;  First,  Second,  Third,  and 
Fourth  Class  Readers,  Bost.,  1856-57,  etc., 
4  vols. ;  Address  before  the  Norfolk  Agri- 
cultural Society,  1860,  8vo ;  The  Life  and 
Campaigns  of  George  B.  McClellan,  1865. 
He  edited,  with  success,  the  Poetical  Works 
of  Edmund  Spenser,  Bost.,  1839,  5  vols. 
12mo;  and  also  a  Selection  from  the  Writ- 
ings of  Henry  Cleveland,  Bost.,  1844,  12mo, 
privately  printed,  and  published  a  transla- 
tion of  Guizot's  Essay  on  the  Character  and 
Influence  of  Washington,  Bost.,  1840,  16mo, 
and  Selections  from  the  Writings  of  W.  S. 
Landor,  Bost.,  1856,  12mo. 

He  was  co-editor  of  The  American  Jurist, 
The  Christian  Register,  and  The  Boston 
Courier,  and  contributed  to  The  Christian 
Examiner,  The  New  England  Magazine, 
The  North  American  Review  (23  articles), 
and  Appleton's  New  American  Cyclopaedia 
(articles  Choate,  Everett).  He  was  urged 
by  the  present  writer  to  publish  a  collective 
edition  of  his  works,  but  was  too  modest  to 
accede. 

"  George  S.  Ilillard  is  one  of  the  most  polished 
writers  of  New  England.  His  taste  is  fastidious, 
and  he  is  a  fine  rhetorician.  He  excels  in  arrange- 
ment and  condensation,  and  has  an  imaginative 
expression.  Of  his  numerous  articles  in  the  North 
American  Review,  one  of  the  most  hrilliant  is  on 
Prescott's  Conquest  of  Mexico  [58  : 157,  Jan.  1844], 
but  I  think  the  happiest  of  his  essays  is  that  on 
the  Mission  of  the  Poet,  read  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society  [of  Harvard  University,  Aug.  24, 
1843]."— R.  W.  GRISWOLD,  D.D. :  The  Intellectual 
Hilton/,  Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Country, 
prefixed  to  his  Prose  Writers  of  America. 


476 


GEORGE  STILLMAN  HILLARD. 


THE  CHARACTER  OP  EDWARD  EVERETT. 

The  Psalmist  says,  "  The  days  of  our  years 
are  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  if  by  rea- 
son of  strength  they  be  fourscore  years,  yet 
is  their  strength  labour  and  sorrow."  The 
latter  part  of  this  sentence  is  not  altogether 
true  ;  at  least,  it  is  not  without  exceptions 
as  numerous  as  the  rule.  To  say  nothing 
of  the  living,  we  who  have  witnessed  the 
serene  and  beautiful  old  age  of  Quincy,  pro- 
tracted more  than  twenty  years  after  three- 
score years  and  ten,  will  not  admit  that  all 
of  life  beyond  that  limit  is  of  necessity 
li  labour  and  sorrow."  But  in  these  words 
there  is  so  much  of  truth  as  this,  that  he 
who  has  lived  to  be  threescore  and  ten  years 
old  should  feel  that  he  has  had  his  fair  share 
of  life,  and  if  any  more  years  are  dropped 
into  his  lap  he  must  receive  them  as  a  gift 
not  promised  at  his  birth.  And  tints  no 
man  who  dies  after  the  age  of  seventy  can 
be  said  to  have  died  unseasonably  or  prem- 
aturely. But  the  shock  with  which  the 
news  of  Mr.  Everett's  death  fell  upon  the 
community  was  due  to  its  unexpectedness 
as  well  as  its  suddenness.  We  knew  that 
he  was  an  old  man,  but  we  did  not  feel  that 
lie  was  such.  There  was  nothing  either  in 
his  aspect  or  his  life  that  warned  us  of  de- 
parture or  reminded  us  of  decay.  His 
powers  were  so  vigorous,  his  industry  was 
so  great,  his  sympathies  were  so  active,  his 
elocution  so  admirable,  that  he  appeared 
before  us  as  a  man  in  the  very  prime  of  life, 
and  when  he  died  it  was  as  if  the  sun  had 
gone  down  at  noon.  The  impression  made 
by  his  death  was  the  highest  tribute  that 
could  be  paid  to  the  worth  of  his  life. 

In  1819,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  five 
years,  Mr.  Everett  returned  from  Europe  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  the  most  finished  and 
accomplished  man  that  had  been  seen  in 
New  England,  and  it  will  be  generally  ad- 
mitted that  he  maintained  this  superiority 
to  the  last.  From  that  year  down  to  the 
hour  of  his  death  he  was  constantly  before 
the  public  eye,  and  never  without  a  marked 
and  peculiar  influence  upon  the  community, 
especially  upon  students  and  scholars.  You 
and  I,  Mr.  President,  are  old  enough  to  have 
come  under  the  spell  of  the  magician  at  that 
early  period  of  his  life  when  he  presented 
the  most  attractive  combination  of  graceful 
and  blooming  youth  with  mature  intellec- 
tual power.  The  young  man  of  to-day, 
familiar  with  that  expression  of  gravity, 
almost  of  sadness,  which  his  countenance 
has  habitually  worn  of  late,  can  hardly  im- 
agine what  he  then  was,  when  his  "  bosom's 
lord"  sat  "  lightly  in  his  throne,"  when  the 
winds  of  hope  filled  his  sails,  and  his 
looks  and  movements  were  informed  with 


a  spirit  of  morning  freshness  and  vernal 
promise. 

In  the  forty-five  years  which  passed  between 
his  return  home  and  his  death,  Mr.  Everett's 
industry  was  untiring,  and  the  amount  of 
work  he  accomplished  was  immense.  What 
he  published  would  alone  entitle  him  to 
the  praise  of  a  very  industrious  man,  but 
this  forms  but  a  part  of  his  labours.  Of 
what  has  been  called  the  master-vice  of 
sloth  he  knew  nothing.  He  was  inde- 
pendent of  the  amusements  and  relaxations 
which  most  hard-working  men  interpose 
between  their  hours  of  toil,  lie  was  always 
in  harness. 

Some  persons  have  regretted  that  he  gave 
so  much  time  to  merely  occasional  produc- 
tions, instead  of  devoting  himself  to  sonic 
one  great  work  ;  but  without  speculating 
upon  the  comparative  value  of  what  we  have 
and  what  we  might  have  had,  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  with  his  genius  and  temperament 
on  the  one  hand,  and  our  institutions  and 
form  of  society  on  the  other,  it  was  a  sort  of 
necessity  that  his  mind  should  have  taken 
the  direction  that  it  did.  For  he  was  the 
child  of  his  time,  and  was  .always  in  harmony 
with  the  spirit  of  the  age  and  country  in 
which  his  lot  was  cast.  He  was  pre-emi- 
nently rich  in  the  fruits  of  European  culture; 
Greece,  Rome,  England,  France,  Italy,  and 
Germany  all  helped  by  liberal  contributions 
to  swell  his  stores  of  intellectual  wealth,  but 
yet  no  man  was  ever  more  national  in  feel 
ing,  more  patriotic  in  motive  and  impulse, 
more  thoroughly  American  in  grain  and 
fibre.  Loving  books  as  he  did,  he  would 
yet  have  pined  and  languished  if  he  had 
been  doomed  to  live  in  the  unsympathetic  air 
of  a  great  library.  The  presence,  the  com- 
prehension, the  sympathy  of  his  kind  were 
as  necessary  to  him  as  his  daily  bread. 

"  Two  words,"  says  Macaulay,  "  form  the 
key  of  the  Baconian  doctrine,  Utility  and 
Progress."  I  think  these  two  words  also  go 
far  to  reveal  and  interpret  Mr.  Everett's  mo- 
tives and  character.  Not  that  he  did  not 
seek  honourable  distinction,  not  that  he  did 
not  take  pleasure  in  the  applause  which  he 
had  fairly  earned ;  but  stronger  even  than 
these  propelling  impulses  was  his  desire  to 
be  of  service  to  his  fellow-men,  to  do  good 
in  his  day  and  generation.  He  loved  his 
country  with  a  fervid  love,  and  he  loved  his 
race  with  a  generous  and  comprehensive 
philanthropy.  He  was  always  ready  to 
work  cheerfully  in  any  direction  when  he 
thought  he  could  do  any  good,  though  the 
labour  might  not  be  particularly  congenial 
to  his  tastes,  and  would  not  add  anything  to 
his  literary  reputation.  The  themes  which 
he  handled,  during  his  long  life  of  intellectual 
action,  were  very  various,  they  were  treated 


GEORGE  STILLMAN  HILLARD. 


477 


with  great  affluence  of  learning,  singular 
beauty  of  illustration,  and  elaborate  and  ex- 
quisite harmony  of  style,  but  always  in  such 
away  as  to  bear  practical  fruit,  and  contribute 
to  the  advancement  of  society  and  the  eleva- 
tion of  humanity. 

So,  too,  Mr.  Everett  was  a  sincere  and 
consistent  friend  of  progress.  He  was,  it  is 
true,  conservative  in  his  instincts  and  convic- 
tions ;  I  mean  in  a  large  and  liberal,  and  not 
in  a  narrow  and  technical  sense.  But  that 
he  was  an  extreme  conservative,  or  that  he 
valued  an  institution  simply  because  it  Avas 
old,  is  not  only  not  true,  but,  I  think,  the 
reverse  of  truth.  He  had  a  distaste  to  ex- 
treme views  of  any  kind,  and,  by  the  consti- 
tution of  his  mind,  was  disposed  to  take  that 
middle  ground  which  partisan  zeal  is  prone 
to  identify  with  timidity  or  indifference. 
But  he  was  a  man  of  generous  impulses 
and  large  sympathies.  No  one  was  more 
quick  to  recognize  true  progress,  and  greet 
it  with  a  more  hospitable  welcome.  No 
man  of  his  age  would  have  more  readily 
and  heartily  acknowledged  the  many  points 
in  which  the  world  has  advanced  since  he 
was  young. 

It  would  not  be  seasonable  here  to  dwell 
upon  Mr.  Everett's  public  or  political  career, 
but  I  may  be  permitted  to  add  that  I  think 
he  had  genuine  faith  in  the  institutions  of  his 
country,  which  d*id  not  grow  fainter  as  he 
grew  older,  lie  believed  in  man's  capacity 
for  self-government,  and  had  confidence  in 
popular  instincts.  He  was  fastidious  in  his 
social  tastes,  but  not  aristocratic:  that  is,  if 
he  preferred  one  man  to  another  it  was  for 
essential  and  not  adventitious  qualities, — for 
what  they  were,  and  not  for  what  they  had. 
lie  was  uniformly  kind  to  the  young,  and 
always  prompt  to  recognize  and  encourage 
merit  in  a  young  person. 

Mr.  Everett,  if  not  the  founder  of  the 
school  of  American  deliberative  eloquence, 
was  its  most  brilliant  representative.  In  his 
orations  and  occasional  discourses  will  be 
found  his  best  title  to  remembrance,  and  by 
them  his  name  will  surely  be  transmitted  to 
future  generations.  In  judging  of  them,  we 
must  bear  in  mind  that  the  aim  of  the  delib- 
erative orator  is  to  treat  a  subject  in  such  a 
way  as  to  secure  and  fix  the  attention  of  a 
popular  audience,  and  this  aim  Mr.  Everett 
never  lost  sight  of.  If  it  be  said  that  his 
discourses  are  not  marked  by  originality 
of  construction  or  philosophical  depth  of 
thought,  it  may  be  replied  that  had  they 
been  so,  they  would  have  been  less  attractive 
to  his  hearers.  They  are  remarkable  for  a 
combination  of  qualities  rarely,  if  ever  be- 
fore, so  happily  blended,  and  especially  for 
the  grace,  skill,  and  tact  with  which  the  re- 
sources of  the  widest  cultivation  are  so  used 


as  to  instruct  the  common  mind  and  touch 
the  common  heart.  For  whatever  were  the 
subject,  Mr.  Everett  always  took  his  audience 
along  with  him  from  first  to  last.  He  never 
soared  or  wandered  out  of  their  sight. 

I  need  notdwell  upon  the  singular  beauty 
and  finish  of  his  elocution.  Those  who 
have  heard  him  speak  will  need  no  descrip- 
tion of  the  peculiar  charm  and  grace  of 
his  manner,  and  no  description  will  give  any 
adequate  impression  of  it  to  those  who  never 
heard  him.  It  was  a  manner  easily  carica- 
tured, but  not  easily  imitated.  His  power 
over  an  audience  remained  unimpaired  to 
the  last.  At  the  age  of  seventy  he  spoke 
with  all  the  animation  of  youth,  and  easily 
filled  the  largest  hall  with  that  rich  and 
flexible  voice,  the  tones  of  which  time  had 
hardly  touched.  His  organization  was  deli- 
cate and  refined,  his  temperament  sensitive 
and  sympathetic.  The  opinion  of  those 
whom  he  loved  and  esteemed  was  weighty 
with  him.  Praise  was  ever  cordial  to  him, 
and  more  necessary  than  to  most  men  who 
had  achieved  such  high  and  assui'ed  distinc- 
tion. Doubtful  as  the  statement  may  seem 
to  those  who  knew  him  but  slightly,  or  only 
saw  him  on  the  platform  with  his  "  robes 
and  singing  garlands"  about  him,  he  was  to 
the  last  a  modest  and  self-distrustful  man. 
He  never  appeared  in  public  without  a  slight 
flutter  of  apprehension  lest  he  should  fall 
short  of  that  standard  which  he  had  created 
for  himself.  His  want  of  self-confidence, 
and,  in  later  years,  his  want  of  animal 
spirits,  sometimes  produced  a  coldness  of 
manner,  which,  by  superficial  observers, 
was  set  down  to  coldness  of  heart,  but  most 
unjustly. 

His  nature  was  courteous,  gentle,  and 
sweet.  Few  men  were  ever  more  worthy 
than  he  to  wear  "  the  grand  old  name  of 
gentleman."  His  manners  were  graceful, 
more  scholarly  than  is  usual  with  men  who 
had  been  so  much  in  public  life  as  he,  and 
sometimes  covered  with  a  delicate  veil  of 
reserve.  Conflict  and  contest  were  distaste- 
ful to  him,  and  it  was  his  disposition  to  fol- 
low the  things  that  make  for  peace.  He  had 
a  true  respect  for  the  intellectual  rights  of 
others,  and  it  was  no  fault  of  his  if  he  ever 
lost  a  friend  through  difference  of  opinion. 

Permit  me  to  turn  for  a  moment  to  Mr. 
Everett's  public  life  for  an  illustration  of 
his  character.  In  forensic  contests,  sarcasm 
and  invective  are  formidable  and  frequent 
weapons.  The  House  of  Commons  quailed 
before  the  younger  Pitt's  terrible  powers  of 
sarcasm.  An  eminent  living  statesman  and 
orator  of  Great  Britain  is  remarkable  for 
both  these  qualities.  But  neither  invective 
nor  sarcasm  is  to  be  found  in  Mr.  Everett's 
speeches.  I  think  this  absence  is  to  be 


478 


GEORGE  STJLLMAN  HILLARD. 


ascribed  not  to  an  intellectual  want  but  to  a 
moral  grace. 

Great  men,  public  men,  have  also  their 
inner  and  private  life,  and  sometimes  this 
must  be  thrown  by  the  honest  painter  into 
shadow.  But  in  Mr.  Everett's  case  there 
was  no  need  of  this,  for  his  private  life  was 
spotless.  In  conduct  and  conversation  he 
always  conformed  to  the  highest  standard 
which  public  opinion  exacts  of  the  members 
of  that  profession  to  which  he  originally 
belonged.  As  a  brother,  husband,  father, 
and  friend,  there  was  no  duty  that  he  did 
not  discharge,  no  call  that  he  did  not  obey. 
He  was  generous  in  giving,  and  equally 
generous  in  sacrificing.  Where  he  was  mo.st 
known  he  was  best  loved.  He  was  wholly 
free  from  that  exacting  temper  in  small 
things  which  men,  eminent  and  otherwise 
estimable,  sometimes  fall  into.  His  daily 
life  was  made  beautiful  by  a  pervading  spirit 
of  thoughtful  consideration  for  those  who 
stood  nearest  to  him.  His  household  man- 
ners were  delightful,  and  his  household  dis- 
course was  brightened  by  a  lambent  play  of 
wit  and  humour;  qualities  which  he  pos- 
sessed in  no  common  measure,  though  they 
were  rarely  displayed  before  the  public. 
Could  the  innermost  circle  of  Mr.  Everett's 
life  be  revealed  to  the  general  eye,  it  could 
not  fail  to  deepen  the  sense  of  bereavement 
which  his  death  has  awakened,  and  to  in- 
crease the  reverence  with  which  his  memory 
is  and  will  be  cherished.  No  man  ever  bore 
his  faculties  and  his  eminence  more  meekly 
than  he.  He  never  declined  the  lowly 
and  commonplace  duties  of  life.  He  was 
always  approachable  and  accessible.  The 
constant  and  various  interruptions  to  which 
he  was  exposed  by  the  innumerable  calls 
made  upon  his  time  and  thoughts  were 
borne  by  him  with  singular  patience  and 
sweetness.  His  industry  was  as  methodical 
as  it  was  uniform.  However  busy  he  might 
be,  he  could  always  find  time  for  any  service 
which  a  friend  required  at  his  hands.  He 
was  scrupulously  faithful  and  exact  in  small 
things.  He  never  broke  an  appointment 
or  a  promise.  His  splendid  powers  worked 
with  all  the  regularity  and  precision  of  the 
most  nicely  adjusted  machinery.  If  he  had 
undertaken  to  have  a  discourse,  a  report,  an 
article,  ready  at  a  certain  time,  it  might  be 
depended  upon  as  surely  as  the  rising  of  the 
sun. 

I  feel  that  I  have  hardly  touched  upon  the 
remarkable  qualities  of  Mr.  Everett's  mind 
and  character,  and  yet  I  have  occupied  as 
much  of  your  time  as  is  becoming. 

Proceedings  of  the  Massachusetts  Historical 
Society,  in  A  Memorial  of  Edward  Everett 
from  the  City  of  Boston,  Bost.,  1865, 8vo, 
138-142. 


BOOKS. 

We  cannot  linger  in  the  beautiful  crea- 
tions of  inventive  genius,  or  pursue  the 
splendid  discoveries  of  modern  science,  with- 
out a  new  sense  of  the  capacities  and  dignity 
of  human  nature,  which  naturally  leads  to  a 
sterner  self-respect,  to  manlier  resolves,  and 
higher  aspirations.  We  cannot  read  the 
ways  of  God  to  man  as  revealed  in  the  his- 
tory of  nations,  of  sublime  virtues  as  exem- 
plified in  the  lives  of  great  and  good  men, 
without  falling  into  that  mood  of  thoughtful 
admiration,  which,  though  it  be  but  a  tran- 
sient glow,  is  a  purifying  and  elevating  in- 
fluence while  it  lasts.  The  study  of  history 
is  especially  valuable  as  an  antidote  to  self- 
exaggeration.  It  teaches  lessons  of  humility, 
patience,  and  submission.  When  we  read 
of  realms  smitten  with  the  scourge  of  famine 
or  pestilence,  or  strewn  with  the  bloody  ashes 
of  war ;  of  grass  growing  in  the  streets  of 
great  cities  ;  of  ships  rotting  at  the  wharves  ; 
of  fathers  burying  their  sons ;  of  strong 
men  begging  their  bread ;  of  fields  untilled, 
and  silent  workshops,  and  despairing  coun- 
tenances,— we  hear  a  voice  of  rebuke  to  our 
own  clamorous  sorrows  and  peevish  com- 
plaints. We  learn  that  pain  and  suffering 
and  disappointment  are  a  part  of  God's 
providence,  and  that  no  contract  was  ever 
yet  made  with  man  by  which  virtue  should 
secure  to  him  temporal  happiness. 

In  books,  be  it  remembered,  we  have  the 
best  products  of  the  best  minds.  We  should 
any  of  us  esteem  it  a  great  privilege  to  pass 
an  evening  with  Shakespeare  or  Bacon, 
were  such  a  thing  possible.  But  were  we 
admitted  to  the  presence  of  one  of  these  il- 
lustrious men,  we  might  find  him  touched 
with  infirmity,  or  oppressed  with  weariness, 
or  darkened  with  the  shadow  of  a  recent 
trouble,  or  absorbed  by  intrusive  and  tyran- 
nous thoughts.  To  us  the  oracle  might  be 
dumb,  and  the  light  eclipsed.  But  when  we 
take  down  one  of  their  volumes,  we  run  no 
such  risk.  Here  we  have  their  best  thoughts 
embalmed  in  their  best  words :  immortal 
flowers  of  poetry,  wet  with  Castalinn  dews, 
and  the  golden  fruit  of  wisdom  that  had 
long  ripened  on  the  bough  before  it  was 
gathered.  Here  we  find  the  growth  of  the 
choicest  seasons  of  the  mind,  when  mortal 
cares  were  forgotten,  and  mortal  weaknesses 
were  subdued  ;  and  the  soul,  stripped  of  its 
vanities,  and  its  passions,  lay  bare  to  the 
finest  effluences  of  truth  and  beauty.  We 
may  be  sure  that  Shakespeare  never  out- 
talked  his  Hamlet,  nor  Bacon  his  Essays. 
Great  writers  are  indeed  best  known  through 
their  books.  How  little,  for  instance,  do  we 
know  of  the  life  of  Shakespeare ;  but  how 
much  do  we  know  of  him !  .  .  . 


ROBERT  CHARLES    WINTER  OP. 


479 


For  the  knowledge  that  comes  from  books, 
I  would  claim  no  more  than  it  is  fairly  en- 
titled to.  I  am  well  aware  that  there  is  no 
inevitable  connection  between  intellectual 
cultivation,  on  the  one  hand,  and  individual 
virtue  or  social  well-being,  on  the  other. 
"  The  tree  of  knowledge  is  not  the  tree  of 
life."  I  admit  that  genius  and  learning  are 
sometimes  found  in  combination  with  gross 
vices,  and  not  unfrequently  with  contemptible 
weaknesses  ;  and  that  a  community  at  once 
cultivated  and  corrupt  is  no  impossible  mon- 
ster. But  it  is  no  over-statement  to  say  that, 
other  things  being  equal,  the  man  who  has 
the  greatest  amount  of  intellectual  resources 
is  in  the  least  danger  from  inferior  tempta- 
tions,— if  for  no  other  reason,  because  he 
has  fewer  idle  moments.  The  ruin  of  most 
men  dates  from  some  vacant  hour.  Occu- 
pation is  the  armour  of  the  soul  ;  and  the 
train  of  Idleness  is  borne  up  by  all  the  vices. 
I  remember  a  satirical  poem,  in  which  the 
Devil  is  represented  as  fishing  for  men,  and 
adapting  his  baits  to  the  taste  and  tempera- 
ment of  his  prey  ;  but  the  idler,  he  said, 
pleased  him  most,  because  he  bit  the  naked 
hook.  To  a  young  man  away  from  home, 
friendless  and  forlorn  in  a  great  city,  the 
hours  of  peril  are  those  between  sunset 
and  bedtime ;  for  the  moon  and  stars  see 
more  of  evil  in  a  single  hour  than  the  sun 
in  his  Avhole  day's  circuit.  The  poet's 
visions  of  evening  are  all  compact  of  tender 
and  soothing  images.  It  brings  the  wanderer 
to  his  home,  the  child  to  his  mother's  arms, 
the  ox  to  his  stall,  and  the  weary  labourer  to 
his  rest.  But  to  the  gentle-hearted  youth 
who  is  thrown  upon  the  rocks  of  a  pitiless 
city,  and  stands  '*  homeless  amid  a  thousand 
homes,"  the  approach  of  evening  brings  with 
it  an  aching  sense  of  loneliness  and  desola- 
tion, which  comes  down  upon  the  spirit  like 
darkness  upon  the  earth.  In  this  mood  his 
best  impulses  become  a  snare  to  him  ;  and 
he  is  led  astray  because  he  is  social,  affec- 
tionate, sympathetic,  and  warm-hearted.  If 
there  be  a  young  man  thus  circumstanced 
within  the  sound  of  my  voice,  let  me  say  to 
him,  that  books  are  the  friends  of  the  friend- 
less, and  that  a  library  is  the  home  of  the 
homeless.  A  taste  for  reading  will  always 
carry  you  into  the  best  possible  company, 
and  enable  you  to  converse  with  men  who 
will  instruct  you  by  their  wisdom,  and  charm 
you  by  their  wit ;  who  will  soothe  you  when 
fretted,  refresh  you  when  weary,  counsel  you 
when  perplexed,  and  sympathize  with  you  at 
all  times.  Evil  spirits  in  the  Middle  Ages 
were  exorcised  and  driven  away  by  bell, 
book,  and  candle  :  you  want  but  two  of  these 
agents, — the  book  and  the  candle. 

Address  before  the  Mercantile  Library  As- 
sociation. 


ROBERT    CHARLES    WIN- 
THROP,  LL.D., 

a  descendant  in  the  sixth  generation  of  John 
Winthrop  (1587-1649),  Governor  of  Massa- 
chusetts, a  grandson  of  Sir  John  Temple, 
and  great-grandson  of  Governor  James  Bow- 
doin,  was  born  in  Boston,  1809,  graduated 
at  Harvard  University,  1828,  studied  law 
with  Daniel  Webster,  1828-31,  United  States 
Senator,  1850-51.  He  is  a  man  of  high 
mark  in  every  respect. 

Addresses  and  Speeches  on  various  occa- 
sions, Bost.,  3  vols.  r.  8vo:  vol.  i.,  1853,  ii., 
1867,  iii.,  1878;  Life  and  Letters  of  John 
Winthrop,  1630-1649,  Bost.,  1867,  8vo. 

For  his  minor  publications,  see  Allibone's 
Critical  Dictionary  of  English  Literature, 
iii.  2797. 

"  In  his  occasional  addresses  he  displays  not  only 
that  fulness  of  knowledge  and  learning  belonging 
to  his  immediate  theme,  which  places  him  on  the 
platform  with  the  best-instructed  orators  of  the 
day,  but  all  those  nameless  graces  of  speech,  that 
versatility  and  playfulness  of  fancy,  that  prompt 
and  felicitous  appropriation  of  any  casual  topic  or 
incident  of  the  moment,  that  current  and  catching 
sympathy  with  his  audience, — so  that  he  seems 
rather  to  be  speaking  with  them  and  for  them  in- 
stead of  to  them, — which  are  the  characteristics 
of  the  higher  order  of  speech  in  England,  but 
which  are  so  rare  in  this  country  that  I  can  hardly 
recall  the  name  of  any  living  orator  who  can  hold 
a  comparison  with  him." — HUGH  BLAIR  G-RIGSBY, 
LL.D.,  TO  S.  AUSTIN  ALLIBONE,  May  11,  1866  («&»' 
supra). 

CHRISTIANITY  THE  GREAT  REMEDY. 

The  ancient  metropolis  of  Syria  has  se- 
cured for  itself  a  manifold  celebrity  on  the 
pages  of  history.  It  has  been  celebrated  as 
the  splendid  residence  of  the  Syrian  kings, 
and  afterwards  as  the  luxurious  capital  of 
the  Asiatic  Provinces  of  the  Roman  Empire. 
It  has  been  celebrated  for  its  men  of  letters, 
and  its  cultivation  of  learning.  It  has  been 
celebrated  for  the  magnificence  of  the  edi- 
fices within  its  walls,  and  for  the  romantic 
beauty  of  its  suburban  groves  and  fountains. 
The  circling  sun  shone  nowhere  upon  more 
majestic  productions  of  human  art,  than 
when  it  gilded,  with  its  rising  or  its  setting 
beams,  the  sumptuous  symbols  of  its  own  de- 
luded worshippers,  in  the  gorgeous  temple  of 
Daphne  and  the  gigantic  statue  of  Apollo, 
which  were  the  pride  and  boast  of  that  far- 
famed  capital ;  while  it  was  from  one  of  the 
humble  hermitages  which  were  embosomed 
in  its  exquisite  environs,  that  the  sainted 
Chrysostom  poured  forth  some  of  those  po- 
etical and  passionate  raptures  on  the  beau- 
ties and  sublimities  of  nature,  which  would 
alone  have  won  for  him  the  title  of  "  The 
golden-mouthed."  At  one  time,  we  are  told, 


480 


ROBERT  CHARLES    WINTER  OP. 


it  ranked  third  on  the  list  of  the  great  cities 
of  the  world, — next  only  after  Rome  and 
Alexandria,  and  hardly  inferior  to  the  latter 
of  the  two,  at  least,  in  size  and  splendour. 
It  acquired  a  severer  and  sadder  renown  in 
more  recent,  though  still  remote  history,  as 
having  been  doomed  to  undergo  vicissitudes 
and  catastrophies  of  the  most  disastrous  and 
deplorable  character :  now  sacked  and  pil- 
laged by  the  Persians,  now  captured  by  the 
Saracens,  and  now  besieged  by  the  Cru- 
saders ;  a  prey,  at  one  moment,  to  the  rav- 
ages of  fire,  at  another  to  the  devastations  of 
an  earthquake,  which  is  said  to  have  de- 
stroyed no  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  lives  in  a  single  hour.  Its  name 
has  thus  become  associated  with  so  many 
historical  lights  and  shadows, — with  so  much 
of  alternate  grandeur  and  gloom, — that  there 
is,  perhaps,  but  little  likelihood  of  its  ever 
being  wholly  lost  sight  of  by  any  student  of 
antiquity.  Yet  it  is  not  too  much  to  say, 
that  one  little  fact,  for  which  the  Bible  is 
the  sole  and  all-sufficient  authority,  will  fix 
that  name  in  the  memory,  nnd  rivet  it  in  the 
affectionate  regard  of  mankind,  when  all  else 
associated  with  it  is  forgotten.  Yes:  when 
its  palaces  and  its  temples,  its  fountains  and 
its  groves,  its  works  of  art  and  its  men  of 
learning,  when  Persian  and  Saracen  and 
Crusader,  who  successively  spoiled  it,  and 
the  flames  and  the  earthquake  which  de- 
voured and  desolated  it,  shall  have  utterly 
faded  from  all  human  recollection  or  record, 
the  little  fact — the  great  fact,  let  me  rather 
say — will  still  be  remembered,  and  remem- 
bered with  an  interest  and  a  vividness  which 
no  time  can  ever  efface  or  diminish, — that 
"  the  disciples  were  called  Christians  first  in 
Antioch  ;"  that  there  the  name  of  Christ — 
given  at  the  outset,  perhaps,  as  a  nickname 
and  a  by-word,  but  gladly  and  fearlessly  ac- 
cepted and  adopted,  in  the  face  of  mockery, 
in  the  face  of  martyrdom,  by  delicate  youth 
and  maiden  tenderness,  as  well  as  by  mature 
or  veteran  manhood — first  became  the  dis- 
tinctive designation  of  the  faithful  followers 
of  the  Messiah. 

That  record  must,  of  course,  stand  alone, 
for  ever,  on  the  historic  page.  Christianity 
will  never  begin  again.  Christ  has  lived 
and  died  once  for  all,  and  will  come  no 
more  upon  these  earthly  scenes,  until  he 
comes  .again  in  his  glorious  majesty  to  judge 
both  the  quick  and  the  dead.  But  should 
the  numerous  Associations  and  Unions 
which  have  recently  sprung  into  existence 
as  from  a  common  impulse  in  both  hemi- 
spheres,— bearingacommonname,  composed 
of  congenial  elements,  and  organized  for  the 
same  great  and  glorious  ends  with  that  now 
before  me, — should  they  go  on  zealously  and 
successfully  in  the  noble  work  which  they 


have  undertaken, — should  they  even  fulfil 
but  one-half  the  high  hopes  and  fond  expec- 
tations which  their  progress  thus  far  has 
authorized  and  encouraged, — it  may  be,  it 
may  be,  that  the  city  from  which  they  all 
took  their  first  example  and  origin,  if  it  can 
then  be  identified, — whether  it  be  London 
or  New  York, — Liverpool,  Edinburgh,  or 
Boston, — Berlin,  Geneva,  or  Richmond, — 
will  have  no  prouder  or  loftier  title  to  the 
gratitude  of  man  or  to  the  blessing  of  God, 
than  that  there  was  set  on  foot  the  first 
Young  Men's  Christian  Association, — that 
there  the  young  men  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, by  a  concerted  movement,  and  in  so 
considerable  companies,  first  professed  and 
called  themselves  Christians.  .  .  . 

Reflect,  my  friends,  for  an  instant,  what  a 
spectacle  almost  any  great  city  would  pre- 
sent, at  almost  .any  single  moment  of  its  ex- 
istence, to  a  person  who  had  the  power  to 
penetrate  within  its  recesses  and  privacies, 
and  to  behold  at  a  glance  all  that  was  going 
on  by  day  or  by  night  within  its  limits  ! 
Nay,  reflect,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  do 
so,  what  a  spectacle  such  a  city  actually 
does  present  to  that  all-seeing  Eye,  before 
which  every  scene  of  immorality  and  crime 
is  daguerreotyped  with  unfailing  accuracy 
and  minuteness, — just  as  it  occurs, — just  aa 
it  occurs, — no  matter  how  close  may  be  the 
veil  of  mystery  in  which  it  is  involved  to 
human  sight,  or  how  secret  the  chambers  of 
iniquity  within  which  it  is  transacted  !  What 
a  panorama  must  be  ever  moving  before  that 
Eye  !  Oh,  if  there  could  be  a  more  prevail- 
ing and  pervading  sense,  that  although  no 
human  agency  or  visible  machinery  be  at 
work,  the  picture  of  our  individual  lives  is 
at  every  instant  in  process  of  being  por- 
trayed and  copied, — every  word,  act,  thought, 
motive,  indelibly  delineated,  with  a  fulness 
and  a  fidelity  of  which  even  the  marvellous 
exactness  of  photograph  or  stereoscope  af- 
fords but  a  faint  illustration;  if  the  great 
ideas  of  Omniscience  and  Omnipresence, 
which  are  suffered  to  play  so  loosely  about 
the  region  of  our  imaginations,  and  of  which 
these  modern  inventions — the  daguerreo- 
type, with  the  instantaneous  action  and  un- 
erring accuracy  of  its  viewless  pencil, — the 
Electric  Ocean  Telegraph,  with  its  single 
flash,  bounding  unquenched  through  a  thou- 
sand leagues  of  fathomless  floods — have  done 
so  much  to  quicken  our  feeble  conceptions  ; 
if,  I  say,  these  great  ideas  of  Omniscience 
and  Omnipresence  could  now  and  then  be 
brought  to  a  focus,  and  flashed  in,  with  the 
full  force  of  their  searching  and  scorching 
rays,  upon  the  inmost  soul  of  some  great 
city,  like  Paris  or  London, — to  come  no 
nearer  home, — and  of  those  who  dwell  in 
it, — what  swarms  of  sins,  what  troops  of 


FORBES   WINS  LOW. 


481 


sinners,  would  be  seen  soared  and  scamper- 
ing from  their  holes  and   hiding-places: — 
just  as  even  now  the  inmates  of  some  single 
abode  of  iniquity  or  infamy  are  sometimes 
seen  flying  from  the  sudden  irruption  of  an 
earthly  police,  or  from  the  startling  terrors 
of  some  self-constituted  vigilance  committee  ! 
Christianity,  neither    Sectarian   nor    Sec- 
tional, the  Great  Remedy  for  Social  and 
Political  Evils :   An  Address  delivered 
before  the  Young  Men's   Christian  As- 
sociation, Boston,  April  7.  1859.     Re- 
peated  before  the   Young  Men's  Chris- 
tian Association  of  Richmond,  Virginia, 
May  5, 1859.    Republished  in  Addresses 
and  Speeches,  Boston,  1867,  r.  8vo,  J^OS- 
450. 


FORBES    WINSLOW,    M.D., 
D.C.L.    OXON., 

born  1810,  died  1874,  was  author  of  a 
number  of  valuable  medical  works  upon  in- 
sanity and  other  subjects,  of  which  the  most 
important  is  On  Obscure  Diseases  of  the 
Brain,  and  Disorders  of  the  Mind,  Lond., 
1860,  8vo  ;  Phila.,  I860,  8vo;  4th  ed.,  Lond., 
1868,  p.  8vo. 

"The  future  British  text-book  on  mental  and 
cerebral  pathology.  .  .  .  What  an  amount  of 
bodily  suffering  and  hopeless  mental  imbecility 
might  be  prevented  if  the  practical  and  scientific 
views  propounded  in  Dr.  Winslow's  book  were 
generally  diffused." — Lond.  Lrnicet. 

"  The  master  effort  of  a  great  philosopher." — 
Dub.  Quar.  Med.  Jour.,  I860. 

NEGLECT  OP  INCIPIENT  SVMPTOMS  OF  IN- 
SANITY. 

Upon  investigating  the  history  of  the  dis- 
eases of  the  brain,  how  frequently  does  the 
medical  man  discover  that  positive  and  un- 
equivocal cerebral  symptoms  have  existed, 
and  perhaps,  during  the  early  stage,  even 
been  observed  for  months,  and  in  some  cases 
for  years,  without  exciting  any  apprehen- 
sion on  the  part  of  the  patient,  his  family, 
or  friends  ! 

In  many  of  such  instances,  clearly  mani- 
fested head  symptoms  were  entirely  over- 
looked. If  noticed,  no  right  estimation  was 
made  of  their  value.  My  attention  has  been 
called  to  cases  in  which  serious  mischief  to 
the  delicate  structure  of  the  brain  and  its 
investing  membranes  has  thus  been  per- 
mitted by  the  patient's  friends  to  proceed 
uninterruptedly  for  years,  no  treatment 
being  adopted  to  arrest  the  progress  of  the 
fatal  disorganization  ! 

The  brain,  that  most  important,  and  ex- 
quisitely organized,  of  all  the  structures  of 
31 


the  human  body,  the  physical  instrument  of 
intelligence,  centre  of  sensation,  and  source 
of  volition,  is  permitted,  in  many  cases,  to 
be  in  a  state  of  undoubted  disorder,  with- 
out exciting  any  attention  until  some  fright- 
fully urgent,  alarming,  and  dangerous  symp- 
toms have  been  manifested,  and  then,  and 
not  till  then,  has  the  actual  extent  of  the 
mischief  been  appreciated,  the  condition  of 
the  patient  recognized,  and  advice  obtained 
for  his  relief! 

Other  deviations  from  organic  conditions 
of  health  do  not,  as  a  general  rule,  meet 
with  similar  systematic  neglect.  In  affec- 
tions of  the  stomach,  liver,  bowels,  lungs,  and 
skin,&c.,  the  first  symptoms  of  approaching 
disease  are  immediately  observed,  and  the 
patient,  without  loss  of  time,  seeks  the  aid 
of  his  physician.  But  when  the  brain  is 
affected,  and  the  patient  troubled  with  per- 
sistent headache,  associated  with  some  slight 
derangement  of  the  intelligence,  disorder  of 
the  sensibility,  illusions  of  the  senses,  de- 
pression of  spirits,  loss  of  mental  power,  or 
modification  of  motility,  his  condition  is,  in 
many  cases,  entirely  overlooked,  or  studi- 
ously ignored,  as  if  such  abnormal  symp- 
toms were  signs  of  robust  health,  instead  of 
being,  as  they  undoubtedly  are,  indications 
of  cerebral  disorder  requiring  the  most  grave 
and  serious  attention,  prompt,  energetic,  and 
skilful  treatment! 

One  reason  of  the  neglect  to  which  the 
brain  is  subjected  when  under  the  influence 
of  disease,  is  a  notion,  too  generally  enter- 
tained, that  many  of  the  more  fatal  forms 
of  cerebral  diseases  are  suddenly  developed 
affections,  presenting  no  evidence  of  any 
antecedent  encephalic  organic  change,  and 
unaccompanied  by  a  premonitory  stage,  or 
incipient  symptoms. 

It  is  indeed  natural  that  such  an  idea 
should  be  entertained,  even  by  an  educated 
professional  man  whose  attention  has  not 
been  specially  directed  to  a  study  of  this 
class  of  disease,  or  whose  opportunities  of 
watching  the  progress  of  such  affections  have 
been  limited  and  circumscribed. 

A  man  apparently  in  vigorous  health,  mix- 
ing daily  with  his  family,  going  to  his  count- 
ing-house, engaging  in  the  active  pursuits 
of  commerce,  or  occupying  his  attention  in 
professional  or  literary  duties,  whilst  step- 
ping into  his  carriage,  or  when  entertaining 
his  friends  at  the  festive  board,  falls  down 
either  at  his  door  in  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness, or  quietly  bows  his  head  on  his  plate  at 
the  dinner-table  and  dies,  surrounded  by  his 
family,  in  a  fit  of  cerebral  hemorrhage  !  .  .  . 
A  gentleman  during  dinner  complains  sud- 
denly of  giddiness  and  sickness.  He  retires 
to  another  room,  where  he  is  found  a  minute 
afterwards  supporting  by  a  bed-post,  con- 


482 


FORBES    WINSLOW. 


fused  and  pale.  Being  put  to  bed  he  soon  be- 
comes comatose  and  dies.  .  .  .  Fully  recog- 
nizing the  obscurity  in  which  this  subject  is 
involved,  I  would  ask,  whether  the  affections 
of  the  brain,  in  the  majority  of  cases,  are  not 
preceded  by  a  well-marked,  clearly-defined, 
but  often  undetected  and  unobserved  precur- 
sory stage?  Is  it  possible  for  a  person  to  be 
suddenly  laid  prostrate  in  the  arms  of  death 
by  an  attack  of  apoplexy,  cerebritis,  menin- 
gitis, paralysis,  acute  softening,  or  mania, 
evidencing  after  death  long-existing  chronic 
alteration  in  the  cerebral  structure,  without 
having  existed,  for  some  time  previously, 
faint  and  transitory  they  may  be,  but  never- 
theless decidedly  characteristic  symptoms, 
pointing  unmistakably  to  the  brain  as  the 
fons  et  origo  mali  ? 

On  Obscure  Diseases  of  the  Brain. 

THE  MEMORY. 

I  should  regret  if,  in  the  preceding  obser- 
vations, I  were  to  convey  the  impression 
that  I  estimated  lightly  the  benefit  to  be  de- 
rived from  a  steady  and  persevering  cultiva- 
tion of  the  memory  in  early  life.  It  is,  in 
every  point  of  view,  most  essential  that  this 
faculty  should  be  carefully  developed,  dis- 
ciplined, and  invigorated  during  the  scho- 
lastic training  which  most  boys  intended  for 
the  universities,  and  subsequently  for  politi- 
cal and  professional  life,  have  to  undergo. 
The  knowledge  then  acquired  is  seldom  if 
ever  obliterated  from  the  mind,  except  by 
disease.  How  much  of  the  pure,  refined, 
and  elevated  mental  enjoyment  in  which 
men  of  education  luxuriously  revel  in  after- 
years  is  to  be  traced  to  that  period  when  they 
were  compelled  to  commit  to  memory,  often 
as  a  task,  but  more  frequently  as  a  part  of 
the  regular  curriculum  of  the  schools,  long 
and  brilliant  passages  from  illustrious  clas- 
sical authors?  Do  we  ever  regret,  when  our 
bark  is  being  tossed  upon  the  noisy  and  tem- 
pestuous ocean  of  life,  having  had  to  go 
through  such  an  intellectual  ordeal  ?  Is  not 
the  mind  thus  stored  with  an  imperishable 
knowledge  of  passages  from  the  poets,  ora- 
tors, and  historians  of  antiquity  full  of  ele- 
vated thoughts,  profound  wisdom,  exquisite 
imagery,  noble  and  magnanimous  senti- 
ments? 

It  would  be  absurd  to  undervalue  a  system 
of  educational  discipline  productive  of  such 
obvious  advantages.  My  animadversions 
are  directed  against  the  too  exclusive  culti- 
vation and  undue  straining  of  the  memory. 
We  are  disposed  to  forget  that  there  are 
higher  and  more  exalted  mental  faculties 
that  require  to  be  carefully  expanded  and 
fortified  before  the  mind  is  fitted  to  enter  into 
the  great  arena  of  life,  and  qualified  to  con- 


tend successfully  in  its  many  battles,  strug- 
gles, and  trials. 

Before  concluding  this  subject,  I  would 
briefly  address  myself  to  the  consideration 
of  two  important  questions  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  interesting  facts  previously 
discussed,  viz. : 

1.  At  what  particular  period  of  life  does  1h  e 
intellect  begin  to  decline,  and  when,  as  a  gcn- 
eral  rule,  is  first  observed  the  commencement 
of  aninsenescence  of  theintellectual  principle? 

2.  Is  great  strength  of  memory  often  associ- 
ated with  limited  powers  of  judgment   and 
reasoning,  and  conjoined  with  a  low  order  of 
intelligence? 

"  In  old  persons,"  says  Cabanis,  "  the 
feebleness  of  the  brain,  and  of  those  func- 
tions which  originate  therein,  give  to  their 
determination  the  same  mobility,  the  same 
characteristic  uncertainty,  which  they  pos- 
sess during  childhood  ;  in  fact,  the  two  con- 
ditions closely  resemble  each  other."  The 
Professor  of  Physiology  at  the  University  of 
Montpellier,  Dr.  I.ordat,  denies  the  truth  of 
this  aphorism,  and  terms  it  a  "  popular  de- 
lusion." This  able  physiologist  and  philoso- 
pher maintains  that  it  is  the  vital,  not  the 
intellectual,  principle  that  is  seen  to  wane  as 
old  age  throws  its  autumnal  tinge  over  the 
green  foliage  of  life.  "  It  is  not  true,"  he 
says,  "  that  the  intellect  becomes  weaker 
after  the  vital  force  has  passed  its  culmi- 
nating point.  The  understanding  acquires 
more  strength  during  the  first  half  of  that 
period  which  is  designated  as  old  age.  It  is 
impossible,"  he  says,  "  to  assign  any  period 
of  existence  at  which  the  reasoning  powers 
suffer  deterioration."  Numerous  illustra- 
tions are  adduced  to  establish  that  senescence 
of  the  intelligence  is  not  isochronous  with 
that  of  the  vital  force. 

The  conversation  of  the  celebrated  com- 
poser, Cherubini,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  is 
said  to  have  been  as  brilliant  as  during  the 
meridian  of  his  existence.  Gossec  com  posed 
a  Te  Deum  when  at  the  age  of  seventy-eight. 
Corneille,  when  seventy  years  of  age,  ex- 
hibited no  decay  of  intellect,  judging  from 
his  poetic  address  to  the  king.  M.  des  Quen- 
sounnieres,  the  accomplished  poet,  at  the 
advanced  age  of  one  hundred  and  sixteen, 
was  full  of  vivacity,  and  fully  capable  of 
sustaining  a  lively  and  intelligent  conversa- 
tion. M.  Leroy,  of  Rambouillet,  at  the  age 
of  one  hundred,  composed  a  remarkably 
beautiful  and  spirited  poem.  Abbe  Taublet, 
when  speaking  of  the  intellect  of  Fontenelle 
when  far  advanced  in  life,  says,  "  His  intel- 
lectual faculties,  with  the  exception  of  a 
slight  defect  of  memory,  had  preserved  their 
integrity  in  spite  of  corporeal  debility.  His 
thoughts  were  elevated,  his  expressions  fin- 
ished, his  answers  quick  and  to  the  point 


GEORGE  SHARSWOOD. 


483 


his  reasoning  powers  accurate  and  pro- 
found." Cardinal  de  Fleury  was  Prime 
Minister  of  France  from  the  age  of  seventy 
to  ninety.  At  the  age  of  eighty  Fontenelle 
asked  permission,  on  the  ground  of  physical 
infirmity,  to  retire  from  the  post  of  per- 
petual secretary  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences. 
The  prime  minister  refused  the  request. 
Three  years  subsequently  Fontenelle  again 
expressed  a  wish  to  resign  office.  "  You  are 
an  indolent,  lazy  fellow,"  writes  the  Car- 
dinal ;  "  but  I  suppose  we  must  occasionally 
indulge  such  characters."  Voltaire,  when 
at  the  age  of  eighty-four,  came  to  Paris, 
agreeably  to  his  own  language,  "to  seek  a 
triumph  and  to  find  a  tomb"  liichelieu  died 
at  the  age  of  ninety-three,  full  of  mental 
vigour.  A  few  minutes  before  his  death, 
his  daughter-in-law,  wishing  to  encourage 
him,  said,  "  You  are  not  so  ill  as  you  would 
wish  us  to  believe  ;  your  countenance  is 
charming."  "  What!"  said  he,  with  the  ut- 
most vivacity,  and  full  of  wit  and  humour, 
"  has  my  face  been  converted  into  a  mirror?''1 
On  Obscure  Diseases  of  the  Brain, 


GEORGE  SHARSWOOD,  LL.D., 

born  in  Philadelphia,  1810,  graduated  at  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania,  1828,  admitted 
to  the  Philadelphia  bar,  1831,  Judge  of  the 
District  Court  of  Penna.,  1845,  and  Presi- 
dent Judge  from  1851  until  Dec.  1867,  when 
he  took  his  seat  as  an  Associate  Justice  in 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State ;  Professor 
of  Law  in  the  University  of  Penna.,  1850 
et  seq.;  for  three  years  a  member  of  the 
Penna.  Legislature.  Professional  Ethics, 
Phila.,  1854,  8vo,  3d  edit,  1869.  12mo;  Pop- 
ular Lectures  on  Common  Law,  1856,  12mo. 
Edited:  Blackstone's  Commentaries,  Byles 
on  Bills  of  Exchange,  Coote  on  Mortgages, 
English  Common  Law  Reports,  Laws  of  the 
United  States,  vols.  iv.  and  v.  (in  continua- 
tion of  Story),  Leigh's  Nisi  Prius,  Roscoe  on 
Criminal  Evidence,  Russell  on  Crimes,  Smith 
(J.  W.)  on  Contracts,  Starkie  on  Evidence, 
Stephens' s  Nisi  Prius. 

LAW  STUDIES. 

It  is  proposed  to  present  a  few  considera- 
tions upon  the  proper  mode  of  training  for 
the  practice  of  the  profession  of  the  law  in 
this  country.  They  will  be  altogether  of  a 
practical  character. 

The  bar  in  the  United  States  is  open  to  .all 
who  wish  to  enter  it.  It  is  mostly  under  the 
regulation  of  the  various  courts,  and  their 
rules  have  been  framed  upon  the  most  liberal 
principles.  Generally  a  certain  period  of 


study  has  been  prescribed,  never,  it  is  be- 
lieved, exceeding  three  years.  In  some 
States,  however,  even  this  restriction  is  not 
found.  The  applicant  for  admission  is  ex- 
amined, as  to  his  knowledge  and  qualifica- 
tions, either  by  the  courts  or  by  a  committee 
of  members  of  the  bar. 

The  profession  is  the  avenue  to  political 
honours  and  influence.  Those  who  attain 
eminence  in  it  are  largely  rewarded,  and, 
with  ordinary  prudence,  cannot  fail  to  accu- 
mulate a  handsome  competence.  Hence  the 
young  and  ambitious  are  found  crowding 
into  it. 

There  is  a  great — perhaps  an  overdue — 
haste  in  American  youth  to  enter  upon  the 
active  and  stirring  scenes  of  life.  Hence  it 
is  undoubtedly  true  that  many  men  are  to 
be  found  in  the  ranks  of  the  profession  with- 
out adequate  preparation.  Very  often  the 
difficulties  presented  by  the  want  of  a  suit- 
able education  are  overcome  by  native  en- 
ergy, application,  and  perseverance;  but 
more  commonly  they  prevent  permanent 
success,  and  confine  the  unlettered  advocate 
to  the  lower  walks  of  the  profession,  which 
promise  neither  profit  nor  honour.  Unless  in 
cases  of  extraordinary  enthusiasm  and  where 
there  are  evident  marks  of  bright,  natural 
talents,  a  young  man  without  the  advantages 
of  education  should  be  discouraged  from 
corrnnencing  the  study  of  the  law.  Not 
that  a  collegiate  or  classical  course  of  train- 
ing should  be  insisted  on  as  essential, — 
although  it  is  doubtless  of  the  highest  im- 
portance. Classical  studies  are  especially 
calculated  to  exercise  the  mental  faculties  in 
habits  of  close  investigation  and  searching 
analysis,  as  well  as  to  form  the  taste  upon 
models  of  the  purest  eloquence.  The  ora- 
tors and  historians  of  Greece  and  of  Rome 
are  a  school  in  which  exalted  patriotism, 
high-toned  moral  feeling,  and  a  generous 
enthusiasm  can  be  most  successfully  culti- 
vated. With  a  good  English  education,  how- 
ever, many  a  man  has  made  a  respectable 
figure  at  the  bar. 

Lord  Campbell  has  said  that  "he  who  is 
not  a  good  lawyer  before  he  comes  to  the 
liar  will  never  be  a  good  one  after  it."  It 
is,  no  doubt,  highly  necessary  that  the  years 
of  preparation  should  be  years  of  earnest, 
diligent  study  ;  but  it  is  entirely  too  much 
to  say,  with  us,  that  a  course  of  three  years' 
reading,  at  so  early  a  stage,  will  make  a  good 
lawyer.  In  truth,  the  most  important  part 
of  every  lawyer's  education  begins  with  his 
admission  to  practice.  He  that  ceases  then 
to  follow  a  close  and  systematical  course  of 
reading,  although  he  may  succeed  in  acquir- 
ing a  considerable  amount  of  practical  knowl- 
edge, from  the  necessity  he  will  be  under  of 
investigating  different  questions,  yet  it  will 


484 


GEORGE  SHARSWOOD. 


not  be  of  that  deep-laid  character  necessary 
to  sustain  him  in  every  emergency.  It  may 
be  safe,  then,  to  divide  the  period  of  a  law- 
yer's preparation  into  first,  a  course  of  two 
or  three  years'  reading  before  his  admission, 
and,  second,  one  of  five  or  seven  years'  close 
and  continued  application  after  that  event. 

At  the  commencement  of  his  studies  in 
the  office  of  his  legal  preceptor,  the  cardinal 
maxim  by  which  he  should  be  governed  in 
his  reading  should  be  non  multa,  sed  multum. 
Indeed,  it  was  an  observation  of  Lord  Mans- 
field, that  the  quantity  of  professional  read- 
ing absolutely  necessary,  or  even  useful,  to 
a  lawyer,  was  not  so  great  as  was  usually 
imagined.  The  Commentaries  of  Black- 
stone  and  of  Chancellor  Kent  should  be  read, 
and  read  again  and  again.  The  elementary 
principles  so  well  and  elegantly  presented 
and  illustrated  in  these  two  justly-celebrated 
works  should  be  rendered  familiar.  They 
form,  too,  a  general  plan  or  outline  of  the 
science,  by  which  the  student  will  be  able  to 
arrange  and  systematize  all  his  subsequent 
acquisitions.  To  these  may  be  added  a  few 
books  of  a  more  practical  cast;  such  as  Tidd's 
Practice,  Stephen  on  Pleading,  GreenleaPs 
Evidence,  Stephens's  or  Leigh's  Nisi  Prius, 
Mitford's  or  Story's  Equity  Pleading,  which, 
with  such  reading  of  the  local  law  of  the 
State  in  which  he  purposes  to  settle  as  may 
be  necessary  to  make  up  the  best  part  of 
office-reading.  It  will  be  better  to  have  well 
mastered  thus  much  than  to  have  run  over 
three  times  as  many  books  hastily  and  super- 
ficially. Let  the  student  often  stop  and  ex- 
amine himself  upon  what  he  has  read.  It 
would  be  an  excellent  mode  of  proceeding 
for  him,  after  having  read  a  lecture  or  chap- 
ter, to  lay  aside  the  book  and  endeavour  to 
commit  the  substance  of  it  to  writing,  trust- 
ing entirely  to  his  memory  for  the  matter, 
and  using  his  own  language.  After  having 
done  this,  let  him  reperuse  the  section,  by 
which  he  will  not  only  discern  what  parts 
have  escaped  his  memory,  but  the  whole  will 
be  more  certainly  impressed  upon  his  mind, 
and  become  incorporated  with  it  as  if  it  had 
been  originally  his  own  work.  Let  him  cul- 
tivate intercourse  with  others  pursuing  the 
same  studies,  and  converse  frequently  upon 
the  subject  of  their  reading.  The  biographer 
of  Lord  Keeper  North  has  recorded  of  him 
that  "he  fell  into  the  way  of  putting  cases 
(as  they  call  it),  which  much  improved  him, 
and  he  was  most  sensible  of  the  benefit  of 
discourse:  for  I  have  observed  him  often  say 
that  (after  his  day's  reading)  at  his  night's 
congress  with  his  professional  friends,  what- 
ever the  subject  was,  he  made  it  the  subject 
of  discourse  in  the  company;  for,  said  he,  I 
read  many  things  which  I  am  sensible  I  for- 
get;  but  I  found,  withal,  that  if  I  had  once 


talked  over  what  I  had  read,  I  never  forgot 
that." 

Much,  of  course,  will  depend  upon  what 
may  be  termed  the  mental  temperament  of 
the  student  himself,  which  no  one  can  so 
well  observe  as  his  immediate  preceptor; 
and  he  will  be  governed  accordingly  in  the 
selection  of  the  works  to  be  placed  in  his 
hands  and  his  general  course  of  training. 
No  lawyer  does  his  duty  who  does  not  fre- 
quently examine  his  student, — not  merely  as 
an  important  means  of  exciting  him  to  atten- 
tion and  application,  but  in  order  to  acquire 
such  an  acquaintance  with  the  character  of 
his  pupil's  mind — its  quickness  or  slowness, 
its  concentrativeness  or  discursiveness — as 
to  be  able  to  form  a  judgment  as  to  whether 
he  requires  the  curb  or  the  spur.  It  is  an 
inestimable  advantage  to  a  young  man  to 
have  a  judicious  and  experienced  friend 
watching  anxiously  his  progress,  and  com- 
petent to  direct  him  when,  if  he  is  left  to 
himself,  he  will  most  probably  wander  in 
darkness  and  danger. 

In  regard  to  the  more  thorough  and  ex- 
tended course  of  reading  which  may  and 
ought  to  be  prosecuted  after  admission  to  the 
bar,  the  remarks  of  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished men  who  have  ever  graced  the 
American  bar,  whose  own  example  has  en- 
forced and  illustrated  their  value,  may  be 
commended  to  the  serious  consideration  of 
the  student.  "  There  are  two  very  different 
methods  of  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the 
laws  of  England,"  says  Horace  Binney  (art. 
Edward  Tilghman,  Encyclopedia  Americana, 
vol.  xiv.),  "and  by  each  of  them  men  have 
succeeded  in  public  estimation  to  an  almost 
equal  extent.  One  of  them,  which  may  be 
called  the  old  way,  is  a  methodical  study  of 
the  general  system  of  law,  and  of  its  grounds 
and  reasons,  beginning  with  the  fundamental 
law  of  estates  and  tenures,  and  pursuing  the 
derivative  branches  in  logical  succession,  and 
the  collateral  subjects  in  due  order,  by  which 
the  student  acquires  a  knowledge  of  princi- 
ples that  rule  in  all  departments  of  the 
science,  and  learns  to  feel,  as  much  as  to 
know,  what  is  in  harmony  with  the  system 
and  what  riot.  The  other  is  to  get  an  out- 
line of  the  system  by  the  aid  of  commenta- 
ries, and  to  fill  it  up  by  desultory  reading 
of  treatises  and  reports,  according  to  the 
bent  of  the  student,  without  much  shape  or 
certainty  in  the  knowledge  so  acquired,  until 
it  is  given  by  investigation  in  the  courts 
of  practice.  A  good  deal  of  law  may  be 
put  together  by  a  facile  or  flexible  man  in 
the  second  of  these  modes,  and  the  public 
are  often  satisfied ;  but  the  profession 
itself  knows  the  first,  by  its  fruits,  to  be 
the  most  effectual  way  of  making  a  great 
lawyer." 


GEORGE  SHARSWOOD. 


485 


Under  this  view,  the  following  course  of 
reading  may  be  pursued.  The  whole  sub- 
ject is  divided  into  heads,  and  the  order  of 
proceeding  is  suggested.  All  the  books 
named  may  not  be  within  the  student's 
reach  :  some  may  be  omitted,  or  others  may 
be  substituted.  It  may,  however,  be  some- 
what irksome  to  pursue  any  one  branch  for 
too  long  a  period  unvaried.  When  that  is 
found  to  be  the  case,  the  last  five  heads  may 
be  adopted  as  collateral  studies,  and  pursued 
simultaneously  with  the  first  three. 

I.  REAL  ESTATE  AND  EQUITY. — Hale's  His- 
tory of  the  Common  Law.    Reeves' s  History 
of  the  English  Law.      Robertson's  Charles 
V.     Hallntu'a  Middle  Ages.     Dalrymple  on 
Feudal    Property.       Wright     on    Tenures. 
Finch's  Law.     Doctor  and  Student.     Little- 
ton's Tenures.     Coke  upon  Littleton.    Pres- 
ton on  Estates.     Fearne  on  Contingent  Re- 
mainders.    Sheppard's    Touchstone.     Pres- 
ton on  Abstracts.    Preston  on  Conveyancing. 
Jeremy   on  Equity.     Story's  Equity  Juris- 
prudence.   Powell  on  Mortgages.    Bacon  on 
Uses.    Sanders  on  Uses  and  Trusts.    Sugden 
on  Powers.     Sugden  on  Vendors  and  Pur- 
chasers.    Powell   on    Devises.     Jarman   on 
Wills. 

II.  PRACTICE,  PLEADING,  AND   EVIDENCE. 
— Sellon's  Practice.     Tidd's  Practice.     Ste- 
phen   on    Pleading.     Williams's    Saunders. 
Greenleaf  on   Evidence.     Mitford's   Equity 
Pleading.     Barton's  Suit  in  Equity.     New- 
land's  Chancery.      Gresley  on  Equity  Evi- 
dence. 

III.  CRIMES    AXD    FORFEITURES. — Ilale's 
Pleas  of  the  Crown.     Foster's  Crown  Law. 
Yorke   on    Forfeiture.      Coke's    Institutes, 
Part    III.    Russell   on  Crimes   and   Misde- 
meanors.     Roscoe   on   Criminal   Evidence. 
Chitty  on  Criminal  Law. 

IV.  NATURAL  AND  INTERNATIONAL   LAW. 
— Burlamaqui's  Natural  and  Political  Law. 
Grotius  de  Jure  Belli  et  Pacis.  Rutherforth's 
Institutes.    Vattel's  Law  of  Nations.     Byn- 
kershoeck's  Questiones  Publici  Juris.     Wic- 
quefort's   Ambassador.      Bynkershoeck    de 
Foro  Legatorum.     Mackintosh's  Discourse. 
Wheaton's  History  of  International    Law. 
Robinson's   Admiralty    Reports.     Cases    in 
the  Supreme  Court  U.  S.     Dunlap's  Admi- 
ralty Practice. 

V.  CONSTITUTIONAL   LAW. — Coke's   Insti- 
tutes,   Part    II.      Hallam's   Constitutional 
History.     Wynne's   Eunomus.     De   Lolme, 
with  Stephens's  Introduction.    The  Federal- 
ist.    Rawle  on  the  Constitution.     Story  on 
the  Constitution.     Baldwin's  Constitutional 
Views.    Upshur's  Brief  Enquiry.    Calhoun's 
Works,  vol.  i.    All  the  Cases  on  the  Subject 
in  the  S.  C.  U.  S. 

VI.  CIVIL  LAW. — Butler's  Ilorae  Juridicae. 
Gibbon's  History  of  the  Rise  and  Fall,  chap. 


44.  Justinian's  Institutes.  Taylor's  Ele- 
ments. Mackeldy's  Compendium.  Col- 
quhoun's  Summary.  Domat's  Civil  Law. 
Savigny's  Histoire  du  Droit  Romain.  Sa- 
vigny's  Traite  du  Droit  Romain. 

VII.  PERSONS  AND  PERSONAL   PROPERTY. 
— Reeves  on  Domestic  Relations.     Bingham 
on  Infancy  and  Coverture.     Roper  on  Hus- 
band and  Wife.     Angell  and  Ames  on  Cor- 
porations.     Pothier's   Works.      Smith    on 
Contracts.     Jones  on  Bailments.     Story  on 
Bailments.     Story  on  Partnerships.     Byles 
on  Bills.    Abbot  on  Shipping.     Duer  on  In- 
surance.    Emerigon  Traite  des  Assurances. 
Boulay-Paty  Cours  de   Droit   Commercial. 
Story  on  the  Conflict  of  Laws. 

VIII.  EXECUTORS    AND    ADMINISTRATORS. 
— Roper  on  Legacies.     Toller  on  Executors. 
Williams   on  Executors.      Lovelass's   Law 
Disposal. 

Very  few  Report  books  are  set  down  in 
this  list  as  to  be  read  in  course.  In  his  reg- 
ular reading,  the  student  should  constantly, 
where  it  is  in  his  power,  resort  to  and  ex- 
amine the  leading  cases  referred  to  and  com- 
mented upon  by  his  authors.  In  this  way 
he  will  read  them  more  intelligently,  and 
they  will  be  better  impressed  upon  his 
memory. 

It  is  believed  that  the  course  thus  sketched, 
if  steadily  and  laboriously  pursued,  will 
make  a  very  thorough  lawyer.  There  is 
certainly  nothing  in  the  plan  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  young  man  with  industry  and 
application,  in  a  period  of  from  five  to  seven 
years,  with  a  considerable  allowance  for  the 
interruptions  of  business  and  relaxation. 
He  must  have,  however,  certain  fixed  and 
regular  hours  for  his  law-studies,  and  he 
must  not  suffer  the  charms  of  a  light  litera- 
ture to  allure  him  aside.  The  fruits  of 
study  cannot  be  gathered  without  its  toil. 
In  the  law,  a  young  man  must  be  the  archi- 
tect of  his  own  character,  as  well  as  of  his 
fortune.  "  The  profession  of  the  law,"  says 
Mr.  Ritso,  "  is  that,  of  all  others,  which  im- 
poses the  most  extensive  obligations  upon 
those  who  have  had  the  confidence  to  make 
choice  of  it;  and,  indeed,  there  is  no  other 
path  of  life  in  which  the  unassumed  supe- 
riority of  individual  merit  is  more  conspicu- 
ously distinguished  according  to  the  respec- 
tive abilities  of  the  parties.  The  laurels 
that  grow  within  these  precincts  are  to  be 
gathered  with  no  vulgar  hands  :  they  resist 
the  unhallowed  grasp,  like  the  golden  branch 
with  which  the  hero  of  the  ^Eneid  threw 
open  the  adamantine  gates  that  led  to  Ely- 
sium.'' 

Sharswood's  edition  of  Blackstone1  s  Com- 
mentaries, Vol.  i.,  Inirod.,  Sect.  /.,  On 
the  Study  of  the  Law,  p.  37,  Phila., 
1859. 


486 


ELIHU  BURRITT. 


ELIHU    BURRITT, 

best  known  as  "  The  Learned  Blacksmith," 
born  in  New  Britain,  Connecticut,  1811,  and 
apprenticed  to  a  blacksmith  about  1827, 
varied  the  labours  of  the  forge  by  learning 
languages;  in  1846  went  to  England,  where 
he  formed  "The  League  of  Universal  Broth- 
erhood," whose  object  was  "  to  employ  all 
legitimate  means  for  the  abolition  of  war 
throughout  the  world,"  and  was  proprietor 
and  editor  of  The  Peace  Advocate ;  laboured 
zealously  for  the  promotion  of  temperance, 
cheap  ocean-postage,  the  abolition  of  Amer- 
ican slavery,  and  in  peace  congresses,  re- 
turning to  America,  after  serving  for  some 
years  as  United  States  Consul  at  Birming- 
ham, in  1853;  died  1879. 

Mr.  Burritt  studied,  with  more  or  less  thor- 
oughness, the  following  languages,  inter 
alia:  Amharic,  Arabic,  Basque,  Bohemian, 
Breton-Celto,  Chaldaic,  Cornish,  Danish, 
Dutch,  Ethiopic,  Flemish,  French,  Gaelic, 
German,  Greek,  Hebrew,  Hindustani,  Hun- 
garian, Icelandic,  Irish,  Latin,  Manx,  Per- 
sian, Polish,  Portuguese,  Russian,  Samar- 
itan, Sanskrit,  Spanish,  Swedish,  Syriac, 
Turkish,  Welsh. 

Periodicals  and  books  published  by  Elihu 
Burritt : 

The  Literary  Geminae,  monthly,  English 
and  French,  Worcester,  Mass.,  1841  ;  The 
Christian  Citizen,  weekly,  AVorcester,  Mass., 
1841-51  ;  Bond  of  Brotherhood,  monthly, 
England,  1846-68;  Sparks  from  the  Anvil, 
England,  1847,  new  edit.,  Lond.,  1864, 
12mo;  Voice  from  the  Forge,  1848;  Miscel- 
laneous Works,  Lond.,  1848,  J6mo;  Citizen 
of  the  World,  Phila.,  1850 ;  Year  Book  of 
Nations,  England,  1851  et  seq. ;  North  and 
South,  weekly,  New  Britain,  Conn.,  1855; 
Thoughts  and  Things  at  Home  and  Abroad, 
Bost.,  1854;  Compensated  Emancipation, 
1856,  pamphlet ;  Walk  from  London  to  John 
O'Groat's,  Lond.,  1864,  8vo,  1864,  12mo; 
Walk  from  London  to  Land's  End  and  Back, 
1865;  Walks  in  the  Black  Country  and  its 
Green  Border-land,  1866;  Old  Burchell's 
Pocket  for  the  Children,  1866;  Lectures 
and  Speeches,  1866  ;  The  Mission  of  Great 
Sufferings,  1867;  Jacob  and  Joseph,  1867; 
Information  for  English  Emigrants  to  Amer- 
ica, 1868  ;  Fireside  Words,  monthly,  Eng- 
land, 1868  ;  Prayers  and  Devotional  Medi- 
tations from  the  Psalms,  New  York,  1869, 
12mo;  Voice  from  the  Bnck  Pews  to  the 
Pulpit  and  Front  Seats,  1872  (anon.) ;  Chil- 
dren of  the  Bible,  1873;  Ten  Minute  Talks 
with  Autobiography,  Bost..  1873,  12mo; 
Bible  Subject  Readings,  1873  (in  MS.) ;  In- 
troduction to  An  English  Woman's  Work 
among  Workingmen,  by  Ellicft  Hopkins, 
Phila.,  Amer.  S.  School  Union,  1874,  12mo ; 


Sanskrit  Hand-Book  for  the  Fireside,  Hart- 
ford, 1874;  Hindustani  Hand-Book,  1875 
(in  MS.);  Persian  Hand-Book,  1876  (in 
MS.) ;  Turkish  Hand-Book,  1876  (in  MS.) ; 
Arabic  Hand-Book,  1877  (in  MS.)  :  Hebrew 
Hand-Book,  1877  (in  MS.) ;  History  of  the 
Farmington  Family  of  Towns,  1877  (in 
MS.)  ;  Chips  from  Many  Blocks,  Toronto, 
1878.  Also  The  Proposition  of  a  Universal 
Ocean  Penny  Postage,  n.  d.,  8vo,  pp.  4, 
Papers  for  the  People,  contributions  to 
American  Eclectic  Review,  etc.  Such  phi- 
lanthropists are  worthy  of  all  honour. 

ONE  NICHE  THE  HIGHEST. 

The  scene  opens  with  a  view  of  the  great 
Natural  Bridge  in  Virginia.  There  are 
three  or  four  lads  standing  in  the  channel 
below,  looking  up  with  awe  to  that  vast 
arch  of  unhewn  rocks,  which  the  Almighty 
bridged  over  those  everlasting  butments, 
"when  the  morning  stars  sang  together." 
The  little  piece  of  sky  spanning  those  meas- 
ureless piers  is  full  of  stars,  although  it  is 
mid-day.  It  is  almost  five  hundred  feet  from 
where  they  stand,  up  those  perpendicular 
bulwarks  of  limestone  to  the  key  of  that 
vast  arch,  which  appears  to  them  only  the 
size  of  a  man's  hand.  The  silence  of  death 
is  rendered  more  impressive  by  the  little 
stream  that  falls  from  rock  to  rock  down  the 
channel.  The  sun  is  darkened,  and  the  boys 
have  uncovered  their  heads,  as  if  standing 
in  the  presence  chamber  of  the  Majesty  of 
the  whole  earth.  At  last  this  feeling  begins 
to  wear  away;  they  look  around  them,  and 
find  that  others  have  been  there  before  them. 
They  see  the  names  of  hundreds  cut  in  the 
limestone  butments.  A  new  feeling  comes 
over  their  young  hearts,  and  their  knives 
are  in  their  hands  in  an  instant.  "What 
man  has  done,  man  can  do,"  is  their  watch- 
word, while  they  draw  themselves  up,  and 
carve  their  names  a  foot  above  those  of  a 
hundred  full-grown  men  who  have  been 
there  before  them. 

They  are  all  satisfied  with  this  feat  of 
physical  exertion,  except  one,  whose  exam- 
ple illustrates  perfectly  the  forgotten  truth, 
that  "there  is  no  royal  road  to  learning." 
This  ambitious  youth  sees  a  name  just  above 
his  reach, — a  name  which  will  be  green  in 
the  memory  of  the  world  when  those  of 
Alexander,  Caesar,  and  Bonaparte  shall  rot 
in  oblivion.  It  was  the  name  of  Washing- 
ton. Before  he  inarched  with  Braddock  to 
that  fatal  field  he  had  been  there  and  left 
his  name  a  foot  above  any  of  his  predeces- 
sors. It  was  a  glorious  thought  to  write  hia 
name  side  by  side  with  that  great  father  of 
his  country.  He  grasps  his  knife  with  a 
firmer  hand,  and  clinging  to  a  little  jutting 


ELIHU  BURRITT. 


487 


crag  he  cuts  agsiin  into  the  limestone,  about 
a  foot  above  where  he  stands ;  he  then 
reaches  up  and  cuts  another  for  his  hands. 
'Tis  a  dangerous  adventure  ;  but  as  he  puts 
his  feet  and  hands  into  those  gains,  and 
draws  himself  up  carefully  to  his  full  length, 
he  finds  himself  a  foot  above  every  name 
chronicled  in  that  mighty  wall.  While  his 
companions  are  regarding  him  with  concern 
and  admiration,  he  cuts  his  name  in  wide 
capitals,  large  and  deep,  in  that  flinty  album. 
His  knife  is  still  in  his  hand,  and  strength 
in  his  sinews,  and  a  now  created  aspiration 
in  his  heart.  Again  he  cuts  another  niche, 
and  again  he  carves  his  name  in  large  cap- 
itals. This  is  not  enough  :  heedless  of  the 
entreaties  of  his  companions,  he  cuts  and 
climbs  again.  The  gradations  of  his  ascend- 
ing scale  grow  wider  apart.  He  measures 
his  length  at  every  gain  he  cuts.  The  voices 
of  his  friends  wax  weaker  and  weaker,  till 
their  words  are  finally  lost  on  his  ear.  He 
now  for  the  first  time  casts  a  look  beneath 
him.  Had  that  glance  lasted  a  moment, 
that  moment  would  have  been  his  last.  He 
clings  with  a  convulsive  shudder  to  his  lit- 
tle niche  in  the  rock.  An  awful  abyss 
awaits  his  almost  certain  fall.  He  is  faint 
with  severe  exertion,  and  trembling  from 
the  sudden  view  of  the  dreadful  destruction 
to  which  he  is  exposed.  His  knife  is  worn 
half-way  to  the  haft.  lie  can  hear  the  voices, 
but  not  the  words  of  his  terror-stricken  com- 
panions below!  What  a  moment!  what  a 
meagre  chance  to  escape  destruction  !  There 
is  no  retracing  his  steps.  It  is  impossible 
to  put  his  hands  into  the  same  niche  with 
his  feet,  and  retain  his  slender  hold  a  mo- 
ment. His  companions  instantly  perceive 
this  new  and  fearful  dilemma,  and  await 
his  fall  with  emotions  that  "  freeze  their 
young  blood."  He  is  too  high  to  ask  for 
bis  father  and  mother,  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, to  come  and  witness  or  avert  his  de- 
struction. But  one  of  his  companions  an- 
ticipates his  desire.  Swift  as  the  wind  he 
bounds  down  the  channel,  and  the  situation 
of  the  fated  boy  is  told  upon  his  father's 
hearthstone. 

Minutes  of  almost  eternal  length  roll  on, 
and  there  are  hundreds  standing  in  that 
rocky  channel,  and  hundreds  on  the  bridge 
above,  all  holding  their  breath,  and  await- 
ing the  fearful  catastrophe.  The  poor  boy 
hears  the  hum  of  new  and  numerous  voices 
both  above  and  below.  He  can  just  distin- 
guish the  tones  of  his  father,  who  is  shout- 
ing with  all  the  energy  of  despair, — "Wil- 
liam! William!  Don't  look  down !  Your 
mother,  and  Henry,  and  Harriet,  are  all 
here  praying  for  you  !  Don't  look  down  ! 
Keep  your  eyes  towards  the  top  !"  The  boy 
didn't  look  down.  His  eye  is  fixed  like  a 


flint  towards  heaven,  and  his  young  heart 
on  him  who  reigns  there.  He  grasps  again 
his  knife.  He  cuts  another  niche,  and 
another  foot  is  added  to  the  hundreds  that 
remove  him  from  the  reach  of  human  help 
from  below !  How  carefully  he  uses  his 
wasting  blade !  How  anxiously  he  selects 
the  softest  places  in  that  vast  pier  !  How 
he  avoids  every  flinty  grain  !  How  he  econ- 
omizes his  physical  powers,  resting  a  mo- 
ment at  each  gain  he  cuts !  How  every 
motion  is  watched  from  below  !  There  stand 
his  father,  mother,  brother,  and  sister,  on 
the  very  spot  where,  if  he  falls,  he  will  not 
fall  alone. 

The  sun  is  half-way  down  in  the  west. 
The  lad  has  made  fifty  additional  niches  in 
that  mighty  wall,  and  now  finds  himself 
directly  under  the  middle  of  that  vast  arch 
of  rock,  earth,  and  trees.  He  must  cut  his 
way  in  a  new  direction,  to  get  from  this 
overhanging  mountain.  The  inspiration  of 
hope  is  in  his  bosom;  its  vital  heat  is  fed 
by  the  increasing  shout  of  hundreds  perched 
upon  cliffs,  trees,  and  others  who  stand  with 
ropes  in  their  hands  upon  the  bridge  above, 
or  with  ladders  below.  Fifty  more  gains 
must  be  cut  before  the  longest  rope  can 
reach  him.  His  wasting  blade  strikes  again 
into  the  limestone.  The  boy  is  emerging 
painfully  foot  by  foot  from  under  that  lofty 
arch.  Spliced  ropes  are  in  the  hands  oif 
those  who  are  leaning  over  the  outer  edge 
of  the  bridge.  Two  minutes  more,  and  all 
will  be  over.  That  blade  is  worn  to  the  last 
half  inch.  The  boy's  head  reels ;  his  eyes 
are  starting  from  their  sockets.  His  last 
hope  is  dying  in  his  heart,  his  life  must 
hang  upon  the  next  gain  he  cuts.  That 
niche  is  his  last.  At  the  last  flint  gash  he 
makes,  his  knife — his  faithful  knife — falls 
from  his  little  nerveless  hand  and,  ringing 
along  the  precipice,  falls  at  his  mother's 
feet.  An  involuntary  groan  of  despair  runs 
like  a  death-knell  through  the  channel  be- 
low, and  all  is  still  as  the  grave.  At  the 
height  of  nearly  three  hundred  feet,  the  de- 
voted boy  lifts  his  devoted  heart  and  closing 
eyes  to  commend  his  soul  to  God.  'Tis  but 
a  moment — there  !  one  foot  swings  off! — ho 
is  reeling,  trembling — toppling  over  into 
eternity  ! — Hark  ! — a  shout  falls  on  his  ears 
from  above  I  The  man  who  is  lying  with 
half  his  length  over  the  bridge  has  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  boy's  head  and  shoulders. 
Quick  as  thought,  the  noosed  rope  is  within 
reach  of  the  sinking  youth.  No  one  breathes. 
With  a  faint  convulsive  effort  the  swooning 
boy  drops  his  arm  into  the  noose.  Darkness 
comes  over  him,  and  with  the  words  "  God  !" 
and  "mother!"  whispered  on  his  lips  just 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  heaven, — the 
tightening  rope  lifts  him  out  of  his  last  shal- 


488 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


low  niche.  Not  a  lip  moves  while  he  is 
dangling  over  that  fearful  abyss  ;  but  when 
a  sturdy  Virginian  reaches  down  and  draws 
up  the  lad,  and  holds  him  up  in  his  arms 
before  the  tearful,  breathless  multitude — 
such  shouting!  and  such  leaping  and  weep- 
ing for  joy,  never  greeted  a  human  being 
so  recovered  from  the  yawning  gulf  of  eter- 
nity. 

Sparks  from  the  Anvil. 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE 
THACKERAY, 

an  eminent  English  novelist  and  essayist, 
was  born  at  Calcutta  in  1811  ;  came  in  boy- 
hood to  England,  and  was  educated  at  the 
Charter-House  School  and  at  the  University 
of  Cambridge  ;  studied  law  at  the  Middle 
Temple  (called  to  the  bar  1848),  and  art  at 
Home  and  other  schools  on  the  Continent ; 
found  dead  in  his  bed  December  24,  1863. 

Works:  Library  Edition,  London,  Smith, 
Elder  &  Co.,  1808-09,  also  1874,  22  vols. 
r.  cr.  8vo:  vol.  i.,  ii.,  Vanity  Fair;  iii.,  iv.. 
The  History  of  Pendennis  ;  v.,  vi.,  The  New- 
comes  ;  vii.,  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond  ; 
viii.,  ix.,  The  Virginians ;  x.,  xi.,  The  Ad- 
ventures of  Philip;  xii.,  The  Paris  Sketeh- 
Book  of  Mr.  M.  A.  Titmarsh,  and  the  Me- 
moirs of  Mr.  C.  J.  Yellowplush  ;  xiii.,  The 
Memoirs  of  Barry  Lyndon,  Esq.,  Written  by 
Himself,  with  The  History  of  Samuel  Tit- 
marsh  and  the  Great  Iloggarty  Diamond  ; 
xiv.,  The  Irish  Sketch-Book,  and  Notes  of  a 
Journey  from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo;  xv., 
The  Book  of  Snobs,  Sketches  and  Travels 
in  London,  and  Character  Sketches;  xvi., 
Burlesques:  Novels  by  Eminent  Hands, 
Adventures  of  Major  Gahagan,  Jeames's 
Diary,  A  Legend  of  the  Rhine,  Rebecca  and 
Rowena,  The  History  of  the  Next  French 
Revolution.  Cox's  Diary ;  xvii.,  Christmas 
Books  of  M.  A.  Titmarsh  :  Mrs.  Perkins's 
Ball.  Dr.  Birch,  Our  Street,  The  Kickle- 
Luryson  the  Rhine.  The  Rose  and  the  Ring; 
xviii.,  Ballads  and  Tales;  xix.,  The  Four 
Georges,  The  English  Humourists  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century ;  xx.,  Roundabout  Pa- 
pers, The  Second  Funeral  of  Napoleon ; 
xxi.,  Denis  Duval,  Lovel  the  Widower,  and 
other  Stories;  xxii.,  Catherine,  a  Story, 
Little  Travels,  and  The  Fitzboodle  Papers. 

Also  Popular  Edition,  Smith,  Elder  &  Co., 
12  vols.  cr.  8vo.  Works,  New  York,  Harper 
Brothers,  1809,  6  vols.  8vo.  Works,  New 
York,  D.  Appleton  &  Co  ,  1809-70,  12  vols. 
Works,  Household  Edition,  Boston,  Fields, 
Osgood  &  Co.,  1869,  0  vols.  IGmo,  and  Mis- 
cellanies, 1869-70,  5  vols.  16mo.  He  edited 
The  Cornhill  Magazine  from  its  commence- 
ment, Jan.  1800  until  April,  1802. 


"In  his  subtle,  spiritual  ana'ysis  of  men  and 
women,  as  we  see  them  and  live  with  them;  in 
his  power  of  detecting  the  enduring  passions  and 
desires,  the  strengths,  the  weaknesses,  and  the 
deceits  of  the  race,  from  under  the  mask  of  ordi- 
nary worldly  and  town  life, — milking  a  d;indy  or 
a  dancing  girl  as  real,  as  '  moving,  delicate,  and 
full  of  life,'  as  the  most  heroic  incarnations  of 
good  and  evil ;  in  his  vitality  and  yet  lightness  of 
handling,  doing  it  once  and  forever,  and  never  a 
touch  too  little  or  too  much, — in  these  respects  he 
stood  and  stands  alone  and  matchless." — DR.  JOHN 
BROWN,  author  of  "  Rab  and  his  Friends,"  etc. 

"  Mr.  Thackeray  takes  the  satirical,  the  merely 
worldly,  view  of  life  and  society;  he  can  take  no 
other.  His  characters  are  compounded  of  many 
vices  and  few  if  any  virtues;  or,  if  the  virtues 
predominate,  the  result  is  a  fool.  He  has  never 
drawn  a  true  and  dignified  woman,  nor  a  gentle- 
man of  the  highest  type.  He  has  no  conception 
of  that  simplicity  in  which  nobleness  of  nature 
most  largely  consists." — PRESIDENT  C.  C.  FELTON, 
of  Harvard  University:  N.  Amer.  Itevicw,  Oct. 
I860,  580  (Everett's  Lite  of  Washington).  See  also 
J.  T.  Fielda' »  yesterdays  with  Authors,  Bost.,  1862, 
Svo,  and  Tlinekeraynna,  Lond.,  1875,  cr.  8vo. ;  Se- 
lections from  the  Correspondence  of  the  Late  Mac- 
vey  Napier,  £nq.,  Lond.,  1879,  Svo. 

THE  BEST  ENGLISH  PEOPLE. 

Before  long.  Becky  received  not  only 
"  the  best"  foreigners  (as  the  phrase  is  in 
our  noble  and  admirable  society  slang),  but 
some  of  the  best  English  people  too.  I 
don't  mean  the  most  virtuous,  or  indeed 
the  least  virtuous,  or  the  cleverest,  or  the 
stupidest,  or  the  richest,  or  the  best  born, 
but  ''the  best," — in  a  word,  people  about 
whom  there  is  no  question, — such  as  the 
great  Lady  Fitz-Willis,  that  patron  saint  of 
Almack's,  the  great  Lady  Slowbore,  the 
great  Lady  Grizzel  Macbeth  (she  was  Lady 
G.Glowry,  daughter  of  Lord  Grey  ofGlowry), 
and  the  like.  When  the  Countess  of  Fitz- 
Willis  (her  ladyship  is  of  the  King  Street 
family,  see  Debrett  and  Burke)  takes  up  a 
person,  he  or  she  is  safe.  There  is  no  ques- 
tion about  them  any  more.  Not  that  my 
Lady  Fitz-Willis  is  any  better  than  anybody 
ehe~,  being,  on  the  contrary,  a  faded  person, 
fifty-seven  years  of  age,  and  neither  hand- 
some, nor  wealthy,  nor  entertaining  ;  but  it 
is  agreed  on  all  sides  that  she  is  of  the 
"  best  people."  Those  who  go  to  her  are  of 
the  best;  and  from  an  old  grudge,  probably 
to  Lady  Steyne  (for  whose  coronet  her  lady- 
ship, then  tlio  youthful  Georgiana  Frederica, 
daughter  of  the  Prince  of  Wales's  favourite, 
the  Earl  of  Portanslierry,  had  once  tried), 
this  great  and  famous  leader  of  the  fashion 
chose  to  acknowledge  Mrs.  Rawdon  Craw- 
ley  :  made  her  a  most  marked  curtsey  at 
the  assembly  over  which  she  presided,  and 
not  only  encouraged  her  son,  St.  Kitts  (his 
lordship  got  his  place  through  Lord  Steyne'a 
interest),  to  frequent  Mr.  Crawley's  house, 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


489 


but  asked  her  to  her  own  mansion,  and 
spoke  to  her  twice  in  the  most  public  and 
condescending  manner  during  dinner.  The 
important  fact  was  known  all  over  London 
that  night.  People  who  had  been  crying 
fie  about  Mrs.  Cniwley  were  silent.  Wen- 
ham,  the  wit  and  lawyer,  Lord  Steyne's 
right-hand  man,  went  about  everywhere 
praising  her  :  some  who  had  hesitated,  came 
forward  at  once  and  welcomed  her.  Little 
Tom  Toady,  who  had  warned  Southdown 
about  visiting  such  an  abandoned  woman, 
now  besought  to  be  introduced  to  her.  In  a 
word,  she  was  admitted  to  be  among  the 
"  best"  people.  Ah,  my  beloved  readers  and 
brethren,  do  not  envy  poor  Becky  prema- 
turely— glory  like.  This  is  said  to  be  fugi- 
tive. It  is  currently  reported  that  even  in  the 
very  inmost  circles  they  are  no  happier  than 
the  poor  wanderers  outside  the  zone  ;  and 
Becky,  who  penetrated  into  the  very  centre 
of  fashion,  and  saw  the  great  George  IV. 
face  to  face,  has  owned  since  that  there  too 
was  vanity. 

We  must  be  brief  in  descanting  upon  this 
part  of  her  career.  As  I  cannot  describe 
the  mysteries  of  freemasonry,  although  I 
have  a  shrewd  idea  that  it  is  a  humbug  ;  so 
an  uninitiated  man  cannot  take  it  upon  him- 
self to  portray  the  great  world  accurately, 
and  had  best  keep  his  opinions  to  himself, 
whatever  they  are. 

Becky  has  often  spoken  in  subsequent 
years  of  this  season  of  her  life,  when  she 
moved  among  the  very  greatest  circles  of  the 
London  fashion.  Her  success  excited,  elated, 
and  then  bored  her.  At  first  no  occupation 
was  more  pleasant  than  to  invent  and  pro- 
cure (the  latter  a  work  of  no  small  trouble 
and  ingenuity,  by  the  way,  in  a  person  of 
Mrs.  llawdon  Crawlev's  very  narrow  means), 
to  procure,  we  say,  the  prettiest  new  dresses 
and  ornaments  ;  to  drive  to  fine  dinner  par- 
tics,  where  she  was  welcomed  by  great  peo- 
ple;  and  from  the  tine  dinner  parties  to  fine 
assemblies,  whither  the  same  people  came 
•with  whom  she  had  been  dining,  whom  she 
had  met  the  night  before,  and  would  see  on 
the  morrow, — the  young  men  faultlessly  ap- 
pointed, handsomely  cravatted,  with  the 
neatest  glossy  boots  and  white  gloves, — the 
elders  portly,  brass-buttoned,  noble-looking, 
polite,  and  prosy, — the  young  ladies  blonde, 
timid,  and  in  pink, — the  mothers  grand, 
beautiful,  sumptuous,  solemn,  and  in  dia- 
monds. They  talked  in  English,  not  in  bad 
French,  as  they  do  in  the  novels.  They 
talked  about  each  other's  houses,  and  char- 
acters, and  families,  just  as  the  Joneses  do 
about  the  Smiths.  Becky's  former  ac- 
quaintances hated  and  envied  her:  the  poor 
Avoman  herself  was  yawning  in  spirit.  "  I 
wish  I  were  out  of  it,"  she  said  to  herself. 


"  I  Avould  rather  be  a  parson's  wife,  and 
teach  a  Sunday-school,  than  this  5  or  a  ser- 
geant's lady,  and  ride  in  the  regimental 
waggon  ;  or,  oh,  how  much  gayer  it  would 
be  to  wear  spangles  and  trousers,  and  dance 
before  a  booth  at  a  fair." 

''You  Avould  do  it  very  well,"  said  Lord 
Steyne,  laughing.  She  used  to  tell  the  great 
man  her  ennuis  and  perplexities  in  her  art- 
less way, — they  amused  him. 

"  Rawdon  would  make  averygoodEcuyer, 
— master  of  the  ceremonies, — what  do  you 
call  him, — the  man  in  the  large  boots  and 
the  uniform,  Avho  goes  round  the  ring  crack- 
ing the  whip  ?  lie  is  large,  heavy,  and  of  a 
military  figure.  I  recollect,"  Becky  con- 
tinued pensively,  "  my  father  took  me  to  see 
a  show  at  Brook  Green  Fair,  when  I  was  a 
child,  and  when  we  came  home  I  made  my- 
self a  pair  of  stilts,  and  danced  in  the  stu- 
dio to  the  wonder  of  all  the  pupils." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  see  it,"  said  Lord 
Steyne. 

"I  should  like  to  do  it  now,"  Becky  con- 
tinued. "  How  Lady  Blinkey  would  open  her 
eyes,  and  Lady  Grizzel  Macbeth  would  stare  ! 
Hush,  silence!  There  is  Pasta  beginning 
to  sing."  Becky  always  made  a  point  of 
being  conspicuously  polite  to  the  profes- 
sional ladies  and  gentlemen  who  attended 
at  these  aristocratic  parties, — of  following 
them  into  the  corners,  where  they  sat  in  si- 
lence, and  shaking  hands  Avith  them,  and 
smiling  in  the  view  of  all  persons.  She  was 
an  artist  herself,  as  she  said  very  truly. 
There  was  a  frankness  and  humility  in  the 
manner  in  Avhich  she  acknowledged  her  ori- 
gin, which  provoked,  or  disarmed,  or  amused 
lookers-on,  as  the  case  might  be.  "How 
cool  that  woman  is,"  said  one  ;  u  what  airs 
of  independence  she  assumes,  where  she 
ought  to  sit  still,  and  be  thankful  if  any- 
body speaks  to  her."  "  What  an  honest 
and  good-natured  soul  she  is,"  said  another. 
"  What  an  artful  little  minx,"  said  a  third. 
They  were  all  right,  very  likely  ;  but  Becky 
went  her  own  way,  and  so  fascinated  the 
professional  personages,  that  they  would 
leave  off  their  sore  throats  in  order  to  sing  at 
her  parties,  and  give  her  lessons  for  nothing. 

Yes,  she  gave  parties  in  the  little  house  in 
Curzon  Street.  Many  scores  of  carriages, 
Avith  blazing  lamps,  blocked  up  the  street, 
to  the  disgust  of  No.  100,  who  could  not  rest 
for  the  thunder  of  the  knocking,  and  of  102, 
who  could  not  sleep  for  envy.  The  gigantic 
footmen  who  accompanied  the  vehicles  Avere 
too  big  to  be  contained  in  Becky's  little 
hall,  and  Avere  billeted  off  in  the  neighbour- 
ing public-houses,  Avhence,  when  they  Avere 
Avanted,  call-boys  summoned  them  from  their 
beer.  Some  of  the  great  dandies  of  London 
squeezed  and  trod  on  each  other  on  the  little 


490 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


stairs,  laughing  to  find  themselves  there  ;  and 
many  spotless  and  severe  ladies  of  ton  were 
seated  in  a  little  drawing-room,  listening 
to  the  professional  singers,  who  were  sing- 
ing according  to  their  wont,  and  as  if  they 
wished  to  blow  the  windows  down.  And  the 
day  after  there  appeared,  among  the  fashion- 
able reunions  in  the  "Morning  Post,"  a 
paragraph  to  the  following  effect :  "  Yester- 
day, Colonel  and  Mrs.  Crawley  entertained 
a  select  party  at  dinner  at  their  house  in  May 
Fair.  Their  Excellencies  the  Prince  and 
Princess  of  Peterwasachin,  II.  E.  Papoosh 
Pasha,  the  Turkish  Ambassador  (attended 
by  Kibob  Bey.  dragoman  of  the  mission), 
the  Marquess  of  Steyne,  Eurl  of  Southdown, 
Mr.  Pitt  and  Lady  Jane  Crawley,  Mr.  Wag, 
etc.  After  dinner  Mrs.  Crawley  had  an  as- 
sembly, which  was  attended  by  the  Duchess 
(Downger)  of  Stilton,  Due  de  la  Gruyere, 
Marchioness  of  Cheshire,  Marchese  AleV 
sandro  Strachino,  Comte  de  Brie,  Baron 
Schapzugar,  Chevalier  Tasti,  Countess  of 
Slingstone,  and  Lady  F.  Macadam,  Major- 
General  and  Lady  G.  Macbeth,  and  (2) 
Misses  Macbeth,  Viscount  Paddington,  Sir 
Horace  Fogey,  Hon.  Sands  Bedwin,  Bob- 
bachy  Bahawder,"  and  an  etc.,  which  the 
reader  may  fill  at  his  pleasure  through  a 
dozen  close  lines  of  small  type.  .  .  . 

How  the  Crawleys  got  the  money  which 
was  spent  upon  the  entertainments  with 
•which  they  treated  the  polite  world  was  a 
mystery  which  gave  rise  to  some  conversa- 
tion at  the  time,  and  probably  added  zest  to 
these  little  festivities.  Some  persons  averred 
that  Sir  Pitt  Crawley  gave  his  brother  a 
handsome  allowance ;  if  he  did,  Becky's 
power  over  the  baronet  must  have  been  ex- 
traordinary indeed,  and  his  character  greatly 
changed  in  his  advanced  age.  Other  parties 
hinted  that  it  was  Becky's  habit  to  levy 
contributions  on  all  her  husband's  friends: 
going  to  this  one  in  tears  with  an  account 
that  there  was  an  execution  in  the  house  : 
falling  on  her  knees  to  that  one,  and  declar- 
ing that  the  whole  family  must  go  to  gaol, 
or  commit  suicide,  unless  such  and  such  a 
bill  could  bs  paid.  Lord  Southdown,  it  was 
said,  had  been  induced  to  give  many  hun- 
dreds through  these  pathetic  representations. 
Young  Feltham,  of  the  — th  Dragoons  (and 
son  of  the  firm  of  Tiler  and  Feltham,  hatters 
and  army  accoutrement  makers),  and  whom 
the  Crawleys  introduced  into  fashionable 
life,  was  also  cited  as  one  of  Becky's  victims 
in  the  pecuniary  way.  People  declared  that 
she  got  money  from  various  simply  disposed 
persons,  under  pretence  of  getting  them  con- 
fidential appointments  under  Government. 
Who  knows  what  stories  were  or  were  not 
told  of  our  dear  and  innocent  friend?  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  if  she  had  had  all  the  money 


which  she  was  said  to  have  begged  or  bor- 
rowed, or  stolen,  she  might  have  capitalized, 
and  been  honest  for  life,  whereas — but  this 
is  advancing  matters. 

The  truth  is,  that  by  economy  and  good 
management — by  a  sparing  use  of  ready 
money,  and  by  paying  scarcely  anybody — 
people  can  manage,  for  a  time  at  least,  to 
make  a  great  show  with  very  little  means: 
and  it  is  our  belief  that  Becky's  much- 
talked-of  parties,  which  were  not,  after  all 
was  said,  very  numerous,  cost  this  lady  very 
little  more  than  the  candles  which  lighted 
the  walls.  Stillbrook  and  Queen's  Crawley 
supplied  her  with  game  and  fruit  in  abun- 
dance. Lord  Steyne's  cellars  were  at  her 
disposal,  and  that  excellent  nobleman's 
famous  cook  presided  over  her  little  kitchen, 
or  sent  by  my  lord's  order  the  rarest  delica- 
cies from  their  own.  I  protest  it  is  quite 
shameful  in  the  world  to  abuse  a  simple 
creature,  as  people  of  her  time  abuse  Becky, 
and  I  warn  the  public  against  believing  one- 
tenth  of  the  stories  against  her.  If  every 
person  is  to  be  banished  from  society  who 
runs  into  debt  and  cannot  pay, — if  we  are  to 
be  peering  into  everybody's  private  life, 
speculating  upon  their  income,  and  cutting 
them  if  we  don't  approve  of  their  expendi- 
ture,— why,  what  a  howling  wilderness  and 
intolerable  dwelling  Vanity  Fair  would  bo. 
Every  man's  hand  would  be  against  his 
neighbour  in  this  case,  my  dear  sir,  and  the 
benefits  of  civilization  would  be  done  away 
with.  We  should  be  quarrelling,  abusing, 
avoiding  one  another.  Our  houses  would 
become  caverns :  and  we  should  go  in  rags 
because  we  cared  for  nobody.  Rents  would 
go  down.  Parties  wouldn't  be  given  any 
more.  All  the  tradesmen  of  the  town  would 
be  bankrupt.  Wine,  wax-lights,  comesti- 
bles, rouge,  crinoline  petticoats,  diamonds, 
wigs,  Louis-quatorze  gimcracks,  and  old 
china,  park  hacks,  and  splendid  high-step- 
ping carriage  horses, — all  the  delights  of 
life,  I  say,  would  go  to  the  deuce,  if  people 
did  but  act  upon  their  silly  principles,  and 
avoid  those  whom  they  dislike  and  abuse. 
Whereas,  by  a  little  charity  and  mutual 
forbearance,  things  are  made  to  go  on 
pleasantly  enough  :  we  may  abuse  a  man  as 
much  as  we  like,  and  call  him  the  greatest 
rascal  unhung, — but  do  we  wish  to  hang  him 
therefore?  No;  we  shake  hands  when  we 
meet.  If  his  cook  is  good,  we  forgive  him, 
and  go  and  dine  with  him  ;  and  we  expect 
he  will  do  the  same  by  us.  Thus  trade  flour- 
ishes— civilization  advances;  peace  is  kept; 
new  dresses  are  wanted  for  new  assemblies 
every  week  ;  and  the  last  year's  vintage  of 
Lafitte  will  remunerate  the  honest  proprietor 
who  reared  it. 
Vanity  Fair. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


491 


THE  KNIGHTS  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

Colleges,  schools,  and  inns  of  court  still 
have  some  respect  for  antiquity,  and  main- 
tain a  great  number  of  the  customs  and  in- 
stitutions, of  our  ancestors,  with  which  those 
persons  who  do  not  particularly  regard  their 
forefathers,  or  perhaps  are  not  very  well 
acquainted  with  them,  have  long  since  done 
away.  A  well-ordained  workhouse  or  prison 
is  much  better  provided  with  the  appliances 
of  health,  comfort,  and  cleanliness,  than  a 
respectable  Foundation  School,  a  venerable 
College,  or  a  learned  Inn.  In  the  latter 
place  of  residence  men  are  contented  to 
sleep  in  dingy  closets,  and  to  pay  for  the  sit- 
ting-room and  the  cupboard,  which  is  their 
dormitory,  the  price  of  a  good  villa  and 
garden  in  the  suburbs,  or  of  a  roomy  house 
in  the  neglected  squares  of  the  town.  The 
poorest  mechanic  in  Spitalfields  has  a  cis- 
tern and  an  unbounded  supply  of  water  at 
his  command  ;  but  the  gentlemen  of  the  inns 
of  court,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  universi- 
ties, have  their  supply  of  this  cosmetic 
fetched  in  jugs  by  laundresses  and  bed- 
makers,  and  live  in  abodes  which  were 
erected  long  before  the  custom  of  cleanli- 
ness and  decency  obtained  among  us.  There 
are  individuals  still  alive  who  sneer  at  the 
people  and  speak  of  them  with  epithets  of 
scorn.  Gentlemen,  there  can  be  but  little 
doubt  that  your  ancestors  were  the  Great 
Unwashed  :  and  in  the  Temple  especially,  it 
is  pretty  certain,  that,  only  under  the  great- 
est difficulties  and  restrictions,  the  virtue 
which  has  been  pronounced  to  be  next  to 
godliness  could  have  been  practised  at  all. 

Old  Grump,  of  the  Norfolk  Circuit,  who 
had  lived  for  more  than  thirty  years  in  the 
chambers  under  those  occupied  by  Warring- 
ton  and  Pendennis,  and  who  used  to  be 
awakened  by  the  roaring  of  the  shower-baths 
which  those  gentlemen  had  erected  in  their 
apartments, — a  part  of  the  contents  of  which 
occasionally  trickled  through  the  roof  into 
Mr.  Grump's  room, — declared  that  the  prac- 
tice was  absurd,  new-fangled,  dandyfied  folly, 
and  daily  cursed  the  laundress  who  slopped 
the  staircase  by  which  he  had  to  pass. 
Grump,  now  much  more  than  half  a  century 
old,  had  indeed  never  used  the  luxury  in 
question.  He  had  done  without  water  very 
well,  and  so  had  our  fathers  before  him.  Of 
all  those  knights  and  baronets,  lords  and 
gentlemen,  bearing  arms,  whose  escutcheons 
are  painted  upon  the  walls  of  the  famous 
hall  of  the  Upper  Temple,  was  thei'e  no 
philanthropist  good-natured  enough  to  de- 
vise a  set  of  Hiimmums  for  the  benefit  of 
the  lawyers,  his  fellows  and  successors. 
The  Temple  historian  makes  no  mention  of 
such  a  scheme.  There  is  Pump  Court  and 


Fountain  Court,  with  their  hydraulic  appa- 
ratus, but  one  never  heard  of  a  bencher  dis- 
porting in  the  fountain  ;  and  can't  but  think 
how  many  a  counsel  learned  in  the  law  of  old 
days  might  have  benefited  by  the  pump. 

Nevertheless,  those  venerable  Inns  which 
have  the  Lamb  and  Flag  and  the  Winged 
Horse  for  their  ensigns,  have  attractions  for 
persons  who  inhabit  them,  and  a  share  of 
rough  comforts  and  freedom,  which  men  al- 
ways remember  with  pleasure.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  student  of  law  permits 
himself  the  refreshment  of  enthusiasm,  or 
indulges  in  poetical  reminiscences  as  lie 
passes  by  historical  chambers,  and  says, 
"  Yonder  Eldon  lived, — upon  this  site  Coke 
mused  upon  Lyttleton, — here  Chitty  toiled, 
— here  Barnwell  and  Alderson  joined  in 
their  famous  labours, — here  Byles  composed 
his  great  work  upon  bills,  and  Smith  com- 
piled his  immortal  leading  cases, — here  Gus- 
tavus  still  toils,  with  Solomon  to  aid  him  :" 
but  the  man  of  letters  can't  but  love  the 
place  which  has  been  inhabited  by  so  many 
of  his  brethren,  or  peopled  by  their  creations 
as  real  to  us  at  this  day  as  the  authors  whose 
children  they  Avere, — and  Sir  Roger  do  Cov- 
erly  walking  in  the  Temple  Garden,  and  dis- 
coursing with  Mr.  Spectator  about  the  beau- 
ties in  hoops  and  patches  who  are  sauntering 
over  the  grass,  is  just  as  lively  a  figure  to  me 
as  old  Samuel  Johnson  rolling  through  the 
fog  with  the  Scotch  gentleman  at  his  heels 
on  their  way  to  Dr.  Goldsmith's  chambers  in 
Brick  Court;  or  Harry  Fielding,  with  inked 
ruffles  and  a  wet  towel  round  his  head,  dash- 
ing off  articles  at  midnight  for  the  Covent 
Garden  Journal,  while  the  printer's  boy  is 
asleep  in  the  passage. 

If  we  could  but  get  the  history  of  a  single 
day  as  it  passed  in  any  one  of  those  four- 
storied  houses  in  the  dingy  court  where  our 
friends  Pen  and  AVarrington  dwelt,  some 
Temple  Asmodeus  might  furnish  us  with  a 
queer  volume.  There  may  be  a  great  par- 
liamentary counsel  on  the  ground  floor,  who 
drives  up  to  Belgravia  at  dinner-time,  when 
his  clerk,  too,  becomes  a  gentleman,  and 
goes  away  to  entertain  his  friends,  and  to 
take  his  pleasure.  But  a  short  time  since 
he  was  hungry  and  briefless  in  some  garret 
of  the  Inn ;  lived  by  stealthy  literature ; 
hoped,  and  waited,  and  sickened,  and  no 
clients  came;  exhausted  his  own  means  and 
his  friends'  kindness ;  had  to  remonstrate 
humbly  with  duns,  and  to  implore  the  kind- 
ness of  poor  creditors.  Ruin  seemed  to  be 
staring  him  in  the  face,  when,  behold,  a  turn 
of  the  wheel  of  fortune,  and  the  lucky  wretch 
in  possession  of  one  of  those  prodigious 
prizes  which  are  sometimes  drawn  in  the 
great  lottery  of  the  Bar.  Many  a  better 
lawyer  than  himself  does  not  make  a  fifth 


492 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


part  of  the  income  of  his  clerk,  who  a  few 
months  since  could  scarcely  get  credit  for 
blacking  for  his  master's  unpaid  boots.  On 
the  first  floor,  perhaps,  you  will  have  a  ven- 
erable man  whose  name  is  famous,  who  has 
lived  for  half  a  century  in  the  Inn,  whose 
brains  are  full  of  books,  and  whose  shelves 
nre  stored  with  classical  and  legal  lore.  lie 
has  lived  alone  all  these  fifty  years,  alone 
and  for  himself,  amassing  learning,  and  com- 
piling a  fortune.  He  comes  home  now  at 
night  only  from  the  club,  where  he  has  been 
dining  freely,  to  the  lonely  chambers  where 
he  lives  a  godless  old  recluse.  When  he  dies, 
his  Inn  will  erect  a  tablet  to  his  honour,  and 
his  heirs  burn  a  part  of  his  library.  Would 
you  like  to  have  such  a  prospect  for  your  old 
age,  to  store  up  learning  and  money  and  end 
PO?  But  we  must  not  linger  too  long  by 
Mr.  Doomsday's  door.  Worthy  Mr.  Grump 
lives  over  him,  who  is  also  an  ancient  inhab- 
itant of  the  Inn,  and  who  when  Doomsday 
comes  home  to  read  Catullus,  is  sitting 
down  with  three  steady  seniors  of  his  stand- 
ing, to  a  steady  rubber  at  whist,  after  a 
dinner  at  which  they  have  consumed  their 
three  steady  bottles  of  Port.  You  may  see 
the  old  boys  asleep  at  the  Temple  Church 
of  a  Sunday.  Attorneys  seldom  trouble 
them,  and  they  have  small  fortunes  of  their 
own.  On  the  other  side  of  the  third  land- 
ing, where  Pen  and  Warrington  live,  till 
long  after  midnight  sits  Mr.  Paley,  who 
took  the  highest  honours,  and  who  is  a  fel- 
low of  his  college,  who  will  sit  and  read  and 
note  cases  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning; 
who  will  rise  at  seven  and  be  at  the  pleader's 
chambers  as  soon  as  they  are  open,  where 
he  will  work  until  an  hour  before  dinner- 
time; who  will  come  home  from  Hall  and 
read  and  note  cases  again  until  dawn  next 
day,  when  perhaps  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis 
and  his  friend  Mr.  Warrington  are  returning 
from  some  of  their  wild  expeditions.  How 
differently  employed  Mr.  Paley  has  been! 
lie  has  not  been  throwing  himself  away  :  he 
has  only  been  bringing  a  great  intellect  la- 
boriously down  to  the  comprehension  of  a 
mean  subject,  and  in  his  fierce  grasp  of  that, 
resolutely  excluding  from  his  mind  all  higher 
thoughts,  all  better  things,  all  the  wisdom  of 
philosophers  and  historians,  all  the  thoughts 
of  poets ;  all  wit,  fancy,  reflexion,  art,  love, 
truth  altogether, — so  that  he  may  master 
that  enormous  legend  of  the  law,  which  he 
proposes  to  gain  his  livelihood  by  expound- 
ing. Warrington  and  Paley  had  been  com- 
petitors for  university  honours  in  former 
days,  and  had  run  each  other  hard ;  and 
everybody  said  now  that  the  former  was 
wasting  his  time  and  energies,  whilst  all 
people  praised  Paley  for  his  industry.  There 
may  be  doubts,  however,  as  to  which  was 


using  his  time  best.  The  one  could  aff>rd 
time  to  think,  and  the  other  never  could. 
The  one  could  have  sympathies,  and  do 
kindnesses  :  and  the  other  must  needs  be 
always  selfish.  He  could  not  cultivate  a 
friendship  or  do  a  charity,  or  admire  a  work 
of  genius,  or  kindle  at  the  sight  of  beauty 
or  the  song  of  a  sweet  bird, — he  had  no  time, 
and  no  eyes  for  anything  but  his  law-books. 
All  was  dark  outside  his  reading-lamp. 
Love,  and  Nature,  and  Art  (which  is  the 
expression  of  our  praise  and  sense  of  the 
beautiful  world  of  God)  were  shut  out  from 
him.  And  as  he  turned  off  his  lonely  lamp 
at  night,  he  never  thought  but  that  he  had 
spent  the  day  profitably,  and  went  to  sleep 
alike  thankless  and  remorseless.  But  he 
shuddered  when  he  met  his  old  companion 
Warrington  on  the  stairs,  and  shunned  him 
as  one  that  was  doomed  to  perdition. 
Pendennis,  Chap.  xxix. 


born  at  Landport,  Portsmouth,  England, 
1812,  after  a  short  experience  as  an  attor- 
ney's clerk,  became  a  reporter  for  the  daily 
press  of  London,  and  commenced  his  literary 
career  by  his  Sketches  of  Life  and  Charac- 
ter, which  first  appeared  in  The  Morning 
Chronicle,  and  were  published  collectively 
as  Sketches  by  Boz,  London,  1836,  2  vols. 
After  a  literary  career  of  great  prosperity 
(visiting  the  United  States  in  1841  and  in 
1867),  he  died  suddenly  in  1870. 

Works:  Library  edition,  London,  Chap- 
man &  Hall,  1873,  30  vols.  p.  8vo,  with  546, 
the  original,  illustrations :  vols.  i.,  ii.,  Pick- 
wick Papers ;  iii.,  iv.,  Nicholas  Nickleby  ; 
v.,  vi.,  Martin  Chuzzlewit;  vii.,  viii.,  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,  and  Reprinted  Pieces ;  ix., 
x.,  Barnaby  Rudge,  and  Hard  Times;  xi., 
xii.,  Bleak  House;  xiii.,  xiv.,  Little  Dorrit; 
xv.,  xvi  ,  Dombey  and  Son ;  xvii.,  xviii., 
David  Copperfield;  xix.,  xx.,  Our  Mutual 
Friend  ;  xxi.,  Sketches  by  Boz  ;  xxii.,  Oliver 
Twist;  xxiii.,  Christmas  Books;  xxiv.,  A 
Tale  of  Two  Cities ;  xxv.,  Great  Expecta- 
tions ;  xxvi.,  Pictures  from  Italy,  and  Amer- 
ican Notes  ;  xx  vii.,  Uncommercial  Traveller; 
xxviii.,  Child's  History  of  England  ;  xxix., 
Edwin  Drood,  and  Miscellanies ;  xxx.,  Christ- 
mas Stories,  from  "  Household  Words,"  etc. 
Chapman  &  Hall  also  issue  an  Illustrated 
Library  edition  in  30  vols.  demy  8vo,  1874- 
76,  and  a  Household  edition,  in  cr.  4  to  vol- 
umes. There  is  also  a  "  Charles  Dickens" 
edition,  London,  21  vols.  in  16,  p.  8vo. 

Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co.,  Boston,  publish 
an  Illustrated  Library  edition,  with  Intro- 
ductions, Biographical  and  Historical,  by 


CHARLES  DICKEXS. 


493 


E.  P.  W hippie,  29  vols.  cr.  8vo ;  a  now 
Household  edition,  illustrated,  56  vols.  16mo; 
a  Riverside  edition,  28  vols.  cr.  8vo  ;  a  Globe 
•edition,  15  vols.  12mo;  and  a  Large  Paper 
edition  (edition  de  luxe),  100  sets  only,  55 
vols.  8vo,  8275.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New 
York,  published  a  Household  edition  (com- 
pleted in  1878),  19  vols.  bound  in  8  vols. 
square  8vo  ;  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York. 
Household  edition  in  16  vols.  8vo ;  and 
Peterson  &  Brothers,  of  Philadelphia,  sev- 
eral editions. 

To  either  of  these  editions  should  be  ad- 
ded, Dickens  Dictionary :  A  Key  to  the 
Characters  and  Principal  Incidents  in  the 
Works  of  Charles  Dickens,  etc.,  Boston, 
Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co.,  12mo,  pp.  590, 
and  A  Cyclopaedia  of  the  Best  Thoughts  of 
Charles  Dickens,  Compiled  and  Alphabet- 
ically Arranged  by  F.  G.  De  Fontaine,  New 
York,  E.  J.  Hale  &  Son,  1873,  r.  8vo,  pp. 
564.  See  also  Dickens's  Life  and  Speeches, 
Lond..  r.  16mo.  Dickens  was  the  first  edi- 
tor of  The  Daily  News,  established  by  him 
Jan.  1,  1846,  and  originated  and  edited 
Household  Words,  1850-59,  and  All  the 
Year  Round,  from  April,  1859,  until  his 
death. 

"  Dickens  as  a  novelist  and  prose  poet  is  to  be 
classed  in  the  front  rank  of  the  noble  company  to 
which  he  belongs.  lie  has  revived  the  novel  of 
genuine  practical  life,  as  it  existed  in  the  works  of 
Fielding,  Smollett,  and  Goldsmith;  but  at  the  same 
time  has  given  to  his  materials  an  individual  col- 
ouring and  expression  peculiarly  his  own.  His 
characters,  like  those  of  his  great  exemplars,  con- 
stitute a  world  of  their  own,  whose  truth  to  nature 
every  reader  instinctively  recognizes  in  connection 
with  their  truth  to  Dickens.  .  .  .  Dickens's  eye  for 
the  forms  of  things  is  as  accurate  as  Fielding's,  and 
his  range  of  vision  more  extended;  but  he  does  not 
probe  so  profoundly  into  the  heart  of  what  he  sees, 
and  he  is  more  led  away  from  the  simplicity  of 
truth  by  a  tricksy  spirit  of  fantastic  exaggeration. 
Mentally  he  is  indisputably  below  Fielding;  but 
in  tenderness,  in  pathos,  in  that  comprehensive- 
ness of  sympathy  which  springs  from  a  sense  of 
brotherhood  with  mankind,  he  is  indisputably 
above  him." — E.  P.WHIPPLE  :  N.Amer.  liev.,  Ixix. 
392-393,  Oct.  1849. 

"  In  the  next  place,  the  good  characters  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  novels  do  not  seem  to  have  a  wholesome 
moral  tendency.  The  reason  is,  that  many  of  them 
— all  the  author's  favourites — exhibit  an  excel- 
lence flowing  from  constitution  and  temperament, 
and  not  from  the  influence  of  moral  or  religious 
motive.  They  act  from  impulse,  not  from  prin- 
ciple. They  present  no  struggle  of  contending 
passions;  they  are  instinctively  incapable  of  evil; 
they  are,  therefore,  not  constituted  like  other  hu- 
man beings  ;  and  do  not  feel  the  force  of  tempta- 
tion as  it  assails  our  less  perfect  breasts.  It  is  this 
that  makes  them  unreal, 

'  Faultless  monsters,  that  the  world  ne'er  saw.' 

This  is  the  true  meaning  of  the  '  simple  heart,' 
which  Mr.  Dickens  so  perpetually  eulogizes.  In- 


deed they  often  degenerate  into  simpletons,  some- 
times into  mere  idiots.  .  .  .  Another  error  is  the 
undue  prominence  given  to  good  temper  and  kind- 
ness, which  are  constantly  made  substitutes  for  all 
other  virtues,  and  an  atonement  for  the  want  of 
them  ;  while  a  defect  in  these  good  qualities  is  the 
signal  for  instant  condemnation  and  the  charge  of 
hypocrisy.  It  is  unfortunate,  also,  that  Mr.  Dick- 
ens so  frequently  represents  persons  with  preten- 
sions to  virtue  as  mere  rogues  and  hypocrites,  and 
never  depicts  any  whose  station  as  clergymen,  or 
reputation  for  piety,  is  consistently  adorned  and 
verified." — North,  liritish  Her:.,  vol.  iv. 

See  also  his  Life  by  John  Forster,  Lond., 
1872-74,  3  vols.  8vo,  15th  edit.,  1875,  and 
1875,  2  vois.  demy  8vo,  and  Forster' s  Life 
of  W.  S.  Landor ;  Life  by  R.  S.  Mackenzie, 
D.C.L.,  1870  ;  Story  of  his  Life,  by  Theodore 
Taylor ;  Sketch  of  Dickens,  by  G.  A.  Sala ; 
George Briinley's  Essays;  JeaSTreson's Novels 
and  Novelists  ;  Masson's  Novelists  and  their 
Styles  ;  Buchanan's  Master  Spirits  ;  Home's 
New  Spirit  of  the  Age  ;  Fields's  Yesterdays 
with  Authors  (an  excellent  book);  Selections 
from  the  Correspondence  of  the  Late  Macvev 
Napier,  Esq.,  Lond.,  1879,  8vo;  (London) 
Quart,  Rev.,  Oct.  1837  :  Edin.  Rev.,  Oct.  1838, 
June,  1839,  and  March,  1843  ;  Blackw.  Mag., 
April,  1855;  Brit.  Quart.  Rev.,  July,  1862; 
Westminster  Rev.,  July  and  Oct.  1864,  and 
April,  1865;  Atlantic  Mon.,  May,  1867; 
Contemp.  Rev.,  Feb.  1869  (by  George  Stott). 

MR.  PECKSNIFF. 

Mr.  Pecksniff  had  clearly  not  expected 
them  for  hours  to  come  ;  for  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  open  books,  and  was  glancing 
from  volume  to  volume,  with  a  black-lead 
pencil  in  his  mouth,  and  a  pair  of  compasses 
in  his  hand,  at  a  vast  number  of  mathemat- 
ical diagrams,  of  such  extraordinary  shapes 
that  they  looked  like  designs  for  fireworks. 
Neither  had  Miss  Charity  expected  them, 
for  she  was  busied,  with  a  capacious  wicker 
basket  before  her,  in  making  impracticable 
nightcaps  for  the  poor.  Neither  had  Miss 
Mercy  expected  them,  for  she  was  sitting 
upon  her  stool,  tying  on  the — oh,  good  gra- 
cious ! — the  petticoat  of  a  large  doll  that  she 
was  dressing  for  a  neighbour's  child  :  really, 
quite  a  grown-up  doll,  which  made  it  more 
confusing:  and  had  its  little  bonnet  dang- 
ling by  the  ribbon  from  one  of  Jier  fair  curls, 
to  which  she  had  fastened  it,  lest  it  should 
be  lost  or  sat  upon.  It  would  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  conceive  a  family  so 
thoroughly  taken  by  surprise  as  the  Peck- 
sniffs were  on  this  occasion. 

"  Bless  my  life  !"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  look 
ing  up,  and  gradually  exchanging  his  ab- 
stracted face  for  one  of  joyful  recognition. 
"  Here  already  !  Martin,  my  dear  boy,  I  am 
delighted  to  welcome  you  to  my  poor  house !" 


494 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


With  tliis  kind  greeting,  Mr.  Pecksniff 
fairly  took  him  to  his  arms,  and  patted  him 
several  times  upon  the  back  with  his  right 
hand  the  while,  as  if  to  express  that  his  feel- 
ings during  the  embrace  were  too  much  for 
utterance. 

"  But  here,"  he  said,  recovering,  "  are  my 
daughters,  Martin:  my  two  only  children, 
whom  (if  you  ever  saw  them)  you  have  not 
beheld — ah,  these  sad  family  divisions  ! — 
since  you  were  infants  together.  Nay,  my 
dears,  why  blush  at  being  detected  in  your 
every-day  pursuits?  We  had  prepared  to 
give  you  the  reception  of  a  visitor,  Martin, 
in  our  little  room  of  state,"  said  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff, smiling,  "  but  I  like  this  better, — 1  like 
this  better!" 

Oh,  blessed  star  of  Innocence,  wherever 
you  may  be,  how  did  you  glitter  in  your 
home  of  ether,  when  the  two  Miss  Pecksniffs 
put  forth  each  her  lily  hand,  and  gave  the 
same,  with  mantling  cheeks,  to  Martin ! 
How  did  you  twinkle,  as  if  fluttering  with 
sympathy,  when  Mercy,  reminded  of  the 
bonnet  in  her  hair,  hid  her  fair  face  .and 
turned  her  head  aside:  the  while  her  gentle 
sister  plucked  it  out,  and  smote  her,  with  a 
sister's  soft  reproof,  upon  her  buxom  shoul- 
der ! 

"And  how,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  turning 
round  after  the  contemplation  of  these  pas- 
sages, and  taking  Mr.  Pinch  in  a  friendly 
manner  by  the  elbow,  "  how  has  our  friend 
here  used  you,  Martin?" 

"  Very  well,  indeed,  sir.  We  are  on  the 
best  terms,  I  assure  you." 

"Old  Tom  Pinch!"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
looking  on  him  with  affectionate  sadness. 
"  Ah  !  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  Thomas 
•was  a  boy,  fresh  from  a  scholastic  course. 
Yet  years  have  passed,  I  think,  since  Thomas 
Pinch  and  I  first  walked  the  world  to- 
gether !" 

Mr.  Pinch  could  say  nothing.  He  was  too 
much  moved.  But  he  pressed  his  master's 
hand,  and  tried  to  thank  him. 

"  And  Thomas  Pinch  and  I,"  said  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  in  a  deeper  voice,  "will  walk  it 
yet,  in  mutual  faithfulness  and  friendship. 
And  if  it  comes  to  pass  that  either  of  us  be 
run  over,  in  any  of  those  busy  crossings 
which  divide  the  streets  of  life,  the  other 
will  convey  him  to  the  hospital  in  Hope, 
and  sit  beside  his  bed  in  Bounty !  Well, 
well,  well!"  he  added  in  a  happier  tone, 
as  he  shook  Mr.  Pinch's  elbow,  hard.  "  No 
more  of  this!  Martin,  my  dear  friend,  that 
you  may  be  at  home  within  these  walls,  let 
me  show  you  how  we  live,  and  where. 
Come!" 

With  that  he  took  up  a  lighted  candle,  and, 
attended  by  his  young  relative,  prepared  to 
leave  the  room.  At  the  door  he  stopped. 


"  You'll  bear  us  company,  Tom  Pinch  ?'' 

Ah,  cheerfully,  though  it  had  been  to 
death,  would  Tom  have  followed  him  :  glad 
to  lay  down  his  life  for  such  a  man  ! 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  opening  the 
door  of  an  opposite  parlour,  "is  the  little 
room  of  state  I  mentioned  to  you.  My  girls 
have  pride  in  it,  Martin  !  This,"  opening 
another  door,  "  is  the  little  chamber  in 
which  my  works  (slight  things  at  best) 
have  been  concocted.  Portrait  of  myself,  by 
Spiller.  Bust  by  Spoker.  The  latter  is  con- 
sidered a  good  likeness.  I  seem  to  recog- 
nize something  about  the  left-hand  corner 
of  the  nose,  myself." 

Martin  thought  it  was  very  like,  but 
scarcely  intellectual  enough.  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff observed  that  the  same  fault  had  been 
found  with  it  before.  It  was  remarkable  it 
should  have  struck  his  young  relation  too. 
He  was  glad  to  see  he  had  an  eye  for  art. 

"  Various  books,  you  observe,"  said  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  waving  his  hand  towards  the 
wall,  "connected  with  our  pursuit.  I  have 
scribbled  myself,  but  have  not  yet  published. 
Be  careful  how  you  come  up-stairs.  This," 
opening  another  door,  "  is  my  chamber.  I 
read  here  when  the  family  suppose  I  have 
retired  to  rest.  Sometimes  1  injure  my 
health,  rather  more  than  I  can  quite  justify 
to  myself  by  doing  so  ;  but  art  is  long,  and 
time  is  short.  Every  facility  you  see  for 
jotting  down  crude  notions,  even  here." 

These  latter  words  were  explained  by  his 
pointing  to  a  small  round  table,  on  which 
were  a  lamp,  divers  sheets  of  paper,  a  piece 
of  India  rubber,  and  a  case  of  instruments: 
all  put  ready,  in  case  an  architectural  idea 
should  come  into  Mr.  Pecksniff's  head  in 
the  night;  in  which  event  he  would  in- 
stantly leap  out  of  bed,  and  fix  it  for  ever. 

Mr.  Pecksniff  opened  another  door  on  the 
same  floor,  and  shut  it  again,  all  at  once,  as 
if  it  were  a  Blue  Chamber.  But  before  he 
had  well  done  so,  he  looked  smilingly  around, 
and  said,  "Why  not?" 

Martin  couldn't  say  why  not,  because  he 
didn't  know  anything  at  all  about  it.  So 
Mr.  Pecksniff  answered  himself,  by  throw- 
ing open  the  door,  and  saying : 

"  My  daughters'  room.  A  poor  first-floor 
to  us,  but  a  bower  to  them.  Very  neat. 
Very  airy.  Plants  you  observe;  hyacinths  ; 
books  again  ;  birds."  These  birds,  by  the 
bye,  comprise  in  all  one  staggering  old  spar- 
row without  a  tail,  which  had  been  borrowed 
expressly  from  the  kitchen.  "  Such  trifles 
as  girls  love  are  here.  Nothing  more.  Those 
who  seek  heartless  splendour,  would  seek 
here  in  vain." 

With  that  he  led  them  to  the  floor  above. 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  throwing 
wide  the  door  of  the  memorable  two-pair 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


495 


front,  "  is  a  room  in  which  nn  idea  for  a 
steeple  occurred  that  I  may  one  day  give  to 
the  world.  We  work  here,  my  dear  Martin. 
Some  architects  have  been  bred  in  this  room : 
a  few,  I  think,  Mr.  Pinch?'1 

Tom  fully  assented  ;  and,  what  is  more, 
fully  believed  it. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Pecksniff,  passing 
the  candle  rapidly  from  roll  to  roll  of 
paper,  "  some  traces  of  our  doings  here. 
Salisbury  Cathedral  from  the  north.  From 
the  south.  From  the  east.  From  the  west. 
From  the  south-east.  From  the  nor'-west. 
A  bridge.  An  almshouse.  A  jail.  A 
church.  A  powder-magazine.  A  wine- 
cellar.  A  portico.  A  summer-house.  An 
ice-house.  Plans,  elevations,  sections,  every 
kind  of  thing.  And  this,"  he  added,  having 
by  this  time  reached  another  large  chamber 
on  the  same  story,  with  four  little  beds 
in  it,  ''this  is  your  room,  of  which  Mr. 
Pinch  here  is  the  quiet  sharer.  A  southern 
aspect;  a  charming  prospect;  Mr.  Pinch's 
little  library,  you  perceive  ;  everything 
agreeable  and  appropriate.  If  there  is 
any  additional  comfort  you  would  desire  to 
have  here  at  any  time,  pray  mention  it. 
Even  to  strangers — far  less  to  you,  my 
dear  Martin — there  is  no  restriction  on 
that  point." 

It  was  undoubtedly  true,  and  may  be 
stated  in  corroboration  of  Mr.  Pecksniff, 
that  any  pupil  had  the  most  liberal  permis- 
sion to  mention  anything  in  this  way  that 
suggested  itself  to  his  fancy.  Some  young 
gentlemen  had  gone  on  mentioning  the  very 
Kime  thing  for  five  years  without  ever  being 
stopped. 

'•  The  domestic  assistants,"  said  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff, "  sleep  above  ;  and  that  is  all."  After 
which,  and  listening  complacently  as  he 
went  to  the  encomiums  passed  by  his  young 
friend  on  the  arrangements  generally,  he  led 
the  way  to  the  parlour  again. 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  Chap.  v. 

SCROOGE'S  CHRISTMAS. 

"  I  don't  know  what  day  of  the  month  it 
is,"  said  Scrooge  ;  "  I  don't  know  how  long 
I  have  been  among  the  Spirits.  I  don't 
know  anything.  I'm  quite  a  baby.  Never 
mind.  I  don't  care.  I'd  rather  be  a  babv. 
Hallo!  Whoop!  Hallo  here!" 

He  was  checked  in  his  transports  by  the 
churches  ringing  out  the  lustiest  peals  he 
had  ever  heard.  Clash,  clash,  hammer  ;  ding, 
dong,  bell.  Bell,  dong,  ding  ;  hammer,  clang, 
clash!  Oh,  glorious,  glorious! 

liunning  to  the  window,  he  opened  it,  and 
put  out  his  head.  No  fog,  no  mist;  clear, 
bright,  jovial,  stirring,  cold  ;  cold,  piping 
for  the  blood  to  dance  to  ;  golden  sunlight ; 


heavenly  sky  ;  sweet  fresh  air ;  merry  bells. 
Oh,  glorious  !  glorious  ! 

"What's  to-day?"  cried  Scrooge,  calling 
downward  to  a  boy  in  Sunday  clothes,  who 
perhaps  had  loitered  in  to  look  about  him. 

"Eh?"  returned  the  boy,  with  all  his 
might  of  wonder. 

"What's  to-day,  my  fine  fellow?"  said 
Scrooge. 

"  To-day,"  replied  the  boy.  "  Why,  CHRIST- 
MAS-DAY." 

"It's  Christmas-Day!"  said  Scrooge  to 
himself.  "I  haven't  missed  it.  The  Spirits 
have  done  it  all  in  one  night.  They  can  do 
anything  they  like.  Of  course  they  can. 
Of  course  they  can.  Hallo,  my  fine  fellow  !" 

"  Hallo!"  returned  the  boy. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Poulterer's  in  the  next 
street  but  one,  at  the  corner?"  Scrooge  in- 
quired. 

"  I  should  hope  I  did,"  replied  the  lad. 

"An  intelligent  boy!"  said  Scrooge.  "A 
remarkable  boy  !  Do  you  know  whether 
they've  sold  the  prize  Turkey  that  was 
hanging  up  there  ? — Not  the  little  prize 
Turkey  :  the  big  one?" 

"  What,  the  one  as  big  as  me  ?"  returned 
the  boy. 

"  What  a  delightful  boy  !"  said  Scrooge. 
"It's  a  pleasure  to  talk  tohiin.  Yes,  my  buck!" 

"  It's  hanging  there  now,"  replied  the  boy. 

"Is  it?"  said  Scrooge.    "Go  and  buy  it." 

"  WALK-ER  !"  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Scrooge,  "  I  am  in  earnest. 
Go  and  buy  it,  and  tell  'em  to  bring  it  here, 
that  I  may  give  them  the  directions  where  to 
take  it.  Come  back  with  the  man,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  shilling.  Come  back  with  him 
in  less  than  five  minutes,  and  I'll  give  half- 
a-crown  !" 

The  boy  was  off  like  a  shot.  He  must 
have  had  a  steady  hand  at  a  trigger  who 
could  have  got  a  shot  off  half  so  fast. 

"  I'll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit's,"  whispered 
Scrooge,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  splitting 
with  a  laugh.  "  He  shan't  know  who  sends 
it.  It's  twice  the  size  of  Tiny  Tim.  Joe 
Miller  never  made  such  a  joke  as  sending  it 
to  Bob's  will  be!" 

The  hand  in  which  he  wrote  the  address 
was  not  a  steady  one  ;  but  write  it  he  did, 
somehow,  and  went  down-stairs  to  open  the 
street  door,  ready  for  the  coming  of  the  poul- 
terer's man.  As  he  stood  there,  waiting  his 
arrival,  the  knocker  caught  his  eye. 

"  I  shall  love  it  as  long  as  I  live!"  cried 
Scrooge,  patting  it  with  his  hand.  "  I 
scarcely  ever  looked  at  it  before.  What  an 
honest  expression  it  has  in  its  face!  It's  a 
wonderful  knocker! — Here's  the  Turkey! 
Hallo!  Whoop !  How  are  you?  Merry 
Christmas !" 

It  was  a  turkey!     lie  never  could  have 


496 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


stood  upon  his  legs,  that  bird.  He  would 
have  snapped  'em  short  off  in  a  minute,  like 
sticks  of  sealing-wax. 

"  Why,  it's  impossible  to  carry  that  to 
Camden  Town,"  said  Scrooge.  "  You  must 
have  a  cab." 

The  chuckle  with  which  he  said  this,  and 
the  chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for  the  Tur- 
key, and  the  chuckle  with  which  he  paid  for 
the  cab,  and  the  chuckle  with  which  he 
recompensed  the  boy,  were  only  to  be  ex- 
ceeded by  the  chuckle  with  which  he  sat 
down  breathless  in  his  chair  again,  and 
chuckled  till  he  cried. 

Shaving  was  not  an  easy  task,  for  his  hand 
continued  to  shake  very  much  ;  and  shaving 
requires  attention  even  when  you  don't  dance 
while  you  are  at  it.  But  if  he  had  cut  the 
end  of  his  nose  off,  he  would  have  put  a 
piece  of  sticking-plaster  over  it,  and  been 
quite  satisfied. 

He  dressed  himself  "all  in  his  best,"  and 
at  last  got  out  into  the  streets.  The  people 
were  by  this  time  pouring  forth,  as  he  had 
seen  them  with  the  Ghost  of  Christmas 
Present;  and  walking  with  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  Scrooge  regarded  every  one  with 
a  delighted  smile.  He  looked  so  irresistibly 
pleasant,  in  a  word,  that  three  or  four  good- 
humoured  fellows  said  "Good-morning,  sir! 
A  merry  Christmas  to  you  !"  And  Scrooge 
said  often  afterward,  that  of  all  the  blithe 
sounds  he  had  ever  heard,  those  were  the 
blithest  in  his  ears.  .  .  . 

He  went  to  church,  and  walked  about  the 
streets,  and  watched  the  people  hurrying  to 
and  fro,  and  patted  the  children  on  the  head, 
and  questioned  beggars,  and  looked  down 
into  kitchens  of  houses,  and  up  to  the  win- 
dows ;  and  found  that  everything  could  give 
him  pleasure.  He  had  never  dreamed  that 
any  walk — that  anything — could  give  him 
so  much  happiness.  In  the  afternoon  he 
turned  his  steps  toward  his  nephew's  house. 

lie  passed  the  door  a  dozen  times  before 
he  had  the  courage  to  go  up  and  knock.  But 
he  made  a  dash,  and  did  it. 

"Is  your  master  at  home,  my  dear?"  said 
Scrooge.  "Nice  girl!  Very." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Where  is  he,  my  love?"  said  Scrooge. 

"  He's  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  along  with 
mistress.  I'll  show  you  up-stairs,  if  you 
please." 

"  Thank'ee.  He  knows  me,"  said  Scrooge, 
with  his  hand  already  on  the  dining-room 
lock.  "  I'll  go  in  here,  my  dear." 

He  turned  it  gently,  and  sidled  his  face  in, 
round  the  door.  They  were  looking  at  the 
table  (which  was  spread  out  in  great  array) ; 
for  these  young  housekeepers  are  always 
nervous  on  such  points,  and  like  to  see  that 
everything  is  right. 


"  Fred  !"  says  Scrooge. 

Dear  heart  alive,  how  his  niece  by  mar- 
riage started.  Scrooge  had  forgotten,  for 
the  moment,  about  her  sitting  in  the  corner 
with  the  footstool,  or  he  wouldn't  have  done 
it,  on  any  account. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !"  cried  Fred.  "Who's 
that?" 

"  It's  I.  Your  uncle  Scrooge.  I  have 
come  to  dinner.  Will  you  let  me  in,  Fred?" 

Let  him  in  !  It's  a  mercy  he  didn't  shake 
his  arm  off.  He  was  at  home  in  five  minutes. 
Nothing  could  be  heartier.  His  niece  looked 
just  the  same.  So  did  Topper  when  Aecame. 
So  did  the  plump  sister  when  she  came.  So 
did  every  one  when  they  came.  Wonderful 
party,  wonderful  games,  wonderful  una- 
nimity, wonderful  happiness. 

But  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning. 
Oh,  he  was  early  there.  If  he  could  only  be 
there  first,  and  catch  Bob  Cratchit  coming  late. 
That  was  the  thing  he  had  set  his  heart  upon. 

And  he  did  it;  yes,  he  did!  The  clock 
struck  nine.  No  Bob.  A  quarter  past.  No 
Bob.  He  was  full  eighteen  minutes  and  a 
half  behind  his  time.  Scrooge  sat  with  his 
door  wide  open,  that  he  might  sec  him  come 
into  the  Tank. 

His  hat  was  off  before  he  opened  the  door ; 
his  comforter  too.  lie  was  on  his  stool  in  a 
jiffy,  driving  away  with  his  pen,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  overtake  nine  o'clock. 

"  Hallo  !''  growled  Scrooge,  in  his  accus- 
tomed voice  as  near  as  he  could  feign  it. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  at  this 
time  of  day?" 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  Bob.  "  I  am 
behind  my  time." 

"  You  are  !"  repeated  Scrooge.  "Yes.  I 
think  you  are.  Step  this  way,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

"  It's  only  once  a  year,  sir,"  pleaded  Bob, 
appearing  from  the  Tank.  "  It  shall  not  be 
repeated.  I  was  making  rather  merry,  yes- 
terday, sir." 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  friend,"  said 
Scrooge,  "  I  am  not  going  to  stand  this  sort 
of  thing  any  longer.  And  therefore,"  he 
continued,  leaping  from  his  stool,  and  giving 
Bob  such  a  dig  in  the  waistcoat  that  he  stag- 
gered back  into  the  Tank  again  :  "  and  there- 
fore I  am  about  to  raise  your  salary  !" 

Bob  trembled,  and  got  a  little  nearer  to 
the  ruler.  He  had  a  momentary  idea  of 
knocking  Scrooge  down  with  it,  holding  him, 
and  calling  to  the  people  in  the  court  for 
help  and  a  strait  waistcoat. 

'•  A  merry  Christmas,  Bob!"  said  Scrooge, 
with  an  earnestness  that  could  not  be  mis- 
taken, as  he  clapped  him  on  the  back.  "  A 
merrier  Christmas,  Bob,  my  good  fellow, 
than  I  have  given  you  for  many  a  year  !  I'll 
raise  your  salary,  and  endeavour  to  assist 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


497 


your  struggling  family,  and  Ave  will  discuss 
your  affairs  this  very  afternoon  over  a  Christ- 
inas bowl  of  smoking  bishop,  Bob !  Make 
up  the  fires  and  buy  another  coal-scuttle  be- 
fore you  dot  another  i,  Bob  Cratchit!" 

Scrooge  was  better  than  his  word.  He 
did  it  all,  and  infinitely  more;  and  to  Tiny 
Tim,  who  did  NOT  die,  he  was  a  second 
father.  He  became  as  good  a  friend,  as 
good  a  master,  and  as  good  a  man,  as  the 
good  old  city  knew,  or  any  other  good  old 
city,  town,  or  borough  in  the  good  old  world. 
Some  people  laughed  to  see  the  alteration  in 
him,  but  he  let  them  laugh,  and  little  heeded 
them  ;  for  he  was  wise  enough  to  know  that 
nothing  ever  happened  on  this  globe,  for 
good,  at  which  some  people  did  not  have 
their  fill  of  laughter  in  the  outset;  and 
knowing  that  such  as  these  would  be  blind 
any  way,  he  thought  it  quite  as  well  that 
they  should  wrinkle  up  their  eyes  in  grins, 
as  have  the  malady  in  less  attractive  forms. 
His  own  heart  laughed :  and  that  was  quite 
enough  for  him. 

lie  had  no  further  intercourse  with  Spirits, 
but  lived  upon  the  Total  Abstinence  Principle 
ever  afterward  ;  and  it  was  always  said  of 
him,  that  he  knew  how  to  keep  Christmas 
well,  if  any  man  alive  possessed  the  knowl- 
edge. May  that  be  truly  said  of  us,  and  all 
of  us  !  And  so,  as  Tiny  Tim  observed,  God 
blcs*  Us,  Every  One ! 

Christmas  Carol,  Stave  5. 

MATRIMONY. 

While  the  old  gentleman  was  thus  en- 
gaged, a  very  buxom-looking  cook,  dressed 
in  mourning,  who  had  been  bustling  about 
in  the  bar,  glided  into  the  room,  and  bestow- 
ing many  smirks  of  recognition  upon  Sam, 
silently  stationed  herself  at  the  back  of  his 
father's  chair,  and  announced  her  presence 
by  a  slight  cough  :  the  which,  being  disre- 
garded, was  followed  by  a  louder  one. 

"  Hallo!''  said  the  elder  Mr.  Weller,  drop- 
ping the  poker  as  he  looked  round,  and 
hastily  drew  his  chair  away.  u  Wot's  the 
matter  now?" 

"  Have  a  cup  of  tea,  there's  a  good  soul," 
replied  the  buxom  female,  coaxingly. 

"I  von't,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  in  a  some- 
what boisterous  manner.  'Til  see  you — '' 
Mr.  Weller  hastily  checked  himself,  and 
added  in  a  low  tone,  "  furder  fust.'1 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear !  How  adversity  does 
change  people  !"  said  the  lady,  looking  up- 
wards. 

''  It's  the  only  thing  'twixt  this  and  the 
doctor  as  shall  change  my  condition,"  mut- 
tered Mr.  Weller. 

"  I  really  never  saw  a  man  so  cross,"  said 
the  buxom  female. 
32 


"  Never  mind.  It's  all  for  my  own  good  ; 
vich  is  the  reflection  vith  wich  the  penitent 
school-boy  comforted  his  feelin's  ven  they 
flogged  him,"  rejoined  the  old  gentleman. 

The  buxom  female  shook  her  head  with  a 
compassionate  and  sympathizing  air ;  and, 
appealing  to  Sam,  inquired  whether  his 
father  really  ought  not  to  make  an  effort  to 
keep  up,  and  not  to  give  way  to  that  lowness 
of  spirits?  .  .  . 

"As  I  don't  rekvire  any  o'  your  conversa- 
tion just  now,  mum,  vill  you  have  the  good- 
ness to  re-tire?"  inquired  Mr.  Weller,  in  a 
grave  and  steady  voice. 

"  Well.  Mr.  Weller,"  said  the  buxom  fe- 
male, "  I'm  sure  I  only  spoke  to  you  out  of 
kindness." 

"  Wery  likely,  mum,"  replied  Mr.  Weller. 
"  Samivel,  show  the  lady  out,  and  shut  the 
door  arter  her." 

This  hint  was  not  lost  upon  the  buxom 
female ;  for  she  at  once  left  the  room,  and 
slammed  the  door  behind  her,  upon  which 
Mr.  Weller,  senior,  falling  back  in  his  chair 
in  a  violent  perspiration,  said  : 

"  Sammy,  if  I  wos  to  stop  here  alone  vtm 
veek — only  vun  veek,  my  boy — that  ere 
'ooman  'ud  marry  me  by  force  and  wiolence 
afore  it  was  over." 

'•Wot!  Is  she  so  wery  fond  on  you?" 
inquired  Sam. 

'•Fond!"  replied  his  father,  "I  can't  keep 
her  avay  from  me.  If  I  was  locked  up  in  a 
fire-proof  chest,  vith  a  patent  Brahmin,  she'd 
find  means  to  get  at  me,  Sammy." 

"  Wot  a  thing  it  is,  to  be  so  sought  arter !" 
observed  Sam,  smiling. 

"I  don't  take  no  pride  out  on  it,  Sammy," 
replied  Mr.  Weller,  poking  the  fire  vehe- 
mently: '' it's  a  horrid  sitiwation.  I'm  ac- 
tiwally  drove  out  o'  house  and  home  by  it. 
The  breath  was  scarcely  out  o'  your  poor 
mother-in-law's  body  ven  vun  old  'ooman 
sends  me  a  pot  o'  jam,  and  another  a  pot  o' 
jelly,  and  another  brews  a  blessed  large  jug 
o'  camomile-tea,  vich  she  brings  in  vith  her 
own  hands."  Mr.  Weller  paused  with  an 
aspect  of  intense  disgust,  and,  looking  round, 
added  in  a  whisper  :  "  They  wos  all  widders, 
Sammy,  all  on  'em,  'cept  the  camomile-tea 
one,  as  wos  a  single  young  lady  o'  fifty-three." 

Sam  gave  a  comical  look  in  reply,  and  the 
old  gentleman  having  broken  an  obstinate 
lump  of  coal,  with  a  countenance  expressive 
of  as  much  earnestness  and  malice  as  if  it 
had  been  the  head  of  one  of  the  widows  last 
mentioned,  said : 

"  In  short,  Sammy,  I  feel  that  I  ain't  safe 
anyveres  but  on  the  box." 

"  How  are  you  safer  there  than  anyveres 
else?"  interrupted  Sam. 

"  'Cos  a  coachman's  a  privileged  indiwid- 
ual,"  replied  Mr.  Weller,  looking  fixedly  at 


498 


HENRY  THEODORE   TUCKERMAN. 


his  son.  "'Cos  n  coachman  may  do  vithout 
suspicion  wot  other  men  may  not;  'cos  a 
coachman  may  be  on  the  wery  amicablest 
terms  with  eighty  mile  o'  females,  and  yet 
nobody  think  that  he  ever  means  to  marry 
any  vun  among  'em.  And  vot  other  man 
can  say  the  same,  Sammy?" 

"Veil,  there's  somethin'  in  that,"  said 
Sam. 

"  If  your  gov'ner  had  been  a  coachman," 
reasoned  Mr.  Weller,  "do  you  suppose  as 
that  'ere  jury  'ud  ever  ha'  conwicted  him, 
s'posin'  it  possible  as  the  matter  could  ha' 
gone  to  that  extremity?  They  durstn't  ha' 
done  it." 

"  Wy  not?"  said  Sam,  rather  despairingly. 

"Wy  not?"  rejoined  Mr.  Weller;  "'cos  it 
'ud  ha'  gone  agin  their  consciences.  A  reg'- 
Jar  coachman's  a  sort  o'  con-nectin'  link  be- 
twixt singleness  and  matrimony,  and  every 
practicable  man  knows  it." 

"  Wot!  You  mean  they're gen'ral  fav'rites, 
and  nobody  takes  advantage  on  'em,  p'raps?" 
said  Sam. 

His  father  nodded. 

"  How  it  ever  come  to  that  'ere  pass,"  re- 
sumed the  parent  Weller,  "  I  can't  say.  Wy 
it  is  that  long-stage  coachmen  possess  such 
insiniwations,  and  is  always  looked  up  to, — 
a-dored  I  may  say, — by  every  young  'ooman 
in  every  town  he  vurks  through,  I  don't 
know.  I  only  know  that  so  it  is.  It's  a 
reg'lation  of  natur, — a  dispensary,  as  your 
poor  mother-in-law  used  to  say." 

"A  dispensation,"  said  Sam,  correcting 
the  old  gentleman. 

"Wery  good,  Samivel,  a  dispensation  if 
you  like  it  better,"  returned  Mr.  Weller:  "/ 
call  it  a  dispensary,  and  it's  always  writ  up 
so  at  the  places  vere  they  gives  you  physic 
for  nothin'  in  your  own  bottles;  that's  all." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Weller  re-filled 
and  re-lighted  his  pipe,  and  once  more  sum- 
moning up  a  meditative  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, continued  as  follows: 

"  Therefore,  my  boy,  as  I  do  not  see  the 
adwisability  o'  stoppin'  here  to  be  marri'd 
vether  I  vant  to  or  not,  and  as  at  the  same 
time  I  do  not  vish  to  separate  myself  from 
them  interestin'  members  o'  society  alto- 
gether, I  have  come  to  the  determination  o' 
drivin'  the  Safety,  and  puttin'  up  vunce 
more  at  the  Bell  Savage,  vich  is  my  natural 
born  element,  Sammy." 

Pickwick,  Chap.  52. 


HENRY  THEODORE  TUCK- 
ERMAN, 

a  poet,  essayist,  critic,  and  biographer,  was 
born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  1813,  visited 


Europe  in  1833-34,  and  again,  1837-38,  and 

1852,  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York  in 
1845,  and  died  there  December  17,  1871. 

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ary of  English  Literature,  iii.  2466-67. 

"  No  more  interesting  and  instructive  books 
cnn  be  found  in  our  literature  thnn  Tuckennan's 
Thoughts  on  the  Poets,  The  Optimist,  Character- 
istics of  Literature,  and  Essays,  Biographical  and 
Critical.  The  two  latter  would  be  excellent  books 
for  the  higher  clas;-es  in  schools;  and  the  four 
should  be  in  every  district  library  in  the  land." — 
C.  D.  CLEVELAND  :  Compend.  of  Amer.  Lit.,  1859, 
675,  n. 

"  He  is  an  agreeable  Essayist  and  a  pleasing 
poet.  The  tendencies  of  his  mind  are  strongly 
opposed  to  the  false  and  chilling  philosophy  which 
sees  nothing  good  but  in  material  things  which 
have  a  market  value." — CHARLES  KNIGHT:  Ifa/f- 
Jluurs  with  the  Best  Aitthurs,  Third  Quarter,  Thirty 


HENRY  THEODORE   TUCKERMAN. 


499 


Fourth  IFreZ-,  ]STo.  232  :    A  Defence  of  Enthusiasm 
(by  II.  T.  Tuckerman). 

A  DEFENCE  OF  ENTHUSIASM. 

Let  us  recognize  the  beauty  and  power  of 
true  enthusiasm  ;  and,  whatever  we  may  do  to 
enlighten  ourselves  and  others,  guard  against 
checking  or  chilling  a  single  earnest  senti- 
ment. For  what  is  the  human  mind,  how- 
ever enriched  with  acquisitions  or  strength- 
ened by  exercise,  unaccompanied  by  an 
ardent  and  sensitive  heart?  Its  light  may 
illumine,  but  it  cannot  inspire.  It  may  shed 
a  cold  and  moonlight  radiance  upon  the  path 
of  life,  but  it  warms  no  flower  into  bloom  ;  it 
sets  free  no  ice-bound  fountains.  Dr.  John- 
son used  to  say,  that  an  obstinate  rationality 
prevented  him  from  being  a  Papist.  Does 
not  the  same  cause  prevent  many  of  us 
from  unburdening  our  hearts  and  breathing 
our  devotions  at  the  shrines  of  Nature? 
There  are  influences  which  environ  human- 
ity too  subtle  for  the  dissecting-knife  of 
reason.  In  our  better  moments  we  are 
clearly  conscious  of  their  presence,  and  if 
there  is  any  barrier  to  their  blessed  agency 
it  is  a  formalized  intellect.  Enthusiasm, 
too.  is  the  very  life  of  gifted  spirits.  Ponder 
the  lives  of  the  glorious  in  art  or  literature 
through  all  ages.  What  are  they  but  rec- 
ords of  toil  and  sacrifices  supported  by  the 
earnest  hearts  of  their  votaries?  Dante 
composed  his  immortal  poem  amid  exile  and 
suffering,  prompted  by  the  noble  ambition 
of  vindicating  himself  to  posterity:  and  the 
sweetest  angel  of  his  paradise  is  the  object 
of  his  early  love.  The  best  countenances 
the  old  painters  have  bequeathed  to  us  are 
those  of  cherished  objects  intimately  associ- 
ated with  their  fame.  The  face  of  Raphael's 
mother  blends  with  the  angelic  beauty  of  all 
his  Madonnas.  Titian's  daughter  and  the 
wife  of  Corregio  again  and  again  meet  in 
their  works.  Well  does  Foscolo  call  the  fine 
arts  the  children  of  love.  The  deep  interest 
with  which  the  Italians  hail  gifted  men 
inspires  them  to  the  mightiest  efforts.  Na- 
tional enthusiasm  is  the  great  nursery  of 
genius.  When  Cellini's  statue  of  Perseus 
was  first  exhibited  on  the  Piazzi  at  Florence 
it  was  surrounded  for  days  by  an  admiring 
throng,  and  hundreds  of  tributary  sonnets 
were  placed  upon  its  pedestal.  Petrarch 
was  crowned  with  laurel  at  Rome  for  his 
poetical  labours,  and  crowds  of  the  unlet- 
tered may  still  be  seen  on  the  Mole  at  Na- 
ples, listening  to  a  reader  of  Tasso.  Reason 
is  not  the  only  interpreter  of  life.  The 
fountain  of  action  is  in  the  feelings.  Relig- 
ion itself  is  but  a  state  of  the  affection.  I 
once  met  a  beautiful  peasant  woman  in  the 
valley  of  the  Arno,  and  asked  the  number 


of  her  children.  "I  have  three  here,  and 
two  in  Paradise,"  she  calmly  replied,  with 
a  tone  and  manner  of  touching  and  grave 
simplicity.  Her  faith  was  of  the  heart. 
Constituted  as  human  nature  is,  it  is  in 
the  highest  degree  natural  that  rare  powers 
should  be  excited  by  voluntary  and  sponta- 
neous appreciation.  Who  would  not  feel 
urged  to  high  achievement  if  he  knew  that 
every  beauty  his  canvas  displayed,  or  every 
perfect  note  he  breathed,  or  every  true  in- 
spiration of  his  lyre,  would  find  an  instant 
response  in  a  thousand  breasts?  Lord 
Brougham  calls  the  word  "  impossible"  the 
mother-tongue  of  little  souls.  What,  I  ask. 
can  counteract  self-distrust,  and  sustain  the 
higher  efforts  of  our  nature,  but  enthusiasm  ? 
More  of  this  element  would  call  forth  the 
genius  and  gladden  the  life  of  New  England. 
While  the  mere  intellectual  man  speculates, 
and  the  mere  man  of  acquisition  cites  .au- 
thority, the  man  of  feeling  acts,  realizes,  puts 
forth  his  complete  energies.  His  earnest 
and  strong  heart  will  not  let  his  mind  rest : 
he  is  urged  by  an  inward  impulse  to  embody 
his  thoughts.  He  must  have  sympathy  ;  he 
must  have  results.  And  nature  yields  to  the 
magician,  acknowledging  him  as  her  child. 
The  noble  statue  comes  forth  from  the  mar- 
ble, the  speaking  figure  stands  out  from  the 
canvas,  the  electric  chain  is  struck  in  the 
bosoms  of  his  fellows.  They  receive  his 
ideas,  respond  to  his  appeal,  and  reciprocate 
his  love. 

Constant  supplies  of  knowledge  to  the  in- 
tellect, and  the  exclusive  culture  of  reason, 
may,  indeed,  make  a  pedant  and  logician  ; 
but  the  probability  is,  these  benefits,  if  such 
they  are,  will  be  gained  at  the  expense  of 
the  soul.  Sentiment,  in  its  broadest  accep- 
tation, is  as  essential  to  the  true  enjoyment 
and  grace  of  life  as  mind.  Technical  infor- 
mation, and  that  quickness  of  apprehension 
which  New  Englanders  call  smartness,  are 
not  so  valuable  to  a  human  being  as  sensi- 
bility to  the  beautiful,  and  a  spontaneous 
appreciation  of  the  divine  influences  which 
fill  the  realms  of  vision,  of  sound,  and  the 
world  of  action  and  feeling.  The  tastes, 
affections,  and  sentiments  are  mov>  abso- 
lutely the  man  than  his  talents  or  acquire- 
ments. And  yet  it  is  by  and  through  the 
latter  that  we  are  apt  to  estimate  the  charac- 
ter, of  which  they  are,  at  best,  fragmentary 
evidences.  It  is  remarkable  that,  in  the 
New  Testament,  allusions  to  the  intellect  are 
so  rare,  while  the  "heart"  and  the  "spirit 
we  are  of"  are  ever  appealed  to.  Sympathy 
is  the  "  golden  key"  which  unlocks  the  treas- 
ures of  wisdom  f  and  this  depends  upon 
vividness  and  warmth  of  feeling.  It  is  there- 
fore that  Tranio  advises, — "  in  brief,  sir, 
study  what  you  most  effect."  A  code  of 


503 


HENRY  THEODORE   TUCKERMAN. 


etiquette  may  refine  the  manners,  but  the 
'•  heart  of  courtesy"  which,  through  the 
world,  stamps  the  natural  gentleman,  can 
never  be  attained  but  through  instinct ;  and, 
in  the  same  manner,  those  enriching  and 
noble  sentiments  which  are  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  endearing  of  human  qualities,  no 
process  of  mental  training  will  create.  To 
what  end  is  society,  popular  education, 
churches,  and  all  the  machinery  of  culture, 
if  no  living  truth  is  elicited  which  fertilizes 
as  well  as  enlightens?  Shakspere  undoubt- 
edly owed  his  marvellous  insight  into  the 
human  soul  to  his  profound  sympathy  with 
man.  lie  might  have  conned  whole  libra- 
ries on  the  philosophy  of  the  passions;  he 
might  have  coldly  observed  facts  for  years, 
and  never  have  conceived  of  jealousy  like 
Othello's,  the  remorse  of  Macbeth,  or  love 
like  that  of  Juliet.  When  the  native  senti- 
ments are  once  interested,  new  facts  spring 
to  light.  It  was  under  the  excitement  of 
wonder  and  love  that  Byron,  tossed  on  the 
lake  of  Geneva,  thought  that  "Jura  an- 
swered from  her  misty  shroud,''  responsive 
to  the  thunder  of  the  Alps.  With  no  eye  of 
mere  curiosity  did  Bryant  follow  the  lonely 
flight  of  the  water-fowl. 

Veneration  prompted  the  inquiry, — 

"  Whither  'midst  falling  dew 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ?" 

Sometimes,  in  musing  upon  genius  in  its 
simpler  manifestations,  it  seems  as  if  the 
great  act  of  human  culture  consisted  chiefly 
in  preserving  the  glow  and  freshness  of  the 
heart.  It  is  certain  that,  in  proportion  as  its 
merely  mental  strength  and  attainment  take 
the  place  of  natural  sentiment,  in  proportion 
as  we  acquire  the  habit  of  receiving  all  im- 
pressions through  the  reason,  the  teachings 
of  nature  grow  indistinct  and  cold,  however 
it  may  be  with  those  of  books.  That  this  is 
the  tendency  of  the  New  England  philoso- 
phy of  life  and  education,  I  think  can 
scarcely  be  disputed.  I  have  remarked  that 
some  of  our  most  intelligent  men  speak  of 
mastering  a  subject,  or  comprehending  a 
book,  of  settling  a  question,  as  if  those  pro- 
cesses involved  the  whole  idea  of  human  cul- 
tivation. The  reverse  of  all  this  is  chiefly 
desirable.  It  is  when  we  are  overcome,  and 
the  pride  of  intellect  vanquished  before  the 
truth  of  nature,  when,  instead  of  coming  to 
a  logical  decision,  we  are  led  to  bow  in  pro- 
found reverence  before  the  mysteries  of  life, 
when  we  are  led  back  to  childhood,  or  up  to 
God,  by  some  powerful  revelation  of  the 
sage  or  minstrel,  it  is  then  our  natures  grow. 
To  this  end  is  all  art.  Exquisite  vocalisin, 
beautiful  statuary  and  painting,  and  all  true 


literature,  have  not  for  their  great  object  to 
employ  the  ingenuity  of  prying  critics,  or 
furnish  the  world  with  a  set  of  new  ideas, 
but  to  move  the  whole  nature  by  the  perfec- 
tion and  truthfulness  of  their  appeal.  There 
is  a  certain  atmosphere  exhaled  from  the  in- 
spired page  of  genius  which  gives  vitality  to 
the  sentiments  and  through  these  quickens 
the  mental  powers.  And  this  is  the  chief 
good  of  books.  Were  it  otherwise,  those  of 
us  who  have  bad  memories  might  despair  of 
advancement.  I  have  heard  educated  New 
Englanders  boast  of  the  quantity  of  poetry 
they  have  read  in  a  given  time,  as  if  rich 
fancies  and  elevated  thoughts  are  to  be  de- 
spatched as  are  beefsteaks  on  board  our 
steamboats.  Newspapers  are  estimated  by 
their  number  of  square  feet,  as  if  this  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  quality  of  their  contents. 
Journeys  of  pleasure  are  frequently  deemed 
delightful  in  proportion  to  their  rapidity, 
without  reference  to  the  new  scenery  or 
society  they  bring  into  view.  Social  gather- 
ings are  not  seldom  accounted  brilliant  in 
the  same  degree  that  they  are  crowded. 
Such  would  not  be  the  case,  if  what  the 
phrenologists  call  the  effective  powers  were 
enough  considered ;  if  the  whole  soul,  in- 
stead of  the  "meddling  intellect"  alone,  was 
freely  developed ;  if  we  realized  the  truth 
thus  expressed  by  a  powerful  writer: — 
"Within  the  entire  circle  of  our  intellectual 
constitution,  we  value  nothing  but  emotion  ; 
it  is  not  the  powers,  but  the  fruit  of  those 
powers,  in  so  much  feeling  of  a  lofty  kind  as 
they  will  yield." 

One  of  the  most  obvious  consequences  of 
these  traits  appears  in  social  intercourse. 
Foreigners  have  ridiculed  certain  external 
habits  of  Americans,  but  these  were  always 
confined  to  the  few.  and  where  most  preva- 
lent have  yielded  readily  to  censure.  There 
are  incongruities  of  manners  still  more  ol>- 
jectionable,  because  the  direct  exponents  of 
character,  and  resulting  from  the  philosophy 
of  life.  Delicacy  and  self-respect  are  the 
fruits  not  so  much  of  intellect  as  of  sensi- 
bility. We  are  considerate  towards  others 
in  proportion  as  our  own  consciousness  gives 
us  insight.  The  sympathies  are  the  best 
teachers  of  politeness  ;  and  these  are  ever 
blunted  by  an  exclusive  reliance  on  percep- 
tion. Nothing  is  more  common  than  to  find 
educated  New  Englanders  unconsciously  in- 
vading the  privacy  of  others,  to  indulge  their 
idle  curiosity,  or  giving  a  personal  turn  to 
conversation,  in  a  way  that  outrages  all 
moral  refinement.  This  is  observable  in  so- 
ciety professedly  intellectual.  It  is  scarcely 
deemed  rude  to  allude  to  one's  personal  ap- 
pearance, health,  dress,  circumstances,  or 
even  most  sacred  feelings,  although  neither 
intimacy  nor  confidence  lends  the  slightest 


HENRY  THEODORE   TUCKERMAN. 


501 


authority  to  the  proceeding.  Such  violation 
of  what  is  due  to  others  is  move  frequently 
met  with  among  the  cultivated  of  this  than 
any  other  country.  It  is  comparatively  rare 
here  to  encounter  a  natural  gentleman.  A 
New  England  philosopher,  in  a  recent  work 
[Emerson's  Essays,  Second  Series],  betrays 
no  little  fear  of  excess  of  fellowship.  In 
the  region  he  inhabits  there  is  ground  for 
the  apprehension.  No  standard  of  manners 
will  correct  the  evil.  The  peasantry  of 
Southern  Europe,  and  the  most  ignorant 
Irishwoman,  often  excel  educated  New  Eng- 
landers  in  genuine  courtesy.  Their  richer 
feelings  teacli  them  how  to  deal  with  others. 
Reverence  and  tenderness  (not  self-posses- 
sion and  intelligence)  are  the  hallowed  ave- 
nues through  which  alone  true  souls  come 
together.  The  cool  satisfaction  with  which 
character  is  analyzed  and  defined  in  New 
England  is  an  evidence  of  the  superficial 
test  which  observation  alone  affords.  A 
Yankee  dreams  not  of  the  world  which  is 
revealed  only  through  sentiment.  Men,  and 
especially  women,  shrink  from  unfolding  the 
depths  of  their  natures  to  the  cold  and  pry- 
ing gaze  which  aims  to  explore  them  only  as 
an  intellectual  diversion.  It  is  the  most  pre- 
sumptuous tiling  in  the  world  for  an  unadul- 
terated New  Englander,  however  'cute  and 
studious,  to  pretend  to  know  another  human 
being,  if  nobly  endowed  ;  for  he  is  the  last 
person  to  elicit  latent  and  cherished  emo- 
tions, lie  may  read  mental  capacities  and 
detect  moral  tendencies,  but  no  familiarity 
•will  unveil  the  inner  temple  ;  only  in  the 
vestibule  will  his  prying  step  be  endured. 

Another  effect  of  this  exaggerated  esti- 
mate of  intellect  is,  that  talent  and  character 
are  often  regarded  as  identical.  This  is  a 
fatal  but  very  prevalent  error.  A  gift  of 
mind,  let  it  ever  be  remembered,  is  not  a 
grace  of  soul.  Training,  or  native  skill,  will 
enable  any  one  to  excel  in  the  machinery  of 
expression.  The  phrase — artistical.  whether 
in  reference  to  statuary,  painting,  literature, 
or  manners,  implies  only  aptitude  and  dex- 
terity. Who  is  not  aware,  for  instance,  of 
the  vast  difference  between  a  merely  scien- 
tific knowledge  of  music,  and  that  enlist- 
ment of  the  sympathies  in  the  heart  which 
makes  it  the  eloquent  medium  of  passion, 
sentiment,  and  truth  ?  And  in  literature, 
how  often  do  we  find  the  most  delicate  per- 
ception of  beauty  in  the  writer,  combined 
with  a  total  want  of  genuine  refinement  in 
the  man  !  Art  is  essentially  imitative  ;  and 
its  value,  as  illustrative  of  character,  de- 
pends not  upon  the  mental  endowments,  but 
upon  the  moral  integrity  of  the  artist.  The 
idea  of  talent  is  associated  more  or  less  with 
the  idea  of  success:  and  on  this  account  the 
lucrative  creed  of  the  New  Englander  recog- 


nizes it  with  indiscriminate  admiration  ;  but 
there  is  a  whole  armory  of  weapons  in  the 
human  bosorn  of  more  celestial  temper.  It 
is  a  nobler  and  a  happier  thing  to  be  capa- 
ble of  self-devotion,  loyalty,  and  generous 
sympathies,  to  cherish  a  quick  sense  of 
honour,  and  to  find  absolute  comfort  only  in 
being  lost  in  another,  than  to  have  an  eve 
for  colour,  whereby  the  rainbow  can  be 
transferred  to  canvas,  or  a  felicity  of  dic- 
tion that  can  embalm  the  truest  pictures  in 
immortal  numbers.  Not  only  or  chiefly  in 
what  he  does  resides  the  significance  of  a 
human  being.  His  field  of  action  find  the 
availability  of  his  powers  depend  upon 
health,  education,  self-reliance,  position, 
and  a  thousand  other  agencies  ;  what  he  is 
results  from  the  instincts  of  his  soul,  and 
for  these  alone  he  is  truly  to  be  loved.  It  is 
observable  among  New  Englanders,  that  an 
individual's  qualities  are  less  frequently  re- 
ferred to  as  a  test  of  character  than  his  per- 
formances. It  is  very  common  for  them  to 
sacrifice  social  and  private  to  public  charac- 
ter, friendship  to  fame,  sympathy  to  opinion, 
love  to  ambition,  and  sentiment  to  propriety. 
There  is  an  obvious  disposition  .among  them 
to  appraise  men  and  women  at  their  market 
rather  than  their  intrinsic  value.  A  lucky 
speculation,  a  profitable  invention,  a  salable 
book,  an  effective  rhetorical  effort,  or  a  sa- 
gacious political  ruse — some  fact,  which 
proves  at  best  only  adroitness  and  good 
fortune — is  deemed  the  best  escutcheon  to 
lend  dignity  to  life,  or  hang  as  a  lasting  me- 
morial upon  the  tomb.  Those  more  inti- 
mate revelations  and  ministries  which  deal 
with  the  inmost  gifts  of  mind  and  warmest 
emotions  of  the  heart,  and  through  which 
alone  love  and  truth  are  realized,  are  but  sel- 
dom dreamt  of  in  their  philosophy. 

There  is  yet  another  principle  which  seems 
to  me  but  faintly  recognized  in  the  New 
England  philosophy  of  life,  however  it  may 
be  occasionally  cultivated  as  a  department 
of  literature;  and  yet  it  is  one  which  we 
should  deem  essentially  dear  to  man,  a  glori- 
ous endowment,  a  crowning  grace  of  human- 
ity. It  is  that  principle  through  which  we 
commune  with  all  that  is  lovely  and  grand 
in  the  universe,  which  mellows  the  pictures 
of  memory  into  pensive  beauty,  and  irradi- 
ates the  visions  of  hope  with  unearthly 
brightness;  which  elevates  our  social  ex- 
perience by  the  glow  of  fancy,  and  exhibits 
scenes  of  perfection  to  the  soul  that  the 
senses  can  never  realize.  It  is  the  poetical 
principle.  If  this  precious  gift  could  be 
wholly  annihilated  amid  the  commonplace 
and  the  actual,  we  should  lose  the  interest 
of  life.  The  dull  routine  of  daily  experi- 
ence, the  tame  reality  of  things,  would  weigh 
like  a  heavy  and  permanent  cloud  upon  our 


502 


HENRY  WARD  BEE  CHER. 


hearts.  But  the  office  of  this  divine  spirit 
is  to  throw  a  redeeming  grace  around  the 
objects  and  the  scenes  of  being.  It  is  the 
breeze  that  lifts  the  weeds  on  the  highway 
of  time,  and  brings  to  view  the  violets  be- 
neath. It  is  the  holy  water  which,  sprinkled 
on  the  mosaic  pavement  of  life,  makes  vivid 
its  brilliant  tints.  It  is  the  mystic  harp  upon 
whose  strings  the  confused  murmur  of  toil, 
gladness,  and  grief  loses  itself  in  music. 
But  it  performs  a  yet  higher  function  than 
that  of  consolation.  It  is  through  the  poet- 
ical principle  that  wo  form  images  of  excel- 
lence, a  notion  of  progress  that  quickens 
every  other  faculty  to  rich  endeavour.  All 
great  men  are  so,  chiefly  through  unceasing 
effort  to  realize  in  action,  or  embody  in  art. 
sentiments  of  deep  interest  or  ideas  of 
beauty.  As  colours  exist  in  rays  of  light, 
so  does  the  ideal  in  the  soul,  and  life  is  the 
mighty  prism  which  refracts  it.  Shelley 
maintains  that  it  is  only  through  the  imagi- 
nation that  we  can  overleap  the  barriers  of 
self,  and  become  identified  with  the  univer- 
sal and  the  distant,  and,  therefore,  that  this 
principle  is  the  true  fountain  of  benevolent 
affections  and  virtue.  I  know  it  is  some- 
times said  that  the  era  of  romance  has  passed : 
that  with  the  pastoral,  classic,  and  chival- 
rous periods  of  the  world,  the  poetic  element 
died  out.  But  this  is  manifestly  a  great 
error.  The  forms  of  society  have  greatly 
changed,  and  the  methods  of  poetical  devel- 
opment are  much  modified,  but  the  princi- 
ple itself  is  essential  to  humanity.  No! 
mechanical  as  is  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and 
wide  as  is  the  empire  of  utility,  as  long  as 
the  stars  appear  nightly  in  the  firmament, 
and  golden  clouds  gather  around  the  de- 
parting sun;  as  long  as  we  can  greet  the 
innocent  smile  of  infancy  and  the  gentle 
eye  of  woman  ;  as  long  as  this  earth  is  vis- 
ited by  visions  of  glory  and  dreams  of  love 
and  hopes  of  heaven  ;  while  life  is  encir- 
cled by  mystery,  brightened  by  affection, 
and  solemnized  by  death,  so  long  will  the 
poetical  spirit  be  abroad,  with  its  fervent 
aspirations  and  deep  spells  of  enchantment. 
Again,  it  is  often  urged  that  the  poetical 
spirit  belongs  appropriately  to  a  certain 
epoch  of  life,  and  that  its  influence  natur- 
ally ceases  with  youth.  But  this  can  only 
be  the  case  through  self-apostasy.  The 
poetical  element  was  evidently  intended  to 
mingle  with  the  Whole  human  experience; 
not  only  to  glow  in  the  breast  of  youth,  but 
to  dignify  the  thought  of  manhood,  and 
make  venerable  the  aspect  of  age.  Its  pur- 
pose clearly  is  to  relieve  the  sternness  of  neces- 
sity, to  lighten  the  burden  of  toil,  and  throw 
sacredness  and  hope  even  around  suffering, 
— as  the  old  painters  were  wont  to  depict 
groups  of  cherubs  above  their  martyrdoms. 


Nor  can  I  believe  that  the  agency  of  this 
principle  is  so  confined  and  temporary  as 
many  suppose.  It  is  true  our  contemplation 
of  the  beautiful  is  of  short  duration,  our 
flights  into  the  ideal  world  brief  and  occa- 
sional. We  can  but  bend  in  passing  at  the 
altar  of  beauty,  and  pluck  a  flower  hastily 
by  the  wayside ; — but  may  there  not  be  an 
instinct  which  eagerly  appropriates  even 
these  transitory  associations?  May  they 
not  be  unconsciously  absorbed  into  the  es- 
sence of  our  life,  and  gradually  refine  and 
exalt  the  spirit  within  us?  I  cannot  think 
that  such  rich  provision  for  the  poetic  sym- 
pathies is  intended  for  any  casual  or  indif- 
ferent end.  llather  let  us  believe  there  is  a 
mystic  language  in  the  flowers,  and  a  deep 
meaning  in  the  stars,  that  the  transparency 
of  the  winter  air  and  the  long  sweetness  of 
summer  twilight  pass,  witli  imperceptible 
power,  over  the  soul :  rather  let  us  cherish 
the  thought  that  the  absorbing  emotions  of 
love,  the  sweet  excitement  of  adventure, 
and  the  impassioned  solemnity  of  grief,  with 
a  kind  of  spiritual  chemistry,  combine  and 
purify  the  inward  elements  into  nobler  ac- 
tion and  more  perfect  results. 
New  England  Philosophy :  An  Essay. 


HENRY    WARD    BEECHER, 
D.D., 

a  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Lyman  Beecher,  was 
born  at  Litchfield,  Conn.,  1813,  graduated 
at  Amherst  College,  1834,  was  settled  as  a 
Presbyterian  minister  at  Lawrenceburg.  In- 
diana, 1837-39,  and  at  Indianapolis,  1839  to 
1847,  when  he  became  pastor  of  the  Ply- 
mouth Church,  in  Brooklyn,  New  York,  an 
organization  of  Orthodox  Congregational 
believers,  which  post  he  still  (1879)  occu- 
pies. 

Among  his  publications  are  Lectures  to 
Young  Men,  Bost.,  1850;  Industry  and 
Idleness,  Phila.,  1850,  18mo;  The  Star  Pa- 
pers, New  York,  1855,  12mo,  Second  Series, 
1858,  12mo, -new  edit.,  1873,  12mo;  Nor- 
wood, or  Village  Life  in  New  England,  New 
York,  18C7,  12mo;  Pleasant  Talk  about 
Fruits,  Flowers,  and  Farming,  New  York, 
12mo  ;  Eyes  and  Ears,  12mo  ;  Life  of  Jesus 
the  Chris't,  vol.  i.,  New  York,  4to  and  8vo. 
Many  volumes  of  his  Sermons,  Lectures, 
Prayers,  etc.,  have  been  published  by  others  : 
Life  Thoughts,  gathered  from  his  Extempo- 
raneous Discourses,  by  Miss  E.  D.  Proctor 
and  A.  Moore,  have  had  a  very  large  sale. 
Dr.  Beecher  edited  The  Plymouth  Collection 
of  Hymns  and  Tunes  ;  was  one  of  the  origi- 
nators and  a  contributor  to  The  Independent 
newspaper,  and  contributes  to  The  Christian 


HENRY  WARD  BEE  CHER. 


503 


Union,  etc.  See  Men  of  Our  Times,  by  Mrs. 
II.  B.  Stowe  (Dr.  Beeoher's  sister),  Hart- 
ford, 1868,  8vo  ;  Fowler's  American  Pulpit, 
New  York,  1850,  8vo. 

BUYING  BOOKS. 

How  easily  one  may  distinguish  a  genu- 
ine lover  of  books  from  the  worldly  man ! 
With  what  subdued  and  yet  glowing  enthu- 
siasm does  he  gaze  upon  the  costly  front 
of  a  thousand  embattled  volumes!  How 
gently  he  draws  them  down,  as  if  they  were 
little  children!  how  tenderly  he  handles 
them  !  lie  peers  at  the  title-page,  at  the 
text,  or  the  notes,  with  the  nicety  of  a  bird 
examining  a  flower.  He  studies  the  bind- 
ing: the  leather,  —  Russia,  English  calf, 
morocco ;  the  lettering,  the  gilding,  the 
edging,  the  hinge  of  the  cover  !  He  opens 
it,  and  shuts  it,  he  holds  it  off,  and  brings  it 
nigh.  It  suffuses  his  whole  body  with  book- 
magnetism.  He  walks  up  and  down,  in 
amaze  at  the  mysterious  allotments  of  Prov- 
idence that  gives  so  much  money  to  men 
who  spend  it  upon  their  appetites,  and  so 
little  to  men  who  would  spend  it  in  benevo- 
lence, or  upon  their  refined  tastes!  It  is 
astonishing,  too,  how  one's  necessities  mul- 
tiply in  the  presence  of  the  supply.  One 
never  knows  how  many  things  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  do  without  till  he  goes  to  the  house- 
furnishing  stores.  One  is  surprised  to  per- 
ceive, at  some  bazaar,  or  fancy  and  variety 
store,  how  many  conveniences  he  needs.  lie 
is  satisfied  that  his  life  must  have  been  ut- 
terly inconvenient  aforetime.  And  thus, 
too,  one  is  inwardly  convicted  at  a  book- 
store of  having  lived  for  years  without  books 
which  he  is  now  satisfied  that  one  cannot 
live  without! 

Then,  too,  the  subtle  process  by  which  the 
man  convinces  himself  that  he  can  afford  to 
buy  !  No  subtle  manager  or  broker  ever 
saw  through  a  maze  of  financial  embarrass- 
ments half  so  quick  as  a  poor  book-buyer 
sees  his  way  clear  to  pay  for  what  he  must 
have.  He  pi-omises  with  himself  marvels 
of  retrenchment;  he  will  eat  less,  or  less 
costly  viands,  that  he  may  buy  more  food 
for  the  mind.  He  will  take  an  extra  patch, 
and  go  on  with  his  raiment  another  year, 
and  buy  books  instead  of  coats.  Yea,  he 
will  write  books,  that  he  may  buy  books. 
He  will  lecture,  teach,  trade, — he  will  do 
any  honest  thing  for  money  to  buy  books! 

The  appetite  is  insatiable.  Feeding  does 
not  satisfy  it.  It  rages  by  the  fuel  which  is 
put  upon  it.  As  a  hungry  man  eats  first 
and  pays  afterward,  so  the  book-buyer  pur- 
chases, and  then  works  at  the  debt  after- 
ward. This  paying  is  rather  medicinal.  It 
cures  for  a  time.  But  a  relapse  takes  place. 


The  same  longing,  the  same  promises  of 
self-denial.  lie  promises  himself  to  put 
spurs  on  both  heels  of  his  industry ;  and 
then,  besides  all  this,  he  will  somehow  get 
along  when  the  time  for  payment  comes! 
Ah  !  this  SOMEHOW  !  That  word  is  as  big  as 
a  whole  world,  and  is  stuffed  with  all  the 
vagaries  and  fantasies  that  Fancy  ever  bred 
upon  Hope. 

And  yet,  is  there  not  some  comfort  in 
buying  books  to  be  paid  for?  We  have  heard 
of  a  sot  who  wished  his  neck  as  long  as  the 
worm  of  a  still,  that  he  might  so  much  the 
longer  enjoy  the  flavour  of  the  draught! 
Thus,  it  is  a  prolonged  excitement  of  pur- 
chase, if  you  feel  for  six  months  in  a  slight 
doubt  whether  the  book  is  honestly  your 
own  or  not.  Had  you  paid  down,  that 
would  have  been  the  end  of  it.  There 
would  have  been  no  affectionate  and  be- 
seeching look  of  your  books  at  you,  every 
time  you  saw  them,  saying,  as  plain  as  a 
book's  eyes  can  say,  "  Do  not  let  me  be  taken 
from  you.'" 

Moreover,  buying  books  before  you  can 
pay  for  them  promotes  caution.  You  do 
not  feel  at  liberty  to  take  them  home.  You 
are  married.  Your  wife  keeps  an  account- 
book.  She  knows  to  a  penny  what  you  can 
and  what  you  cannot  afford.  She  has  no 
"speculation"  in  her  eyes.  Plain  figures 
make  desperate  work  with  airy  "  somehows." 
It  is  a  matter  of  no  small  skill  and  expe- 
rience to  get  your  books  home,  and  into 
their  proper  places,  undiscovered.  Perhaps 
the  blundering  Express  brings  them  to  the 
door  just  at  evening.  "  What  is  it,  my 
dear?"  she  says  to  you.  "Oh  !  nothing, — a 
few  books  that  I  cannot  do  without." 

That  smile  !  A  true  housewife  that  loves 
her  husband  can  smile  a  whole  arithmetic 
at  him  in  one  look  !  Of  course  she  insists, 
in  the  kindest  way,  in  sympathizing  with 
you  in  your  literary  acquisition.  She  cuts 
the  string  of  the  bundle  (and  of  your  heart), 
and  out  comes  the  whole  story.  You  have 
bought  a  complete  set  of  costly  English 
books,  full  bound  in  calf,  extra  gilt.  You 
are  caught,  and  feel  very  much  tis  if  bound 
in  calf  yourself,  and  admirably  lettered. 

Now,  this  must  not  happen  frequently. 
The  books  must  be  smuggled  home.  Let 
them  be  sent  to  some  near  place.  Then, 
when  your  wife  has  a  headache,  or  is  out 
making  a  call,  or  has  lain  down,  run  the 
books  across  the  frontier  and  threshold, 
hastily  undo  them,  stop  only  for  one  loving 
glance  as  you  put  them  away  in  the  closet, 
or  behind  other  books  on  the  shelf,  or  on  the 
topmost  shelf.  Clear  away  the  twine  and 
wrapping-paper,  and  every  suspicious  cir- 
cumstance. Be  very  careful  not  to  be  too 
kind.  That  often  brings  on  detection.  Only 


504 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY. 


the  other  day  we  heard  it  said,  somewhere, 
"  Why,  how  good  you  have  been,  lately  !  I 
nm  really  afraid  that  you  have  been  carrying 
on  mischief  secretly."  Our  heart  smote  us. 
It  was  a  fact.  That  very  day  we  had  bought 
a  few  books  which  "  we  could  not  do  with- 
out." After  a  while,  you  can  bring  out  one 
volume,  accidentally,  and  leave  it  on  the 
table.  "Why,  my  dear,  what  a  beautiful 
Look!  Where  did  you  borrow  it?"  You 
glance  over  the  newspaper,  with  the  quietest 
tone  you  can  command:  "  That !  oh!  that 
is  mine.  Have  you  not  seen  it  before?  It 
has  been  in  the  house  these  two  months ;" 
and  you  rush  on  with  anecdote  and  incident, 
avnd  point  out  the  binding,  and  that  peculiar 
trick  of  gilding,  and  everything  else  you 
can  think  of:  but  it  all  will  not  do  ;  you  can- 
)iot  rub  out  that  roguish,  arithmetical  smile. 
People  may  talk  about  the  equality  of  the 
sexes  !  They  are  not  equal.  The  silent  smile 
of  a  sensible,  loving  woman  will  vanquish 
ten  men.  Of  course  you  repent,  and  in  time 
form  a  habit  of  repenting. 

Another  method,  which  will  be  found 
peculiarly  effective,  is  to  make  a  present  of 
some  fine  work  to  your  wife.  Of  course, 
whether  she  or  you  have  the  name  of  buy- 
ing it,  it  will  go  into  your  collection  and  be 
yours  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  But  it 
stops  remark  in  the  presentation.  A  wife 
could  not  reprove  you  for  so  kindly  thinking 
of  her.  No  matter  what  she  suspects,  she 
will  say  nothing.  And  then  if  there  are 
three  or  four  more  works  which  have  come 
home  with  the  gift-book, — they  will  pass, 
through  the  favour  of  the  other. 

These  are  pleasures  denied  to  wealth  and 
old  bachelors.  Indeed,  one  cannot  imagine 
the  peculiar  pleasure  of  buying  books,  if 
one  is  rich  and  stupid.  There  must  be  some 
pleasure,  or  so  many  would  not  do  it.  But 
the  full  flavour,  the  whole  relish  of  delight, 
only  comes  to  those  who  are  so  poor  that 
they  must  engineer  for  every  book.  They 
sit  down  before  them,  and  besiege  them. 
They  are  captured.  Each  book  has  a  secret 
history  of  ways  and  means.  It  reminds  you 
of  subtle  devices  by  which  you  insured  and 
made  it  yours,  in  spite  of  poverty  ! 

Star  Papers. 

FAULTS. 

A  man  has  a  large  emerald,  but  it  is 
"  feathered,"  and  he  knows  an  expert  would 
say,  "What  a  pity  that  it  has  such  a 
feather!"  it  will  not  bring  a  quarter  as 
much  as  it  otherwise  would  ;  and  he  cannot 
take  any  satisfaction  in  it.  A  man  has  a 
diamond  ;  but  there  is  a  flaw  in  it,  and  it  is 
not  the  diamond  that  he  wants.  A  man  has 
an  opal,  but  it  is  imperfect;  and  he  is  dis- 


satisfied with  it.  An  opal  is  covered  with 
little  seams,  but  they  must  be  the  right  kind 
of  seams.  If  it  has  a  crack  running  clear 
across,  it  is  marred,  no  matter  how  large  it 
is,  and  no  matter  how  wonderful  its  reflec- 
tions are.  And  this  man  is  worried  all  the 
time  because  he  knows  his  opal  is  imper- 
fect; and  it  would  worry  even  him  if  he 
knew  that  nobody  else  noticed  it. 

So  it  is  in  respect  to  dispositions,  and  in 
respect  to  character  at  large.  Little  cracks, 
little  flaws,  little  featherings  in  them,  take 
away  their  exquisitiveness  and  beauty,  and 
take  away  that  fine  finish  which  makes 
moral  art.  How  many  noble  men  there  are 
who  are  diminished,  who  are  almost  wasted, 
in  their  moral  influence !  How  many  men 
are  like  the  red  maple  !  It  is  one  of  the 
most  gorgeous  trees,  both  in  spring,  bios 
soming,  and  in  autumn,  with  its  crimson 
foliage.  But  it  stands  knee-deep  in  swamp- 
water,  usually.  To  get  to  it,  you  must 
wade,  or  leap  from  bog  to  bog,  tearing  your 
raiment,  and  soiling  yourself.  I  see  a  great 
many  noble  men,  but  they  stand  in  a  swamp 
of  faults.  They  bear  fruit  that  you  fain 
would  pluck,  but  there  are  briers  and 
thistles  and  thorns  all  about  it ;  and  to  get 
it  you  must  make  your  way  through  all 
these  hindrances. 

Plymouth  Pulpit,  Third  Series. 


JOHN    LOTHROP   MOTLEY, 
LL.D.,  D.C.L., 

born  at  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  1814, 
graduated  at  Harvard  University,  1831,  and 
subsequently  studied  about  a  year  in  the 
University  of  Gottingen  ;  Secretary  of  Lega- 
tion at  St.  Petersburg,  1840,  Minister  Pleni- 
potentiary to  Austria,  1861-67,  Ambassador 
to  England,  1869  ;  died  1877. 

Morton's  Hope,  or,  The  Memoirs  of  a  Pro- 
vincial, 1839  ;  Merry  Mount,  a  Romance  of 
the  Massachusetts  Colony,  Bosk,  1849,  2  vols. 
in  1,  12mo  ;  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic, 
New  York,  1856,  3  vols.  8vo,  Lond.,  1856, 
3  vols.  8vo,  Edin.,  1859,  2  vols.  12mo,  in 
French,  precedee  d'une  introduction  par  M. 
Guizot,  Paris,  1859-60, 4  vols.  8vo,  also  trans- 
lated into  Dutch  and  German  ;  History  of 
the  United  Netherlands,  from  the  Death  of 
William  the  Silent  [1584]  to  the  Twelve 
Years'  Truce,— 1609,  with  a  Full  View  of 
the  English-Dutch  Struggle  against  Spain, 
and  of  the  Origin  and  Destruction  of  the  Span- 
ish Armada,  Lond.,  1860-67,4  vols.  8vo,  New 
York,  1861-67,  4  vols.  8vo ;  Causes  of  the 
Civil  War  in  America,  Lond.,  1861,  8vo ; 
The  Life  and  Death  of  John  of  Barneveld, 
Advocate  of  Holland,  with  a  View  of  the 


JOIIX  LOTIIROP  MOTLEY. 


505 


Primary  Causes  and  Movements  of  The 
Thirty  Years'  War,  London,  1874,  2  vols. 
Bvo,  New  York,  1874,  2  vols.  8vo.  Mr.  Mot- 
ley contributed  three  articles  to  the  North 
American  Review,  viz.  :  61  :  269  (Peter  the 
Great),  65:  85  (The  Novels  of  Balzac),  69: 
47U  (Polity  of  the  Puritans). 

"  Far  from  making  his  book  [The  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Republic]  a  mere  register  of  events,  he  has 
penetrated  deep  below  the  surface  and  exposed  the 
causes  of  these  events.  He  has  carefully  studied  the 
physiognomy  of  the  times  and  given  finished  por- 
traits of  the  great  men  who  conducted  the  march  of 
the  revolution.  Every  page  is  instinct  with  the 
love  of  freedom,  and  with  that  personal  knowledge 
of  the  working  of  free  institutions  which  could 
alone  enable  him  to  do  justice  to  his  subject.  We 
may  congratulate  ourselves  that  it  was  reserved  for 
one  of  our  countrymen  to  tell  the  story — better  than 
it  had  yet  been  told — of  this  memorable  revolution, 
which  in  so  many  of  its  features  bears  a  striking 
resemblance  to  our  own.'' — WM.  H.  PRKSCOTT  TO  S. 
AUSTIN  ALLIBOXE,  Lynn,  June  28, 1858. 

"  Mr.  Motley's  History  of  the  Dutch  Republic 
is,  in  my  judgment,  a  work  of  the  highest  merit. 
Unwearying  research  for  years  in  the  libraries  of 
Europe,  patience  and  judgment  in  arranging  and 
digesting  his  materials,  a  fine  hi.-torical  tact,  much 
skill  in  characterization,  the  perspective  of  narra- 
tion, as  it  may  be  called,  and  a  vigorous  stj'le, 
unite  to  make  it  a  very  capital  work,  and  place 
the  name  of  Motley  by  the  side  of  those  of  our 
great  American  historical  trio, — Bancroft,  Irving, 
and  Prescott.  I  name  them  alphabetically,  for  I 
know  not  how  to  arrange  them  on  any  other  prin- 
ciple."— EDWARD  EVERETT  TO  S.  AUSTIN  ALH- 
BONE,  Boston,  7th  June,  1858. 

See  also  Edin.  Jtev.,  Jan.  1857,  and  Jan.  1861  ; 
Ulavkto.  May.,  Dec.  1859,  and  May,  1861  ;  lint. 
Qua,-,  liev.,  Jan.  1861,  and  April,  1861 ;  TV.  Brit. 
Jiei'.,  May,  1861;  Loud.  Qna>:  Rev.,  Oct.  1869; 
N.  An,e>:  Her,.,  68  :  203  (by  F.  Bowen),  83  :  182, 
and  107:  267  (both  by  F.  W.  Palfrey),  119:  459 
(by  J.  L.  Dinian).  See  John  Lot/imp  Motley,  a 
Memoir,  by  0.  W.  Holmes,  M.D.,  Bost.,  1879, 
16uio,  and  Memorial  edition,  8vo. 

THE  IMAGE  BREAKERS  OF  THE  NETHERLANDS. 

A  very  paltry  old  Avoman  excited  the 
image-breaking  of  Antwerp.  She  had  for 
years  been  accustomed  to  sit  before  the  door 
of  the  cathedral  with  wax-tapers  and  wafers, 
earning  a  scanty  subsistence  from  the  profits 
of  her  meagre  trade,  and  by  the  small  coins 
which  she  sometimes  received  in  charity. 
Some  of  the  rabble  began  to  chaffer  with 
this  ancient  hucksteress.  They  scoffed  at 
her  consecrated  wares;  they  bandied  with 
her  ribald  jests,  of  which  her  public  position 
bad  furnished  her  with  a  supply;  they  as- 
sured her  that  the  hour  had  come  when  her 
idolatrous  traffic  was  to  be  forever  termi- 
nated, when  she  and  her  patroness  Mary 
were  to  be  given  over  to  destruction  together. 
The  old  woman,  enraged,  answered  threat 
with  threat,  and  gibe  with  gibe.  Passing 
from  words  to  deeds,  she  began  to  catch 


from  the  ground  every  offensive  missile  or 
weapon  which  she  could  find,  and  to  lay 
about  her  in  all  directions.  Her  tormentors 
defended  themselves  us  they  could.  Having 
destroyed  her  whole  stock-in-trade,  they  pro- 
voked others  to  appear  in  her  defence.  The 
passers-by  thronged  to  the  scene  ;  the  cathe- 
dral was  soon  filled  to  overflowing;  a  furi- 
ous tumult  was  already  in  progress. 

Many  persons  fled  in  alarm  to  the  Town 
House,  carrying  information  of  this  out- 
break to  the  magistrates.  John  Van  Im- 
merzeel,  Margrave  of  Antwerp,  was  then 
holding  communication  with  the  senate,  and 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  ward-masters, 
whom  it  had  at  last  been  thought  expedient 
to  summon.  Upon  intelligence  of  this  riot, 
which  the  militia,  if  previously  mustered, 
might  have  prevented,  the  senate  determined 
to  proceed  to  the  cathedral  in  a  body,  with 
the  hope  of  quelling  the  mob  by  the  dignity 
of  their  presence.  The  margrave  marched 
down  to  the  cathedral  accordingly,  attended 
by  the  two  burgo-masters  and  .all  the  sen- 
ators. At  first  their  authority,  solicitations, 
and  personal  influence  produced  a  good 
effect.  Some  of  those  outside  consented  to 
retire,  and  the  tumult  partially  subsided 
within.  As  night,  however,  was  fast  ap- 
proaching, many  of  the  mob  insisted  upon 
remaining  for  evening  service.  They  were 
informed  that  there  would  be  none  that  night, 
and  that  for  once  the  people  could  certainly 
dispense  with  their  vespers. 

Several  persons  now  manifesting  an  inten- 
tion of  leaving  the  cathedral,  it  was  sug- 
gested to  the  senators  that  if  they  should 
lead  the  way,  the  population  would  follow  in 
their  train,  and  so  disperse  to  their  homes. 
The  excellent  magistrates  took  the  advice, 
not  caring  perhaps  to  fulfil  any  longer  the 
dangerous  but  not  dignified  functions  of  po- 
lice-officers. Before  departing,  they  adopted 
the  precaution  of  closing  all  the  doors  of  the 
church,  leaving  a  single  one  open,  that  the 
rabble  still  remaining  might  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  depart.  It  seemed  not  to  occur  to 
the  senators  that  the  same  gate  would  as 
conveniently  afford  an  entrance  for  those 
without  as  an  egress  for  those  within.  That 
unlooked-for  event  happened,  however.  No 
sooner  had  the  magistrates  retired  than  the 
rabble  burst  through  the  single  door  which 
had  been  left  open,  overpowered  the  mar- 
grave, who,  with  a  few  attendants,  had  re- 
mained behind,  vainly  endeavouring  by 
threats  and  exhortations  to  appease  the  tu- 
mult, drove  him  ignominiously  froiii  the 
church,  and  threw  all  the  other  portals  wide 
open.  Then  the  populace  flowed  in  like  an 
angry  sea.  The  whole  of  the  cathedral  was 
at  the  mercy  of  the  rioters,  who  were  evi- 
dently bent  on  mischief.  The  wardens  and 


506 


JOHN  LOTIIROP  MOTLEY. 


treasurers  of  the  church,  after  a  vain  attempt 
to  secure  a  few  of  its  most  precious  posses- 
sions, retired.  They  carried  the  news  to 
the  senators,  who,  accompanied  by  a  few 
halberdmen,  again  ventured  to  approach  the 
spot.  It  was  but  for  a  moment,  however, 
for  appalled  by  the  furious  sounds  which 
came  from  within  the  church,  as  if  invisible 
forces  were  preparing  a  catastrophe  which 
no  human  power  could  withstand,  the  mag- 
istrates fled  precipitately  from  the  scene. 
Fearing  that  the  next  attack  would  be  upon 
the  Town  House,  they  hastened  to  concen- 
trate at  that  point  their  available  strength, 
and  left  the  stately  cathedral  to  its  fate. 

And  now,  as  the  shadows  of  night  were 
deepening  the  perpetual  twilight  of  the 
church,  the  work  of  destruction  commenced. 
Instead  of  vespers  rose  the  fierce  music  of  a 
psalm,  yelled  by  a  thousand  angry  voices. 
It  seemed  the  preconcerted  signal  for  a  gen- 
eral attack.  A  band  of  marauders  flew 
upon  the  image  of  the  Virgin,  dragged  it 
forth  from  its  receptacle,  plunged  daggers 
into  its  inanimate  body,  tore  off  its  jewelled 
and  embroidered  garments,  broke  the  whole 
figure  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  scattered 
the  fragments  along  the  floor.  A  wild  shout 
succeeded,  and  then  the  work,  which  seemed 
delegated  to  a  comparatively  small  number 
of  the  assembled  crowd,  went  on  with  in- 
credible celerity.  Some  were  armed  with 
axes,  some  with  bludgeons,  some  with  sledge- 
hammers; others  brought  ladders,  pulleys, 
ropes,  and  levers.  Every  statue  was  hurled 
from  its  niche,  every  picture  torn  from  the 
wall,  every  painted  window  shivered  to 
atoms,  every  ancient  monument  shattered, 
every  sculptured  decoration,  however  inac- 
cessible in  appearance,  hurled  to  the  ground. 
Indefatigably,  audaciously  endowed,  as  it 
seemed,  with  preternatural  strength  and 
nimbleness,  these  furious  iconoclasts  clam- 
bered up  the  dizzy  heights,  shrieking  and 
chattering  like  malignant  apes,  as  they  tore 
off  in  triumph  the  slowly-matured  fruit  of 
centuries.  In  a  space  of  time  wonderfully 
brief,  they  had  accomplished  their  task.  A 
colossal  and  magnificent  group  of  the  Saviour 
crucified  between  two  thieves  adorned  the 
principal  altar.  The  statue  of  Christ  was 
wrenched  from  its  place  with  ropes  and  pul- 
leys, while  the  malefactors,  with  bitter  and 
blasphemous  irony,  were  left  on  high,  the 
only  representatives  of  the  marble  crowd 
which  had  been  destroyed.  A  very  beau- 
tiful piece  of  architecture  decorated  the 
choir, — the  "  repository,"  as  it  was  called, 
in  which  the  body  of  Christ  was  figuratively 
enshrined.  This  much-admired  work  rested 
upon  a  single  column,  but  rose,  arch  upon 
arch,  pillar  upon  pillar,  to  the  height  of 
three  hundred  feet,  till  quite  lost  in  the  vault 


above.  It  was  now  shattered  into  a  million 
pieces.  The  statues,  images,  pictures,  orna- 
ments, as  they  lay  upon  the  ground,  were 
broken  with  sledge-hammers,  hewn  with 
axes,  trampled,  torn,  and  beaten  into  shreds. 
A  troop  of  harlots,  snatching  waxen  tapers 
from  the  altars,  stood  around  the  destroyers, 
and  lighted  them  at  their  work.  Nothing 
escaped  their  omnivorous  rage.  They  dese- 
crated seventy  chapels,  forced  open  all  the 
chests  of  treasure,  covered  their  own  squalid 
attire  with  the  gorgeous  robes  of  the  eccle- 
siastics, broke  the  sacred  bread,  poured  out 
the  sacramental  wine  into  golden  chalices, 
quaffing  huge  draughts  to  the  beggars' 
health  ;  burned  all  the  splendid  missals  and 
manuscripts,  and  smeared  their  shoes  with 
the  sacred  oil  with  which  kings  and  prelates 
had  been  anointed.  It  seemed  that  each  of 
these  malicious  creatures  must  have  been 
endowed  with  the  strength  of  a  hundred 
giants.  How  else,  in  the  few  brief  hours 
of  a  midsummer  night,  could  such  a  mon- 
strous desecration  have  been  accomplished 
by  a  troop,  which,  according  to  all  accounts, 
was  not  more  than  one  hundred  in  number? 
There  was  a  multitude  of  spectators,  as  upon 
all  such  occasions,  but  the  actual  spoilers  were 
very  few.  The  noblest  and  richest  temple  of 
the  Netherlands  was  a  wreck,  but  the  fury  of 
the  spoilers  was  excited,  not  appeased.  Each 
seizing  a  burning  torch,  the  whole  herd 
rushed  from  the  cathedral,  and  swept  howl- 
ing through  the  streets.  "  Long  live  the  beg- 
gars!" resounded  through  the  sultry  midnight 
air,  as  the  ravenous  pack  flew  to  and  fro, 
smiting  every  image  of  the  Virgin,  every  cru- 
cifix, every  sculptured  saint,  every  Catholic 
symbol,  which  they  met  with  upon  their  path. 
All  night  long  they  roamed  from  one  sacred 
edifice  to  another,  thoroughly  destroying  aa 
they  went.  Before  morning  they  had  sacked 
thirty  churches  within  the  city  walls.  They 
entered  the  monasteries,  burned  their  in- 
valuable libraries,  destroyed  their  altars, 
statues,  pictures,  and,  descending  into  the 
cellars,  broached  every  cask  winch  they 
found  there,  pouring  out  in  one  great  flood 
all  the  ancient  wine  and  ale  with  which 
these  holy  men  had  been  wont  to  solace 
their  retirement  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion. They  invaded  the  nunneries,  whence 
the  occupants,  panic-stricken,  fled  for  refuge 
to  the  houses  of  their  friends  and  kindred. 
The  streets  were  filled  with  monks  and  nuns, 
running  this  way  and  that,  shrieking  and 
fluttering,  to  escape  the  claws  of  these  fiend- 
ish Calvinists.  The  terror  was  imaginary, 
for  not  the  least  remarkable  feature  in  these 
transactions  was,  that  neither  insult  nor  in- 
jury was  offered  to  man  or  woman,  and  that 
not  a  farthing's  value  of  the  immense  amount 
of  property  destroyed  was  appropriated.  It 


SAMUEL  SMILES. 


507 


•was  a  war,  not  against  the  living,  but  against 
graven  images,  nor  was  the  sentiment  winch 
prompted  the  onslaught  in  the  least  com- 
mingled with  a  desire  of  plunder.  The 
principal  citizens  of  Antwerp,  expecting 
every  instant  that  the  storm  would  be  di- 
verted from  the  ecclesiastical  edifices  to  pri- 
vate dwellings,  and  that  robbery,  rape,  and 
murder  would  follow  sacrilege,  remained  all 
night  expecting  the  attack,  and  prepared  to 
defend  their  hearths,  even  if  the  altars  were 
profaned.  This  precaution  was  needless. 
It  was  asserted  by  the  Catholics  that  the 
confederates,  and  other  opulent  Protestants, 
had  organized  this  company  of  profligates 
for  the  meagre  pittance  of  ten  stivers  a  day. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  was  believed  by  many 
that  the  Catholics  had  themselves  plotted 
the  whole  outrage  in  order  to  bring  odium 
upon  the  Reformers.  Both  statements  were 
equally  unfounded.  The  task  was  most 
thoroughly  performed,  but  it  was  prompted 
by  a  furious  fanaticism,  not  by  baser  motives. 

Two  days  and  two  nights  longer  the  havoc 
raged  unchecked  through  all  the  churches 
of  Antwerp  and  the  neighbouring  villages. 
Hardly  a  statue  or  picture  escaped  destruc- 
tion. Yet  the  rage  was  directed  exclusively 
against  stocks.  Not  a  man  was  wounded 
nor  a  woman  outraged.  Prisoners,  indeed, 
who  had  been  languishing  hopelessly  in 
dungeons  were  liberated.  A  monk  who  had 
been  in  the  prison  of  the  Barefoot  monastery 
for  twelve  years,  recovered  his  freedom.  Art 
was  trampled  in  the  dust,  but  humanity  de- 
plored no  victims. 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 


SAMUEL    SMILES,    M.D., 

born  at  Iladdington,  Scotland,  1816,  after 
practising  as  a  surgeon  at  Leeds,  succeeded 
Robert  Nicol  as  editor  of  The  Leeds  Times; 
in  1845  became  Secretary  of  the  Leeds  and 
Thirsk  Railway,  and  about  1852  Secretary 
of  the  South-Eastern  Railway,  which  post 
he  held  for  many  years,  lie  is  one  of  the 
most  popular,  and  certainly  one  of  the  most 
useful,  writers  of  the  day. 

Physical  Education,  Edin.,  1837,  p.  8vo ; 
History  of  Ireland  and  the  Irish  People, 
under  the  Government  of  England,  1844,  8vo  ; 
The  Life  of  George  Stephenson,  Lond.,  1857, 
8vo;  Self-Help,  Lond.,  1859,  p.  8vo;  Brief 
[35]  Biographies,  Bost.,  Oct.  1860,  16mo  ; 
Workmen's  Earnings,  Strikes,  and  Savings, 
Lond.,  1861,  fp.  8vo  ;  Livesiof  the  Engineers, 
Lond.,  1861-62,  3  vols.  8vo,  new  edit.,  5 
vols.  cr.  8vo  ;  James  Brindley  and  the  Early 
Engineers,  Abridged  from  The  Lives  of  the 
Engineers,  Lond.,  1864,  p.  8vo ;  Industrial 


Biography :  Iron-Workers  and  Tool-Makers, 
Lond.,  1863,  p.  8vo ;  Lives  of  Boulton 
and  Watt,  Lond.,  Dec.  1865,  r.  8vo ;  The 
Huguenots :  their  Settlements,  Churches, 
etc.,  in  England  and  Ireland,  Lond.,  1867, 
new  edit.,  1871,  p.  8vo  :  Character  :  its  In- 
fluence, etc.,  1871,  p.  8vo ;  Huguenots  in 
France,  1873,  p.  8vo ;  A  Boy's  Voyage 
Round  the  World,  p.  8vo  ;  Thrift,  1875,  p. 
8vo  ;  Life  of  a  Scotch  Naturalist  (Thomas 
Edward),  1876;  Robert  Dick,  Baker  of 
Thurso,  Geologist  and  Botanist,  1879. 

"  No  more  interesting  books  have  been  published 
of  late  years  than  thosu  of  Mr.  Smiles, — his  '  Lives 
of  the  Engineers,'  his  '  Life  of  George  Stephenson,' 
nnd  his  a  linirable  little  book  on  '  fcielf-Help.'  " — 
SIR  STAFFORD  NORTHCOTE. 

OLD  INVENTIONS  REVIVED. 

Steam-locomotion,  by  sea  and  land,  had 
long  been  dreamt  of  and  attempted.  Blasco 
de  Garay  made  his  experiment  in  the  har- 
bour of  Barcelona  as  early  as  1543;  Denis 
Papin  made  a  similar  attempt  at  Cassel  in 
1707  ;  but  it  was  not  until  Watt  had  solved 
the  problem  of  the  steam-engine  that  the 
idea  of  the  steamboat  could  be  developed  in 
practice,  which  was  done  by  Miller,  of  Dal- 
swinton,  in  1788.  Sages  and  poets  have  fre- 
quently foreshadowed  inventions  of  great 
social  moment.  Thus  Dr.  Darwin's  anticipa- 
tion of  the  locomotive,  in  his  Botanic  Gar- 
den, published  in  1791,  before  any  locomotive 
had  been  invented,  might  almost  be  regarded 
as  prophetic : — 

Soon  shall  thy  arm,  unconquered  Steam !  afar 
Drag  the  slow  barge,  and  drive  the  rapid  car. 

Denis  Papin  first  threw  up  the  idea  of 
atmospheric  locomotion  ;  and  Gauthey,  an- 
other Frenchman,  in  1782,  projected  a 
method  of  conveying  parcels  and  merchan- 
dise by  subterranean  tubes,  after  the  method 
recently  patented  and  brought  into  opera- 
tion by  the  London  Pneumatic  Despatch 
Company.  The  balloon  was  an  ancient  Ital- 
ian invention,  revived  by  Mongolfier  long 
after  the  original  had  been  forgotten.  Even 
the  reaping-machine  is  an  old  invention  re- 
vived. Thus  Barnabe  Googe,  the  translator 
of  a  book  from  the  German,  entitled  "  The 
whole  Arte  and  Trade  of  llusbandrie,"  pub- 
lished in  1577,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
speaks  of  the  reaping-machine  as  a  worn- 
out  invention, — a  thing  "  which  was  woont 
to  be  used  in  France.  The  device  was  a 
lowe  kinde  of  carre  with  a  couple  of  wheeles, 
and  the  front  armed  with  sharp  syckles, 
whiche  forced  by  the  beaste  through  the 
corne,  did  cut  down  al  before  it.  This 
tricke,"  says  Googe,  "  might  be  used  in 
levell  and  champion  countreys;  but  with 
us  it  wolde  make  but  ill-favoured  woorke." 


508 


SAMUEL   SMILES. 


The  Thames  Tunnel  was  thought  an  entirely 
new  manifestation  of  engineering  genius; 
but  the  tunnel  under  the  Euphrates  at  an- 
cient Babylon,  and  that  under  the  wide 
mouth  of  the  harbour  at  Marseilles  (a  much 
more  difficult  work),  show  that  the  ancients 
were  beforehand  with  us  in  the  art  of  tun- 
nelling. Macadamized  roads  are  as  old  as 
the  Roman  empire;  and  suspension-bridges, 
though  comparatively  new  in  Europe,  have 
been  known  in  China  for  centuries. 

There  is  every  reason  to  believe — indeed 
it  seems  clear — that  the  Romans  knew  of 
gunpowder,  though  they  only  used  it  for 
purposes  of  fireworks;  while  the  secret  of 
the  destructive  Greek  fire  has  been  lost  al- 
together. When  gunpowder  came  to  be  used 
for  purposes  of  war,  invention  busied  itself 
upon  instruments  of  destruction.  When 
recently  examining  the  Museum  of  the  Ar- 
senal at  Venice,  we  were  surprised  to  find 
numerous  weapons  of  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth centuries  embodying  the  most  recent 
English  improvements  in  arms,  such  as  re- 
volving pistols,  rifled  muskets,  and  breech- 
loading  cannon.  The  latter,  embodying  Sir 
William  Armstrong's  modern  idea,  though 
in  a  rude  form,  had  been  fished  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  Adriatic,  where  the  ship 
armed  with  them  had  been  sunk  hundreds, 
of  years  ago.  Even  Perkins's  steam-gun 
was  an  old  invention  revived  by  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  and  by  him  attributed  to  Archime- 
des. The  Congreve  rocket  is  said  to  have 
an  Eastern  origin,  Sir  William  Congreve 
having  observed  its  destructive  effects  when 
employed  by  the  forces  under  Tippoo  Saib 
in  the  Mahratta  war,  on  which  he  adopted 
and  improved  the  missile,  and  brought  out 
the  invention  as  his  own. 

Coal  gas  was  regularly  used  by  the  Chi- 
nese for  lighting  purposes  long  before  it 
•was  known  amongst  us.  Hydropathy  was 
generally  practised  by  the  Romans,  who 
established  baths  wherever  they  went. 
Even  chloroform  is  no  new  thing.  The  use 
of  ether  as  an  anaesthetic  was  known  to 
Albertus  Magnus,  who  flourished  in  the 
thirteenth  century;  and  in  his  works  he 
gives  a  recipe  for  its  preparation.  In  1681 
Denis  Papin  published  his  Traite'des  Optra- 
tions  sans  Douleur,  showing  that  he  had  dis- 
covered methods  of  deadening  pain.  I  Jut 
the  use  of  anaesthetics  is  much  older  than 
Albertus  Magnus  or  Papin  ;  for  the  ancients 
had  their  nepenthe  and  mandragora;  the 
Chinese  their  mayo,  and  the  Egyptians 
their  hachish  (both  preparations  of  Cannabis 
Indica),  the  effects  of  which  in  a  great  meas- 
ure resemble  those  of  chloroform.  What  is 
perhaps  still  more  surprising  is  the  circum- 
stance that  one  of  the  most  elegant  of  recent 
inventions,  that  of  sun-painting  by  the  da- 


guerreotype, was  in  the  fifteenth  century 
known  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  whose  skill  as 
an  architect  and  engraver,  and  whose  ac- 
complishments as  a  chemist  and  natural 
philosopher,  have  been  almost  entirely  over- 
shadowed by  his  genius  as  a  painter.  The 
idea,  thus  early  born,  lay  in  oblivion  until 
1760,  when  the  daguerreotype  was  again 
clearly  indicated  in  a  book  published  in 
Paris,  written  by  a  certain  Tiphanie  de  la 
Roche,  under  the  anagrammatic  title  of 
Giphantie.  Still  later,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century,  we  find  Josiah  AVrdg- 
wood,  Sir  Humphry  Davy,  and  James  Watt 
making  experiments  on  the  action  of  light 
upon  nitrate  of  silver;  and  only  within  the 
last  few  months  a  silvered  copperplate  has 
been  found  amongst  the  old  household  lum- 
ber of  Matthew  Boulton  (Watt's  partner), 
having  on  it  a  representation  of  the  old 
premises  at  Soho,  apparently  taken  by  some 
such  process. 

In  like  manner  the  invention  of  the  elec- 
tric telegraph,  supposed  to  be  exclusively 
modern,  was  clearly  indicated  by  Scher- 
wenter  in  his  Delassement's  Physico-Mnthe- 
matiques,  published  in  1636;  and  he  there 
pointed  out  how  two  individuals  could  com- 
municate with  each  other  by  means  of  the 
magnetic  needle.  A  century  later,  in  1746, 
Le  Monnier  exhibited  a  series  of  experiments 
in  the  Royal  Gardens  at  Paris,  showing  how 
electricity  could  be  transmitted  through  iron 
wire  950  fathoms  in  length  ;  and  in  1753 
we  find  one  Charles  Marshall  publishing  a 
remarkable  description  of  the  electric  tele- 
graph in  the  Scots  Magazine,  under  the  title 
of"  An  expeditious  Method  of  Conveying  In- 
telligence/' Again,  in  1760,  we  find  George 
Louis  Lesage,  professor  of  mathematics  at 
Geneva,  promulgating  his  invention  of  an 
electric  telegraph,  which  he  eventually  com- 
pleted and  set  to  work  in  1774.  This  instru- 
ment was  composed  of  twenty-four  metallic 
wires,  separate  from  each  other,  and  enclosed 
in  a  non-conducting  substance.  Each  wire 
ended  in  a  stalk  mounted  with  a  little  ball 
of  elder-wood  suspended  by  a  silk  thread. 
When  a  stream  of  electricity,  no  matter  how 
slight,  was  sent  through  the  bar,  the  elder- 
ball  at  the  opposite  end  was  repelled,  such 
movement  designating  some  letter  of  the 
alphabet.  A  few  years  later  we  find  Arthur 
Young,  in  his  Travels  in  France,  describing  a 
similar  machine  invented  by  a  M.  Lomond, 
of  Paris,  the  action  of  which  he  also  de- 
scribes. In  these  and  similar  cases,  though 
the  idea  was  born  and  the  model  of  the  in- 
vention was  actually  made,  it  still  waited 
the  advent  of  the  scientific  mechanical  in- 
ventor who  should  bring  it  to  perfection, 
and  embody  it  in  a  practical  working  form. 

Industrial  Biography,  Chap.  x. 


CHARLES  JOHN   VAUGIIAN. 


509 


CHARLES   JOHN   VAUGHAN, 
D.D., 

horn  about  1817,  was  for  some  years  a  Fel- 
low of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge]  held 
the  living  of  St.  Martin's,  Leicester  ;  Ilead- 
Master  of  Harrow  School,  1844-59;  re- 
fused a  bishopric,  I860,  and  in  the  same 
year  became  Vicar  of  Doncaster  ;  Master  of 
the  Temple,  1869.  Among  his  publications 
are  the  following : 

Thirty  Sermons  in  the  Chapel  of  liar- 
row  School,  Lond.,  1847,  8vo,  2d  Series, 
1853,  8vo  ;  Nine  Sermons  Preached  at  Har- 
row, 1849,  12mo;  Personality  of  the  Temp- 
ter, and  other  Sermons,  1851,  8vo ;  Notes 
for  Lectures  on  Confirmation,  Camb.,  1859, 
8vo,  6th  edit,,  1864,  fp.  Bvo ;  St.  Paul's 
Epistle  to  the.  Romans  [in  Greek],  with 
[English]  Notes,  1859,  8vo,  3d  edit,,  1870, 
cr.  8vo;  Memorials  of  Harrow  Sundaj's: 
Sermons,  1859,  cr.  8vo,  4th  edit.,  1864,  "cr. 
8vo  ;  Epiphany,  Lent,  and  Easter  Sermons, 
1860,  cr.  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1868,  cr.  8vo;  Les- 
sons of  Life  and  Godliness:  Sermons  at 
Doncaster,  1862,  fp.  8vo  ;  Words  from  the 
Gospel:  Second  Series  of  Sermons  at  Don- 
caster,  1863,  fp.  8vo ;  The  Book  and  the 
Life :  Four  Sermons  at  Cambridge.  1862, 
fp.  8vo  ;  Expository  Lectures  on  Philip- 
plans,  1862,  cr.  8vo;  Lectures  on  the  Rev- 
elation of  St.  John,  1863,  2  vols.  cr.  8vo; 
Epistles  of  St.  Paul  for  English  Readers,  r. 
8vo,  Part  I.,  1864;  The  Church  of  the  First 
Days:  Lectures  on  the  Acts,  Series  I.,  II., 
III.,  1864-65,  3  vols.  fp.  8vo  :  Characteristics 
of  Christ's  Teachings,  1866,  fp.  8vo  :  Twelve 
Discourses  on  Subjects  Connected  with  the 
Church  of  England,  1867,  fp.  8vo;  Earnest 
Words  for  Earnest  Men.  1869,  fp.  8vo ;  Last 
Words  in  the  Parish  Church  of  Doncaster, 
1870,  cr.  8vo;  Half-Hours  in  the  Temple 
Church.  1871;  The  Solidity  of  True  Reli- 
gion, 1874;  Heroes  of  Faith,  1876.  He  pub- 
lished A  Few  Words  on  the  Crystal  Palace 
Questions,  answered  by  John  Perowne,  in 
Observance  of  the  Sabbath,  1853,  8vo,  and 
contributed  to  Good  Words,  etc.  See  Lon- 
don Reader,  1863,  ii.  663. 

LONELINESS. 

Loneliness. — It  has  many  senses,  inward 
and  outward. 

1.  There  is,  first,  what  I  may  call  the  lone- 
liness of  simple  solitude.  We  who  lead  a 
very  busy  life,  who  know  not  what  it  is  from 
early  morning  till  late  evening  to  have  (as 
it  is  sometimes  expressed)  a  moment  that  we 
can  call  our  own,  a  moment  in  which  we  can 
feel  that  the  load  is  really  removed  and  that 
we  are  free  to  enjoy  ourselves  for  enjoy- 
ment's sake,  can  scarcely  perhaps  enter  into 


the  thought  of  the  oppressiveness  of  soli- 
tude. To  us  it  is  a  luxury  to  be  alone:  si- 
lence, much  more  repose,  is  health  to  us  and 
revival ;  and  these  things  are  associated  in 
our  mind  with  solitude.  So  different  is  it 
to  look  upon  solitude  from  a  life  of  business 
and  intermixture  with  the  world,  and  to 
look  upon  it  from  within  the  four  walls  of  a 
sick-room  or  a  prison.  Solitude  which  we 
fly  to  as  a  rest,  and  can  exchange  at  will  for 
society  which  we  love,  is  a  widely  different 
thing  from  that  solitude  which  is  either  the 
consequence  of  bereavement  or  the  punish- 
ment of  crime;  that  solitude  from  which 
we  cannot  escape,  and  which  perhaps  is 
associated  with  bitter  or  remorseful  recol- 
lections. From  such  solitude  a  merciful 
Providence  has  as  yet  kept  you.  And  yet 
even  you  may  have  known  something  of  a 
compulsory  solitude.  Now  and  then  an  ill- 
ness severer  than  usual  has  confined  you  in 
these  days  of  youth  to  a  sick-room,  where 
you  have  been  almost  as  much  cut  off  from 
the  companions  of  school  as  from  the  ten- 
derer solaces  of  a  loving  home.  At  such 
times  have  you  not  felt  a  heavy  demand 
made  upon  your  cheerfulness  and  content- 
ment? Have  you  not  found  disagreeable 
reflections  and  painful  (even  if  imaginary) 
forebodings  more  powerful  with  you  than 
visions  of  hope,  than  thoughts  of  thankful- 
ness? At  all  events,  a  little  later  in  life, 
you  will  know  these  things  well.  When, 
for  example,  a  young  man  finds  himself  es- 
tablished as  the  master  of  a  dwelling  which 
is  all  his  own  ;  his  lodgings,  it  may  be,  his 
chambers  or  even  his  college-rooms;  amidst 
some  feelings  of  agreeable  independence, 
and  of  freedom  from  intrusion  or  disturb- 
ance, there  are  times  Avhen  he  cannot  sup- 
press a  sense  of  isolation  and  desolateness, 
and  would  give  the  world  to  be  again  as  he 
once  was,  the  object  of  care,  of  thought,  and 
affection  to  others  around  and  above  him. 
How  strong  in  after-years  is  the  memory  of 
such  marked  feelings  of  loneliness!  How 
do  we  continue  to  associate  them  as  freshly 
as  at  the  moment  of  their  occurrence,  with 
the  sounds  and  images  of  the  time  and  place ; 
the  hour  of  the  day  or  evening,  the  ringing 
of  a  bell  or  the  monotonous  movement  of  a 
clock,  the  aspect  of  an  opposite  house,  or 
the  dull  rainy  weather  which  seemed  to  be 
more  than  outward!  And  if.  according  to 
the  frequent  chances  of  life  in  this  genera- 
tion, any  one  of  you  should  ever  be  called 
upon  to  exchange  his  very  country  for  a  dis- 
tant home;  if  in  the  pursuit  of  fortune,  or 
at  the  call  of  professional  duty,  he  should 
be  required  to  leave  home  and  friends  be- 
hind him,  and  go  he  knows  not  whither,  to 
return  he  knows  not  when ;  what  a  sense 
will  he  have  of  the  meaning  of  the  word 


510 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS. 


now  uttered,  loneliness;  the  loneliness,  if 
not  strictly  of  solitude,  yet  of  separation,  of 
severance,  of  isolation  !  How  will  he  find 
that  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  solitude 
even  amongst  numbers;  a  solitude  made 
even  more  complete  by  the  very  presence 
of  an  unsympathizing  crowd  !  What  a  life- 
long recollection  will  he  retain  of  that  try- 
ing moment  when  the  last  words  have  been 
spoken  and  the  last  farewell  exchanged, 
when  the  removal  of  the  gangway  has 
finally  separated  between  the  going  and  the 
staying,  the  deck  crowded  with  the  one  and 
the  shore  with  the  other,  and  the  ship  itself 
has  gathered  up  its  wings  for  flight !  What 
an  impression  will  he  have  then  of  the  re- 
ligious trial  of  solitude  !  how  it  reveals  to 
us,  as  in  a  moment,  what  manner  of  spirit 
we  are  of,  whether  we  have  any  root,  any 
vitality,  in  ourselves,  or  are  only  the  crea- 
tures of  society  and  of  circumstance,  found 
out  at  once  and  convicted  by  the  application 
of  the  individual  touchstone  ! 

2.  Again,  there  is  the  loneliness  of  sorrow. 
Is  not  loneliness  the  prominent  feeling  in  all 
deep  sorrow?     Is  it  not  the  feeling  of  lone- 
liness which  gives  its  sting  to  bereavement. 
to  the  loss  of  friends?     Not,  of  course,  in 
those  minor  losses  which,  though  we   may 
feel   them   at   the   time,  yet  do  not  perma- 
nently affect  our  lives  ;  but  in  bereavements 
which  deserve  the  name,  the  loss  (and  more 
especially   the  early   loss)    of    a  sister   or 
mother,  in  later  life  the   loss  of  a  wife  or 
husband,  is  not  the  loneliness  of  heart  con- 
sequent upon  it  the  heaviest  and  bitterest 
part  of  the  sorrow  ;  is  it  not  this  which  de- 
prives all  after-joy  of   its   chief   zest,  and 
reduces  life  itself  to  a  colourless  and  level 
landscape  ? 

3.  Again,  there  is  the  loneliness  of  a  sense 
of  sin.     Whatever  duties   may  lie  upon  us 
towards  other  men,  in  our  innermost  rela- 
tion to  God  we  are  and  must  be  alone.   And 
we  may  say  what  we  will  against  the  self- 
ishness of  some  men's  religion  ;  against  the 
habit,  too  much  fostered  doubtless  by  some, 
of  scrutinizing  every  affection  and  feeling 
with  a  minuteness  and  an  anxiety  which  at 
last  becomes  morbid  and  dangerous ;    but 
after  all   the   foundations   of  every   really 
Christian  life  are  laid  deep  in  the  individual 
consciousness:  a  Christian  hope  is  the  result 
of  transactions  essentially  secret  between  the 
soul  and  God  ;  and  the  first  of  these  is  that 
awakening  of  a  sense  of  sin  which  is  the 
first  office,  as  we  believe,  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
in  His  mission  to  the  individual  as  in  His 
mission  to  the  world.     When  the  sense  of 
sin  is  heavy  upon  us,  how  incapable  is  it  of 
anything  but  solitude !   A  man  trying  to  get 
rid  of  it  rushes  into  society:  many  do  thus 
get  rid  of  it,  but  is  it  well  with  them  ?    One 


who  knows  what  it  is  will  not  desire  to  get 
rid  of  it.  Even  in  its  first  anxieties  and 
miseries  he  recognizes,  however  remotely 
and  indistinctly,  a  prospect  of  good.  Even 
then  he  would  not  part  with  it,  cost  him 
what  it  may,  for  all  his  former  security  and 
thoughtlessness.  But  he  finds  that,  if  he 
would  not  stifle  the  sense  of  sin,  to  his  end- 
less ruin,  he  must  be  tolerant  of  this  inward 
loneliness;  he  must  be  careful  how  he  talks 
of  it  to  his  best  friend  :  in  the  very  telling 
of  his  fears  and  self-reproaches  lies  a  risk  of 
dissipating  the  one  and  blunting  the  other  : 
a  mistaken  kindness  makes  his  friend  pal- 
liate them,  makes  him  try  to  heal  the  hurt 
slightly  even  while  speaking  of  the  true 
Physician  :  and  besides,  in  the  very  telling 
there  is  a  risk  of  evil,  of  conveying  wrong 
impressions,  of  parading  humility,  of  saying 
things  for  the  sake  of  having  them  denied, 
of  substituting  the  sympathy  of  man  for 
the  confidence  of  God.  No  times  are  more 
truly  miserable  than  those  which  follow 
upon  such  attempts  to  get  rid  of  the  lone- 
liness within.  God  is  our  proper  refuge  at 
such  times;  but  then  He  must  be  our  one 
refuge :  we  must  be  content  with  Him  : 
every  hour,  every  few  moments,  really  spent 
before  Him  under  the  pressure  of  the  burden 
of  our  own  sins,  is  a  season  of  true  and  solid 
relief:  it  enables  us  to  bear  on,  sometimes 
it  makes  us  of  a  cheerful  countenance,  tell- 
ing, without  mistake  and  without  peril,  of 
the  work  within. 

And  if  such  be  the  loneliness  of  repent- 
ance, what  must  be  the  loneliness  of  re- 
morse, Avhich  is  repentance  without  God, 
without  Christ,  and  therefore  without  hope  ; 
the  sense  of  sin  unconfessed  and  unfor- 
saken,  only  felt  as  a  weight,  a  burden,  and 
a  danger !  If  repentance  is  loneliness,  re- 
morse is  desolation.  Kepentance  makes  us 
lonely  towards  man ;  remorse  makes  us  des- 
olate towards  God.  That  is  indeed  to  be 
alone,  when  (to  use  the  inspired  figure)  not 
only  earth  is  iron,  but  also  heaven  brass. 
From  such  loneliness  may  God  in  His  mercy 
save  us  all  through  His  Son  Jesus  Christ. 

Memorials  of  Harrow  Sundays :  Sermon 
XVII.,  Isaiah  63  :  8. 


SIR  ARTHUR  HELPS, 

born  1817,  graduated  at  Cambridge  Uni 
versity,  1835,  was  for  many  years  an  officer 
in  the  Civil  Service,  and  about  1860  became 
Clerk  of  the  Privy  Council ;  died  1875. 

Thoughts  in  the  Cloister  and  the  Crowd, 
Lond.,  1835,  12mo;  Essays  Written  in  the 
Intervals  of  Business,  1841,  8vo,  7th  edit., 
1853,  12mo;  Catherine  Douglas,  a  Tragedy 


SIR  ARTHUR   HELPS. 


511 


(in  verse),  1843,  sm.  8vo  ;  King  Henry  II.  : 
An  Historical  Drama,  1843,  sin.  8vo,  2d  edit., 
1845,  fp.  Svo;  The  Claims  of  Labour,  1844; 
Friends  in  Council :  A  Series  of  Readings 
and  Discourses  thereon.  1847,  cr.  Svo,  Sec- 
ond Series,  1849,  6th  edit.,  1854,  2  vols.  fp. 
Svo;  Companions  of  my  Solitude,  1851, 
12mo,  4th  edit.,  1854,  fp.  .Svo  ;  The  Conquer- 
ors of  the  New  World  and  their  Bondsmen, 
1848-52,  2  vols.  Svo;  History  of  the  Span- 
ish Conquest  of  America,  and  its  Relations 
to  the  History  of  Slavery  and  to  the  Gov- 
ernment of  Colonies,  1855-57,  3  vols.  Svo  ; 
Oulita,  the  Serf,  1858;  Realmah,  a  Tale, 
1869 ;  Life  of  Columbus,  1869 ;  Casimir 
Marcinma,  1870  ;  Brevia:  Short  Essays  and 
Aphorisms,  1870 ;  Conversations  on  War 
and  General  Culture,  1871  ;  Thoughts  upon 
Government,  1871;  Social  Pressure,  1874. 

"  A  true  thinker,  who  has  practical  purpose  in 
his  thinking,  and  is  sincere,  as  Plato,  or  Carlyle, 
or  Helps,  beoomes  in  some  sort  a  seer,  and  must  be 
always  of  infinite  use  in  his  generation." — RUSKIX  : 
Mod.  Painters,  13  :  268,  Lond.,  1856. 

"  There  are  things  which  I  hope  are  said  more 
clearly  than  before,  owing  to  the  influence  of  the 
beautiful  quiet  English  of  Helps.'' — RUSKI.V.  See 
also  Raskin's  Stones  of  Venice  ;  lilackw.  Mag.,  Oct. 
1851;  Fraser's  Mag.,  Sept.  1857;  Wtstm.  Rev.,  43  ; 
Dull.  Univ.  Mag.,  25  :  45-57 ;  Eclec.  Jiee.,  4th 
Ser.,  30  :  284. 

DISCOVERY  OF  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN: 

Vasco  Nunez  resolved,  therefore,  to  be  the 
discoverer  of  that  sea,  and  of  those  rich 
lands  to  which  Comogre's  son  had  pointed, 
when,  after  rebuking  the  Spaniards  for  their 
"  brabbling"  [quarrelling]  about  the  division 
of  the  gold,  he  turned  his  face  towards  the 
south.  In  the  peril  which  so  closely  im- 
pended over  Vasco  Nunez,  there  was  no  use 
in  waiting  for  reinforcements  from  Spain  : 
when  those  reinforcements  should  come,  his 
dismissal  would  come  too.  Accordingly, 
early  in  September,  1513,  he  set  out  on  his 
renowned  expedition  for  finding  "the  other 
sea,"  accompanied  by  a  hundred  and  ninety 
men  well  armed,  and  by  dogs,  which  were 
of  more  avail  than  men,  and  by  Indian 
slaves  to  carry  the  burthens. 

Following  Poncha's  guide,  Vasco  Nunez 
and  his  men  commenced  the  ascent  of  the 
mountains,  until  he  entered  the  country  of 
an  Indian  chief  called  Quarequa,  whom  they 
found  fully  prepared  to  resist  them.  The 
brave  Indian  advanced  at  the  head  of  his 
troops,  intending  to  make  a  vigorous  attack  ; 
but  they  could  not  withstand  the  discharge 
of  the  fire-arms.  Indeed,  they  believed  the 
Spaniards  to  have  thunder  and  lightning  in 
their  hands, — not  an  unreasonable  fancy, — 
and,  flying  in  the  utmost  terror  from  the 
place  of  battle,  a  total  rout  ensued.  The 


rout  was  a  bloody  one,  and  is  described  by 
an  author  who  gained  his  information  from 
those  who  were  present  at  it,  as  a  scene  to 
remind  one  of  the  shambles.  The  king  and 
his  principal  men  were  slain  to  the  number 
of  six  hundred.  Speaking  of  these  people, 
Peter  Martyr  makes  mention  of  the  sweet- 
ness of  their  language,  saying  that  all  the 
words  in  it  might  be  written  in  Latin  let- 
ters, as  was  also  to  be  remarked  in  that  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Hispaniola.  This  writer 
also  mentions,  and  there  is  reason  for  think- 
ing he  was  correctly  informed,  that  there 
was  a  region,  not  two  days'  journey  from 
Quarequa's  territory,  in  which  Vasco  Nunez 
found  a  race  of  black  men,  who  were  con- 
jectured to  have  come  from  Africa,  and  to 
have  been  shipwrecked  on  this  coast.  Leav- 
ing several  of  his  men  who  were  ill,  or  over- 
weary, in  Quarequa's  chief  town,  and  taking 
with  him  guides  from  this  country,  the  Span- 
ish commander  pursued  his  way  up  the 
most  lofty  sierras  there,  until,  on  the  25th 
of  September,  1513,  he  came  near  to  the  top 
of  a  mountain,  from  whence  the  South  Sea 
was  visible.  The  distance  from  Poncha's 
chief  town  to  this  point  was  forty  leagues, 
reckoned  then  six  days'  journey,  but  Vasco 
Nunez  and  his  men  took  twenty-five  days  to 
accomplish  it,  as  they  suffered  much  from 
the  roughness  of  the  ways  and  from  the  want 
of  provisions. 

A  little  before  Vasco  Nunez  reached  the 
height,  Quarequa's  Indians  informed  him  of 
his  near  approach  to  the  sea.  It  was  a  sight 
in  beholding  which  for  the  first  time  any 
man  would  wish  to  be  alone.  Vasco  Nunez 
bade  his  men  sit  down  while  he  ascended, 
and  then,  in  solitude,  looked  down  upon  the 
vast  Pacific, — the  first  man  of  the  Old  World, 
so  far  as  we  know,  who  had  done  so. 
Falling  on  his  knees,  he  gave  thanks  to  God 
for  the  favour  shown  to  him  in  his  being 
permitted  to  discover  the  sea  of  the  South. 
Then  with  his  hand  he  beckoned  to  his  men 
to  come  up.  When  they  had  come,  both  he 
and  they  knelt  down,  and  poured  forth  their 
thanks  to  God.  lie  then  addressed  them  in 
these  words  :  "  You  see  here,  gentlemen  and 
children  mine,  how  our  desires  are  being  ac- 
complished, and  the  end  of  our  labours. 
Of  that  we  ought  to  be  certain  :  for,  as  it 
has  turned  out  true,  what  King  Comogre's 
son  told  of  this  sea  to  us,  who  never  thought 
to  see  it,  so  I  hold  for  certain  that  what  he 
told  us  of  there  being  incomparable  treas- 
ures in  it  will  be  fulfilled.  God  and  his 
blessed  mother,  who  have  assisted  us,  so 
that  we  should  arrive  here  and  behold  this 
sea,  will  favour  us,  that  we  may  enjoy  all 
that  there  is  in  it." 

Afterwards,  they  all  devoutly  sang  the 
"Te  Deum  Laudamus ;"  and  a  list  was 


512 


AUSTEN  HENRY  LA  YARD. 


drawn  up  by  a  notary  of  those  who  were 
present  nt  this  discovery,  which  was  made 
upon  St.  Martin's  day. 

Every  great  and  original  action  has  a 
prospective  greatness — not  alone  from  the 
thought  of  the  man  who  achieves  it,  but 
from  the  various  aspects  and  high  thoughts 
which  the  same  action  will  continue  to  pre- 
sent and  call  up  in  the  minds  of  others  to 
the  end,  it  may  be,  of  all  time.  And  so  a 
remarkable  event  may  go  on  acquiring  more 
and  more  signilicance.  In  this  case,  our 
knowledge  that  the  Pacific,  which  Vasco 
Nunez  then  beheld,  occupies  more  than  one- 
half  of  the  earth's  surface,  is  an  element  of 
thought  which  in  our  minds  lightens  up  and 
gives  an  awe  to  this  first  gaze  of  his  upon 
those  mighty  waters.  To  him  the  scene 
might  not  at  that  moment  have  suggested 
much  more  than  it  would  have  done  to  a 
mere  conqueror  ;  indeed  Peter  Martyr  likens 
Vasco  Nunez  to  Hannibal  showing  Italy  to 
his  soldiers. 

Having  thus  addressed  his  men,  Vasco 
Nunez  proceeded  to  take  formal  possession, 
on  behalf  of  the  kings  of  Castille,  of  the  sea, 
and  of  all  that  was  in  it;  and,  in  order  to 
make  memorials  of  the  event,  he  cut  down 
trees,  formed  crosses,  and  heaped  up  stones. 
He  also  inscribed  the  names  of  the  mon- 
archs  of  Castille  upon  great  trees  in  the 
vicinity. 

The  Spanish  Conquest  of  America,  Vol.  i. 
Book  vi.  Ch.  i. 


AUSTEN    HENRY    LAYARD, 
D.C.L.,    M.P., 

grandson  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Layard,  Dean  of 
Bristol,  was  born  in  Paris,  1817;  visited 
Asia  Minor.  Persia,  etc.,  about  1840,  and  a 
few  years  later  discovered  the  ruins  of  Nin- 
eveh, near  Mosul  ;  subsequently,  under  the 
auspices  of  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  and 
in  conjunction  with  M.  Botta,  made  "  exca- 
vations at  Nimroud,  where  lie  found  monu- 
ments marked  with  cuneiform  inscriptions, 
and  colossal  emblematic  figures  in  the  form 
of  winged  bulls  and  lions"  (now  deposited 
in  the  British  Museum),  "memorials  of  a 
civilization  which  existed  before  the  com- 
mencement of  profane  history  ;"  Attache  to 
the  Embassy  at  Constantinople,  1849; 
Under-Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Af- 
fairs, 1852,  and  again  August,  1861,  to 
June,  1866:  M.P.,  1852-57,"  and  1860  et 
seq.  ;  Lord  Rector  of  Aberdeen  University, 
1855-56 ;  Trustee  of  the  British  Museum, 
18G6  ;  Commissioner  of  Public  Works,  1868  ; 
Ambassador  to  Spain,  1869. 

Nineveh  and  its  Remains :  Researches  and 


Discoveries  in  Ancient  Assyria,  with  the 
Narrative  of  a  Residence  in  that  Country, 
and  Excursions  to  the  Valleys  of  the  Nes- 
torian  Christians,  etc.,  Lond.,  1848,  2  vols. 
8vo,  6th  edit.,  1850,  2  vols.  8vo  (discoveries 
in  1845-46);  The  Monuments  of  Nineveh  ; 
illustrated  from  numerous  drawings  mado 
on  the  spot,  Lond.,  1850,  imp.  fol.,  10 
Parts,  100  plates,  £10  lO.s-.  ;  A  Popular  Ac- 
count of  Layard's  Expedition  to  Nineveh, 
abridged  by  the  author,  Lond.,  1851,  cr. 
8vo  ;  Fresh  Discoveries  at  Nineveh,  and  Re- 
searches at  Babylon  :  being  the  Results  of 
the  Second  Expedition  to  Assyria  [1849-51] : 
also  A  Journey  to  the  Khabour,  The  Desert, 
Lake  Van.  Ancient  Armenia,  Kurdistan,  and 
the  Borders  of  the  Euphrates,  Lond.,  1853,  2 
vols.  8vo.  See  (London)  Quart.  Rev.,  Dec. 
1848  ;  Fraser's  Mag.,  April,  1849  ;  N.  Brit. 
Rev.,  May,  1853. 

EXCAVATIONS  AT  NIMROUD. 

I  had  slept  little  during  the  night.  The 
hovel  in  which  we  had  taken  shelter,  and  its 
inmates,  did  not  invite  slumber  ;  but  such 
scenes  and  companions  were  not  new  to  me  : 
they  could  have  been  forgotten  had  my  brain 
been  less  excited.  Hopes,  long  cherished, 
were  now  to  be  realized,  or  were  to  end  in 
disappointment.  Visions  of  palaces  under 
ground,  of  gigantic  monsters,  of  sculptured 
figures,  and  endless  inscriptions,  floated 
before  me. 

After  forming  plan  after  plan  for  removing 
the  earth,  and  extricating  these  treasures,  I 
fancied  myself  wandering  in  a  maze  of  cham- 
bers from  which  I  could  find  no  outlet. 
Then  again,  all  was  re-buried,  and  I  was 
standing  on  the  grass-covered  mound.  Ex- 
hausted, I  was  at  length  sinking  into  sleep, 
when  hearing  the  voice  of  Awad,  I  rose  from 
my  carpet,  and  joined  him  outside  the  hovel. 

The  day  already  dawned  ;  he  had  returned 
with  six  Arabs,  who  agreed  for  a  small  sum 
to  work  under  my  direction. 

The  lofty  cone  and  broad  mound  of  Nim- 
roud broke  like  a  distant  mountain  on  the 
morning  sky.  But  how  changed  was  the 
scene  since  my  former  visit!  The  ruins 
were  no  longer  clothed  with  verdure  and 
many-coloured  flowers;  no  signs  of  habita- 
tion, not  even  the  black  tent  of  the  Aral), 
was  seen  upon  the  plain.  The  eye  wan- 
dered over  a  parched  and  barren  waste, 
across  which  occasionally  swept  the  whirl- 
wind dragging  with  it  a  cloud  of  sand. 
About  a  mile  from  us  was  the  small  village 
of  Nimroud.  like  Naifa,  a  heap  of  ruins. 

Twenty  minutes'  walk  brought  us  to  the 
principal  mound.  The  absence  of  all  vege- 
tation enabled  me  to  examine  the  remains 
with  which  it  was  covered.  Broken  pot- 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


513 


tery  and  fragments  of  bricks,  both  inscribed 
with  the  cuneiform  character,  were  strewed 
on  all  sides.  The  Arabs  watched  my  mo- 
tions as  I  wandered  to  and  fro,  and  observed 
with  surprise  the  objects  I  had  collected. 
They  joined,  however,  in  the  search,  and 
brought  me  handf'uls  of  rubbish,  amongst 
which  I  found  with  joy  the  fragment  of  a 
bas-relief.  The  material  on  which  it  was 
carved  had  been  exposed  to  fire,  and  re- 
sembled, in  every  aspect,  the  burnt  gypsum 
of  Khorsabad.  Convinced  from  this  dis- 
covery that  sculptured  remains  must  still 
exist  in  some  part  of  the  mound,  I  sought 
for  a  place  where  excavations  might  be  com- 
menced with  a  prospect  of  success.  A  wad 
led  me  to  a  piece  of  alabaster  Avhich  ap- 
peared above  the  soil.  We  could  not  re- 
move it.  and  on  digging  downward,  it  proved 
to  be  the  upper  part  of  a  large  slab.  I  or- 
dered all  the  men  to  work  round  it,  and  they 
shortly  uncovered  a  second  slab  to  which  it 
had  been  united.  Continuing  in  the  same 
line,  we  came  upon  a  third  ;  and  in  the  course 
of  the  morning  laid  bare  ten  more,  the  whole 
forming  a  square,  with  one  stone  missing  at 
the  N.  \V.  corner.  It  was  evident  that  the 
top  of  a  chamber  had  been  discovered,  and 
that  the  gap  was  its  entrance.  I  now  dug 
down  the  face  of  the  stones,  and  an  inscrip- 
tion in  the  cuneiform  character  was  soon  ex- 
posed to  view.  Similar  inscriptions  occupied 
the  centre  of  all  the  slabs,  which  were  in 
the  best  preservation  ;  but  plain,  with  the 
exception  of  the  writing.  Leaving  half  the 
workmen  to  uncover  as  much  of  the  cham- 
ber as  possible,  I  led  the  rest  to  the  S.  W. 
corner  of  the  mound,  where  I  had  observed 
many  fragments  of  calcined  alabaster. 

I  dug  at  once  into  the  side  of  the  mound, 
which  was  here  very  steep,  and  thus  avoided 
the  necessity  of  removing  much  earth.  We 
came  almost  immediately  to  a  wall,  bearing 
inscriptions  in  the  same  character  as  those 
already  described ;  but  the  slabs  had  evi- 
dently been  exposed  to  intense  heat,  were 
cracked  in  every  part,  and,  reduced  to  lime, 
threatened  to  fall  into  pieces  as  soon  as  un- 
covered. 

Night  interrupted  our  labours.  I  returned 
to  the  village  well  satisfied  with  their  result. 
It  was  now  evident  that  buildings  of  consid- 
erable extent  existed  in  the  mound  ;  and  that 
although  some  had  been  destroyed  by  fire, 
others  had  escaped  the  conflagration.  As 
there  were  inscriptions,  and  as  a  fragment 
of  a  bas-relief  had  been  found,  it  was  natural 
to  conclude  that  sculptures  were  still  buried 
under  the  soil.  I  determined  to  follow  the 
search  at  the  N.  W.  corner,  and  to  empty 
the  chamber  partly  uncovered  during  the 
day. 

Nineveh  and  its  Remains.  Vul.  i.  Ch.  ii. 
83 


CONFIRMATION  OF  THE  SCRIPTURES. 

Doubtless,  if  I  had  undertaken  these  ex- 
cavations with  no  other  end  than  that  of 
gratifying  an  idle  curiosity  or  an  ordinary 
spirit  of  enterprise,  I  should  be  utterly  un- 
worthy of  the  honour  you  have  shown  me. 
I  trust  they  were  embarked  in  from  a  higher 
motive.  Archaeology,  if  pursued  in  a  liberal 
spirit,  becomes  of  the  utmost  importance,  as 
illustrating  the  history  of  mankind.  [Great 
applause.]  I  confess  that,  sanguine  as  I  was 
as  to  the  results  of  my  researches  amongst 
the  ruins  on  the  Tigris  and  Euphrates,  I 
could  not,  nor,  indeed,  probably  could  any 
human  being,  have  anticipated  the  results 
which  they  produced.  I  do  not  say  this  in. 
self-praise.  I  consider  myself  but  an  hum- 
ble agent,  whose  good  fortune  it  has  been  to 
labour  successfully  in  bringing  about  those 
results.  I  could  not  doubt  that  every  spade- 
ful of  earth  which  was  removed  from  those 
vast  remains  would  tend  to  confirm  the  truth 
of  prophecy  and  to  illustrate  the  meaning 
of  Scripture.  But  who  could  have  believed 
that  records  themselves  should  have  been 
found  which,  as  to  the  minuteness  of  their 
details,  and  the  wonderful  accuracy  of  their 
statements,  should  confirm  almost  word  for 
word  the  very  text  of  Scripture  ?  And  re- 
member that  these  were  no  fabrications  of 
a  later  date  in  monuments  centuries  after 
the  deeds  which  they  professed  to  relate  had 
taken  place,  but  records  engraved  by  those 
who  had  actually  taken  part  in  them. 

Speech  on  ihe  Occasion  of  the  Presentation 
to  Dr.  Layard  of  the  Freedom  of  the 
City  of  London,  Feb.  9,  185/f. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE, 

born  at  Totness,  Devonshire,  1818,  was  edu- 
cated at  Westminster  and  the  University  of 
Oxford,  where  he  obtained  the  Chancellor's 
Prize  for  the  English  Essay  in  1842,  and  the 
same  year  was  elected  Fellow  of  Exeter 
College. 

Shadow  of  the  Clouds,  Lond.,  1847,  Svo  (a 
novel) ;  The  Nemesis  of  Faith,  Lond.,  1848,  2d 
edit..  1849,  p.  8vo  (a  theologico-philosophical 
novel);  The  Book  of  Job,  Lond.,  1854,  p. 
8vo ;  History  of  England  from  the  Fall  of 
Wolsey  to  the  Defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada, 
Lond.,  1856-70,  12  vols.  8vo,  and  cr.  8vo, 
New  York,  1870-72,  12  vols.  cr.  Svo;  Short 
Studies  on  Great  Subjects,  1868-71,  2  vols. 
Svo,  and  cr.  Svo;  The  English  in  Ireland  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  1872-74,  3  vols. 
Svo  ;  Thomas  a  Becket,  1878  ;  Julius  Caesar, 
a  Sketch,  1879.  He  contributed  to  the  Lives 
of  the  English  Saints,  and  was  for  a  short 
time,  in  1871,  editor  of  Fraser's  Magazine. 


614 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


"  The  peculiar  merit  of  Mr.  Froude's  work  [His- 
tory of  England]  is  its  wealth  of  unpublished  man- 
uscripts; and  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  is  remarkably 
illustrated  by  the  correspondence  of  the  Spanish 
ambassadors  and  other  agents  of  the  court  of  Spain, 
which  have  been  preserved  in  the  Archives  at  Si- 
mancas.  The  extraordinary  interest  of  such  illus- 
trations is  apparent  in  every  page  of  these  vol- 
umes:  they  give  novelty  to  the  narrative  and 
variety  to  the  well-known  incidents  of  the  time; 
and  they  bring  in  aid  of  historical  evidence  the 
contemporary  opinions  of  society  upon  current 
events.  — Edin.  Rev.,  Sept.  1866.  See  also  Fritter'* 
Mag.,  May,  1849,  July,  1856,  July  and  Sept.  1858, 
July,  1860;  N.  lint.  Rev.,  Nov.  1856;  Edin.  Jtev., 
July,  1858,  Jan.  1864:  London  Qiiar.  Rev.,  Oct. 
1863;  Brit.  Quar.  Rev.,  Jan.  and  April,  1864; 
HnKnck's  Defence  of  Mary,  Queen  < if  Scots  ;  Lecky's 
History  of  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

EARLY  CHARACTER  OF  HENRY  VIII. 

If  Henry  VIII.  had  died  previous  to  the 
first  agitation  of  the  divorce,  his  loss  would 
have  been  deplored  as  one  of  the  heaviest 
misfortunes  which  had  ever  befallen  the 
country ;  and  he  would  have  left  a  name 
which  would  have  taken  its  place  in  history 
by  the  side  of  that  of  the  Black  Prince  or 
the  conqueror  of  Agineourt.  Left  at  the 
most  trying  age,  with  his  character  un- 
formed, with  the  means  at  his  disposal  of 
gratifying  every  inclination,  and  married  by 
his  ministers  when  a  boy  to  an  unattractive 
woman  far  his  senior,  he  had  lived  for  thirty- 
six  years  almost  without  blame,  and  bore 
through  England  the  reputation  of  an  up- 
right and  virtuous  king.  Nature  had  been 
prodigal  to  him  of  her  rarest  gifts.  In  per- 
son he  is  said  to  have  resembled  his  grand- 
father, Edward  IV..  who  was  the  handsomest 
man  in  Europe.  His  form  and  bearing  were 
princely ;  and  amidst  the  easy  freedom  of 
his  address,  his  manner  remained  majestic. 
No  knight  in  England  could  match  him  in 
the  tournament  except  the  Duke  of  Suffolk  : 
he  drew  with  ease  as  strong  a  bow  as  was 
borne  by  any  yeoman  of  his  guard ;  and 
these  powers  were  sustained  in  unfailing 
vigour  by  a  temperate  habit  and  by  constant 
exercise.  Of  his  intellectual  ability  we  are 
not  left  to  judge  from  the  suspicious  pane- 
gyrics of  his  contemporaries.  His  state 
papers  and  letters  may  be  placed  by  the  side 
of  those  of  Wolsey  or  of  Cromwell,  and 
they  lose  nothing  in  the  comparison. 
Though  they  are  broadly  different,  the 
perception  is  equally  clear,  the  expression 
equally  powerful,  and  they  breathe  through- 
out an  irresistible  vigour  of  purpose.  In 
addition  to  this  he  had  a  fine  musical  taste, 
carefully  cultivated ;  he  spoke  and  wrote  in 
four  languages ;  and  his  knowledge  of  a 
multitude  of  other  subjects,  with  which  his 
versatile  ability  made  him  conversant,  would 
have  formed  the  reputation  of  any  ordinary 


man.  He  was  among  the  best  physicians 
of  his  age;  he  was  his  own  engineer,  invent- 
ing improvements  in  artillery,  and  new  con- 
structions in  ship-building;  and  this  not 
with  the  condescending  incapacity  of  a  roval 
amateur,  but  with  thorough  workmanlike 
understanding.  His  reading  was  vast,  es- 
pecially in  theology,  which  has  been  ridicu- 
lously ascribed  by  Lord  Herbert  to  his 
father's  intention  of  educating  him  for  the 
Archbishopric  of  Canterbury:  as  if  the  sci- 
entific mastery  of  such  a  subject  could  have 
been  acquired  by  a  boy  of  twelve  years  of 
age,  for  he  was  no  more  when  he  became 
Prince  of  Wales.  He  must  have  studied 
theology  with  the  full  maturity  of  his  intel- 
lect; and  he  had  a  fixed  and  perhaps  unfor- 
tunate interest  in  the  subject  itself. 

In  all  directions  of  human  activity  Henry 
displayed  natural .  powers  of  the  highest 
order,  at  the  highest  stretch  of  industrious 
culture.  He  was  "  attentive,"  as  it  is  called, 
"to  his  religious  duties,"  being  present  at 
the  services  in  chapel  two  or  three  times  a 
day  with  unfailing  regularity,  and  showing 
to  outward  appearance  a  real  sense  of  reli- 
gious obligation  in  the  energy  and  purity  of 
his  life.  In  private  he  was  good  humoured 
and  good-natured.  His  letters  to  his  secre- 
taries, though  never  undignified,  are  simple, 
easy,  and  unrestrained ;  and  the  letters 
written  by  them  to  him  are  similarly  plain 
and  business-like,  as  if  the  writers  knew 
that  the  person  whom  they  were  address- 
ing disliked  compliments,  and  chose  to  be 
treated  as  a  man.  Again,  from  their  cor- 
respondence with  one  another,  when  they 
describe  interviews  with  him.  we  gather  the 
same  pleasant  impression.  He  seems  to 
have  been  always  kind,  always  considerate  ; 
inquiring  into  their  private  concerns  with 
genuine  interest,  and  winning,  as  a  conse- 
quence, their  warm  and  unaffected  attach- 
ment. 

As  a  ruler  he  had  been  eminently  popular. 
All  his  wars  had  been  successful.  He  had 
the  splendid  tastes  in  which  the  English 
people  most  delighted,  and  he  had  substan- 
tially acted  out  his  own  theory  of  his  duty 
which  was  expressed  in  the  following  words  : 

"  Scripture  taketh  princes  to  be,  as  it  were, 
fathers  and  nurses  to  their  subjects,  and  by 
Scripture  it  appeareth  that  it  appertaineth 
unto  the  office  of  princes  to  see  that  right 
religion  and  true  doctrine  be  maintained  and 
taught,  and  that  their  subjects  may  be  well 
ruled  and  governed  by  good  and  just  laws; 
and  to  provide  and  care  for  them  that  all 
things  necessary  for  them  may  be  plenteous; 
and  that  the  people  and  commonweal  may 
increase ;  and  to  defend  them  from  oppression 
and  invasion,  as  well  within  the  realm  as 
without;  and  to  see  that  justice  be  adminis- 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


515 


tered  unto  them  indifferently;  and  to  hear 
benignly  their  complaints ;  and  to  show  to- 
wards them,  although  they  offend,  fatherly 
pity.  And,  finally,  so  to  correct  them  that 
be  evil,  that  they  had  yet  rather  save  them 
than  lose  them  if  it  were  not  for  respect  of 
justice,  and  maintenance  of  peace  and  good 
order  in  the  commonweal."  [Exposition  of 
the  Commandments,  set  forth  by  Royal  Au- 
thority, 1536.  This  treatise  was  drawn  up 
by  the  bishops,  and  submitted  to,  and  revised 
by.  the  king.  Foot-note.}  These  principles 
do  really  appear  to  have  determined  Henry's 
conduct  in  his  earlier  years.  His  social  ad- 
ministration we  have  partially  seen  in  the 
previous  chapter  [Ch.  I.].  He  had  more 
than  once  been  tried  with  insurrection, 
which  he  had  soothed  down  without  blood- 
shed, and  extinguished  in  forgiveness ;  and 
London  long  recollected  the  great  scene 
which  followed  "  evil  May-day,"  1517,  when 
the  apprentices  were  brought  down  to  West- 
minster Hall  to  receive  their  pardons.  There 
had  been  a  dangerous  riot  in  the  streets, 
which  might  have  provoked  a  mild  govern- 
ment to  severity;  but  the  king  contented 
himself  with  punishing  the  five  ringleaders, 
and  four  hundred  other  prisoners,  after  being 
paraded  down  the  streets  in  white  shirts 
with  halters  round  their  necks,  were  dis- 
missed with  an  admonition,  AVolsey  weeping 
as  he  pronounced  it. 

It  is  certain  that  if,  as  I  have  said,  he  had 
died  before  the  divorce  was  mooted,  Henry 
VIII..  like  that  Roman  Emperor  said  by 
Tacitus  to  have  been  consensu  omnium  dignus 
imperil  nisi  imperasset,  would  have  been 
considered  by  posterity  as  formed  by  Provi- 
dence for  the  conduct  of  the  Reformation, 
and  his  loss  would  have  been  deplored  as  a 
perpetual  calamity.  \Ve  must  allow  him, 
therefore,  the  benefit  of  his  past  career,  and 
be  careful  to  remember  it,  when  interpreting 
his  later  actions.  Not  many  men  would 
have  borne  themselves  through  the  same 
trials  with  the  same  integrity;  but  the  cir- 
cumstances of  those  trials  had  not  tested  the 
true  defects  in  his  moral  constitution.  Like 
all  princes  of  the  Plantagenet  blood,  he  was  a 
person  of  a  most  intense  and  imperious  will. 
His  impulses,  in  general  nobly  directed,  had 
never  known  contradiction  ;  and  late  in  life, 
when  his  character  was  formed,  he  was 
forced  into  collision  with  difficulties  with 
which  the  experience  of  discipline  had  not 
fitted  him  to  contend.  Education  had  done 
much  for  him,  but  his  nature  required  more 
correction  than  his  position  had  permitted, 
whilst  unbroken  prosperity  and  early  inde- 
pendence of  control  had  been  his  most  serious 
misfortune.  He  had  capacity,  if  his  training 
had  been  equal  to  it,  to  be  one  of  the  great- 
est of  men.  With  all  his  faults  about  him, 


he  was  still  perhaps  the  greatest  of  his  con- 
temporaries ;  and  the  man  best  able  of  all 
living  Englishmen  to  govern  England,  had 
been  set  to  do  it  by  the  conditions  of  his 
birth. 
History  of  England,  Vol.  i.  Chap.  ii. 

EXECUTION  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF   SCOTS. 

Her  last  night  was  a  busy  one.  As  she 
said  herself,  there  was  much  to  be  done  and 
the  time  was  short.  A  few  lines  to  the 
King  of  France  were  dated  two  hours  after 
midnight.  They  were  to  insist  for  the  last 
time  that  she  was  innocent  of  the  con- 
spiracy, that  she  was  dying  for  religion, 
and  for  having  asserted  her  right  to  the 
crown ;  and  to  beg  that  out  of  the  sum 
which  he  owed  her,  her  servant's  wages 
might  be  paid,  and  masses  provided  for  her 
soul.  After  this  she  slept  for  three  or  four 
hours,  and  then  rose  and  with  the  most 
elaborate  care  prepared  to  encounter  the 
end. 

At  eight  in  the  morning  the  Provost-mar- 
shal knocked  at  the  outer  door  which  com- 
municated with  her  suite  of  apartments.  It 
was  locked  and  no  one  answered,  and  he 
went  back  in  some  trepidation  lest  the  fears 
might  prove  true  which  had  been  entertained 
the  preceding  evening.  On  his  returning 
with  the  Sheriff,  however,  a  few  minutes 
later,  the  door  was  open,  and  they  were 
confronted  with  the  tall,  majestic  figure  of 
Mary  Stuart  standing  before  them  in  splen- 
dour. The  plain  grey  dress  had  been  ex- 
changed for  a  robe  of  black  satin ;  her  jacket 
was  of  black  satin  also,  looped  and  slashed 
and  trimmed  with  velv-et.  Her  false  hair 
was  arranged  studiously  with  a  coif,  and 
over  her  head  and  falling  down  over  her 
back  was  a  white  veil  of  delicate  lawn.  A 
crucifix  of  gold  hung  from  her  neck.  In  her 
hand  she  held  a  crucifix  of  ivory,  and  a 
number  of  jewelled  Pater-nosters  was  at- 
tached to  her  girdle.  Led  by  two  of  Pan- 
let's  gentlemen,  the  Sheriff  walking  before 
her,  she  passed  to  the  chamber  of  presence 
in  which  she  had  been  tried,  where  Shrews- 
bury, Kent,  Paulet,  Drury,  and  others,  were 
waiting  to  receive  her.  Andrew  Melville, 
Sir  Robert's  brother,  who  had  been  master 
of  her  household,  was  kneeling  in  tears. 
'•Melville,"  she  said,  "you  should  rather 
rejoice  than  weep  that  the  end  of  my  troubles 
is  come.  Tell  my  friends  I  die  a  true  Cath- 
olic. Commend  me  to  my  son.  Tell  him  I 
have  done  nothing  to  prejudice  his  kingdom 
of  Scotland,  and  so,  good  Melville,  farewell." 
She  kissed  him,  and  turning  asked  for  her 
chaplain,  Du  Preau.  He  was  not  present. 
There  had  been  a  fear  of  some  religious 
melodrama  which  it  was  thought  well  to 


516 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


avoid.  Her  ladies,  who  had  attempted  to 
follow  her,  had  been  kept  back  also.  She 
could  not  afford  to  leave  the  account  of  her 
death  to  be  reported  by  enemies  and  Puri- 
tans, and  she  required  assistance  for  the 
scene  which  she  meditated.  Missing  them, 
she  asked  the  reason  of  their  absence,  and 
said  she  wished  them  to  see  her  die.  Kent 
said  he  feared  they  might  scream  or  faint, 
or  attempt  perhaps  to  dip  their  handker- 
chiefs in  her  blood.  She  undertook  that 
they  should  be  quiet  and  obedient.  "  The 
Queen, )r  she  said,  "  would  never  deny  her 
so  slight  a  request;"  and  when  Kent  still 
hesitated,  she  added  with  tears,  "  You  know 
I  am  cousin  to  your  Queen,  of  the  blood  of 
Henry  the  Seventh,  a  married  Queen  of 
France,  and  anointed  Queen  of  Scotland." 

It  was  impossible  to  refuse.  She  was  al- 
lowed to  take  six  of  her  own  people  with 
her,  and  select  them  herself.  She  chose  her 
physician  Burgoyne,  Andrew  Melville,  the 
apothecary  Gorion,  and  her  surgeon,  with 
two  ladies,  Elizabeth  Kennedy  and  Curie's 
young  wife,  Barbara  Movvbray,  whose  child 
she  had  baptized. 

"Allons  done,"  she  then  said.  "  Let  us 
go,"  and  passing  out  attended  by  the  Earls, 
and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an  officer  of  the 
guard,  she  descended  the  great  staircase  to 
the  hall.  The  news  had  spread  far  through 
the  country.  Thousands  of  people  were  col- 
lected outside  the  walls.  About  three  hun- 
dred knights  and  gentlemen  of  the  county 
had  been  admitted  to  see  the  execution. 
The  tables  and  forms  had  been  removed, 
and  a  great  wood  fire  was  blazing  in  the 
chimney.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  hall, 
above  the  fire-place,  but  near  it,  stood  the 
scaffold,  twelve  feet  square  and  two  feet  and 
a  half  high.  It  was  covered  with  black 
cloth  ;  a  low  rail  ran  round  it  covered  with 
black  cloth  also,  and  the  Sheriff's  guard  of 
halberdiers  were  ranged  on  the  floor  below 
on  the  four  sides  to  keep  off  the  crowd.  On 
the  scaffold  was  the  block,  black  1  ke  the 
rest;  a  square,  black  cushion  was  p'nced 
behind  it,  .and  behind  the  cushion  a  black 
chair;  on  the  right  were  two  other  chairs 
for  the  Earls.  The  axe  leant  against  the 
rail,  and  two  masked  figures  stood  like 
mutes  on  either  side  at  the  back.  The 
Queen  of  Scots,  as  she  swept  in,  seemed  as 
if  coming  to  take  a  part  in  some  solemn  pa- 
geant. Not  a  muscle  of  her  face  could  be 
seen  to  quiver ;  she  ascended  the  scaffold 
with  absolute  composure,  looked  round  her 
smiling,  and  sate  down.  Shrewsbury  and 
Kent  followed,  and  took  their  places,  the 
Sheriff  stood  at  her  left  hand,  and  Beale 
then  mounted  a  platform  and  read  the  war- 
rant aloud. 

In  all  the  assembly,  Mary  Stuart  appeared 


the  person  least  interested  in  the  words 
which  were  consigning  her  to  death. 

"  Madam,"  said  Lord  Shrewsbury  to  her, 
when  the  rending  was  ended,  "you  hear 
what  we  are  commanded  to  do." 

"  You  will  do  your  duty,"  she  answered, 
and  rose  as  if  to  kneel  and  pray. 

The  Dean  of  Peterborough,  Dr.  Fletcher, 
approached  the  rail.  "  Madam,"  he  began, 
with  a  low  obeisance,  "  the  Queen's  most 
excellent  Majesty  ;"  "  Madam,  the  Queenrs 
most  excellent  Majesty," — thrice  he  com- 
menced his  sentence,  wanting  words  to  pur- 
sue it.  When  he  repeated  the  words  a  fourth 
time,  she  cut  him  short, — 

"Mr.  Dean,"  she  said,  "  I  am  a  Catholic, 
and  must  die  a  Catholic.  It  is  useless  to  at- 
tempt to  move  me,  and  your  prayers  will 
avail  me  but  little." 

"  Change  your  opinion,  Madam,"  he  cried, 
his  tongue  being  loosed  at  last ;  "  repent  of 
your  sins,  settle  your  faith  in  Christ,  by  him 
to  be  saved." 

"  Trouble  not  yourself  further,  Mr.  Dean," 
she  answered  ;  "  I  am  settled  in  my  own  faith, 
for  which  I  mean  to  shed  my  blood." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Madam,"  said  Shrewsbury, 
"  to  see  you  so  addicted  to  Popery." 

"That  image  of  Christ  you  hold  there," 
said  Kent,  "  will  not  profit  you  if  he  be  not 
engraved  in  your  heart." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  turning  her  back 
on  Fletcher,  knelt  for  her  own  devotions. 

lie  had  evidently  been  instructed  to  im- 
pair the  Catholic  complexion  of  the  scene, 
and  the  Queen  of  Scots  was  determined  that 
he  should  not  succeed.  When  she  knelt  he 
commenced  an  extempore  prayer,  in  which 
the  assembly  joined.  As  his  voice  sounded 
out  in  the  hall  she  raised  her  own,  reciting 
with  powerful  deep-chested  tones  the  peni- 
tential Psalms  in  Latin,  introducing  English 
sentences  at  intervals,  that  the  audience 
might  know  what  she  was  saying,  and  pray- 
ing with  especial  distinctness  for  her  holy 
father  the  Pope. 

From  time  to  time,  with  conspicuous  vehe- 
mence, she  struck  the  crucifix  against  her 
bosom,  and  then,  as  the  Dean  gave  up  the 
struggle,  leaving  her  Latin,  she  prayed  in 
English  wholly,  still  clear  and  loud.  She 
prayed  for  the  Church  which  she  hnd  been 
ready  to  betray,  for  her  son  whom  she  had 
disinherited,  for  the  Queen  whom  she  had 
endeavoured  to  murder.  She  prayed  God  to 
avert  his  wrath  from  England,  that  England 
which  she  had  sent  a  last  message  to  Philip 
to  beseech  him  to  invade.  She  forgave  her 
enemies,  whom  she  had  invited  Philip  not 
to  forget,  and  then,  praying  to  the  saints  to 
intercede  for  her  with  Christ,  and  kissing  the 
crucifix,  and  crossing  her  own  breast,  "Even 
as  thy  arms,  0  Jesus,"  she  cried,  "were 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


517 


spread  upon  the  cross,  so  receive  me  into 
thy  mercy  and  forgive  my  sins  !" 

With  these  words  she  rose  ;  the  black 
mutes  stepped  forward,  and  in  the  usual 
form  begged  her  forgiveness. 

"  I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  "  for  now  I 
hope  you  shall  end  all  my  troubles."  They 
offered  their  help  in  arranging  her  dress. 
"Truly,  my  lords,"  she  said,  with  a  smile, 
to  the  Earls,  "  I  never  had  such  grooms 
waiting  on  me  before."  Her  ladies  were 
allowed  to  come  up  upon  the  scaffold  to 
assist  her  ;  for  the  work  to  be  done  was  con- 
siderable, and  had  been  prepared  with  no 
common  thought. 

She  laid  her  crucifix  on  her  chair.  The 
chief  executioner  took  it  as  a  perquisite, 
but  was  ordered  instantly  to  lay  it  down. 
The  lawn  veil  was  lifted  carefully  off,  not 
to  disturb  the  hair,  and  was  hung  upon  the 
rail.  The  black  robe  was  next  removed. 
Below  it  was  a  petticoat  of  crimson  velvet. 
The  black  jacket  followed,  and  under  the 
jacket  was  a  body  of  crimson  satin.  One 
of  her  ladies  handed  her  a  pair  of  crimson 
sleeves,  with  which  she  hastily  covered  her 
arms :  and  thus  she  stood  on  the  black  scaf- 
fold with  the  black  figures  all  around  her, 
blood-red  from  head  to  foot. 

Her  reasons  for  adopting  so  extraoi'dinary 
a  costume  must  be  left  to  conjecture.  It  is 
only  certain  that  it  must  have  been  care- 
fully studied,  and  the  pictorial  effect  must 
have  been  appalling. 

The  women,  whose  firmness  had  hitherto 
borne  the  trial,  began  now  to  give  way, 
spasmodic  sobs  bursting  from  them  which 
they  could  not  check.  "  Ne  criez  vous," 
she  said,  "j'ay  promis  pour  vous."  Strug- 
gling bravely,  they  crossed  their  breasts 
again  and  again,  she  crossing  them  in  turn 
and  bidding  them  pray  for  her.  Then  she 
knelt  on  the  cushion.  Barbara  Mowbray 
bound  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief. 
"Adieu,"  she  said,  smiling  for  the  last 
time  and  waving  her  hand  to  them,  "Adieu, 
au  revoir."  They  stepped  back  from  off 
the  scaffold  and  left  her  alone.  On  her 
knees  she  repeated  the  Psalm,  In  te,  Dom- 
ino, confido, — "In  thee.  0  Lord,  have  I  put 
my  trust."  Her  shoulders  being  exposed, 
two  scars  became  visible,  one  on  either  side, 
and  the  Earls  being  now  a  little  behind  her, 
Kent  pointed  to  them  with  his  white  wand 
and  looked  enquiringly  at  his  companion. 
Shrewsbury  whispered  that  they  were  the 
remains  of  two  abscesses  from  which  she 
had  suffered  while  living  with  him  at  Shef- 
field. 

When  the  Psalm  was  finished  she  felt  for 
the  block,  and  laying  down  her  head,  mut- 
tered :  "  In  manus,  Domine  tuas,  commendo 
animam  meam."  The  hard  wood  seemed 


to  hurt  her,  for  she  placed  her  hands  under 
her  neck.  The  executioners  gently  removed 
them,  lest  they  should  deaden  the  blow,  and 
then  one  of  them  holding  her  slightly,  the 
other  raised  the  axe  and  struck.  The  scene 
had  been  too  trying  for  even  the  practised 
headsman  of  the  Tower.  His  arm  wandered. 
The  blow  fell  on  the  knot  of  the  handker- 
chief, and  scarcely  broke  the  skin.  She 
neither  spoke  nor  moved.  lie  struck  again, 
this  time  effectively.  The  head  hung  by  a 
shred  of  skin,  which  he  divided  without 
withdrawing  the  axe;  and  at  once  a  meta- 
morphosis was  witnessed,  strange  as  was 
ever  wrought  by  wand  of  fubled  enchanter. 
The  coif  fell  off  and  the  false  plaits.  The 
laboured  illusion  vanished.  The  lady  who 
had  knelt  before  the  block  was  in  the  ma- 
turity of  grace  and  loveliness.  The  execu- 
tioner, when  he  raised  the  head,  as  usual, 
to  show  it  to  the  crowd,  exposed  the  with- 
ered features  of  a  grizzled,  wrinkled  old 
woman. 

"  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  the  Queen !" 
said  the  Dean  of  Peterborough.  A  loud 
Amen  rose  over  the  hall.  "  Such  end," 
said  the  Earl  of  Kent,  rising  and  standing 
over  the  body,  "  to  the  Queen's  and  the  gos- 
pel's enemies  !" 

History  of  England,  Vol.  xii.  Ch.  xxxiv. 


REV.  CHARLES  KINGSLEY, 

born  at  Ilolne  Vicarage,  Devonshire,  LSI 9, 
was  educated  at  Magdalene  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  became  Rector  of  Eversley, 
Hampshire,  1844  ;  died  1875. 

Among  his  works  are  :  The  Saint's  Trag- 
edy, a  Story  of  Elizabeth  of  Hungary,  a 
Drama  in  Verse,  Lond.,  1848,  12mo:  Alton 
Locke,  Tailor  and  Poet,  a  Novel,  1850,  2 
vols.  p.  8vo;  Yeast,  a  Problem,  1851,  p.  8vo; 
Phaetheon,  or,  Loose  Thoughts  for  Loose 
Thinkers,  1852,  12mo;  Ilypatia,  or,  New 
Foes  with  an  Old  Face,  1853,  2  vols.  p.  8vo; 
Alexandria  and  her  Schools,  1854,  p.  8vo; 
Westward  Ho !  or,  The  Voyages  and  Adven- 
tures of  Sir  Ainyas  Leigh,  1855,  3  vols.  cr. 
8vo  ;  Glaucus,  or,  The  Wonders  of  the  Shore, 
1855,  12rno,  3d  edit,  1856,  12tno;  Poems, 
now  first  collected,  1856, 16mo  :  The  Heroes, 
or,  Greek  Fairy  Tales  for  my  Children,  1856, 
8vo  ;  Two  Years  Ago,  a  Novel,  1857,  3  vols. 
p.  8vo;  Miscellanies,  1859;  The  Water- 
Babies,  1863,  cr.  8vo;  The  Roman  and  the 
Teuton  ;  Lectures,  1864,  p.  8vo  ;  What  Then 
Does  Doctor  Newman  Mean?  1864;  Here- 
ward,  the  Wake,  1866,  cr.  8vo;  On  the 
Ancien  Regime,  1867.  cr.  8vo  ;  The  Hermits, 
1868  ;  Madam  Now  'and  Lady  Why,  187U  ; 
The  Limits  of  Exact  Science  as  Applied  to 


518 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


History;  At  Last,  1871,  cr.  8vo ;  Prose 
Idylls,  1873,  cr.  8vo;  Plays  and  Puritans, 
1873;  Health  and  Education,  1874;  Lec- 
tures Delivered  in  America  in  1874,  p. 
8vo  ;  Selections  from  his  Writings,  cr.  8vo  ; 
Poems,  including  Andromeda,  Saint's  Trag- 
edy, Songs,  Ballads,  etc.,  fp.  8vo  ;  Favourite 
Poems  [The  Three  Fishers,  The  Sands  of 
Dee,  etc.],  by  Charles  Kingsley,  Bost., 
32mo. 

He  also  published  Westminster  Sermons, 
cr.  8vo,  other  volumes  of  Sermons,  Pamph- 
lets, and  Articles  in  the  8th  edition  of  Ency- 
clopaedia Britannica,  North  British  Review, 
Eraser's  Magazine,  etc.  See  his  Life  by 
Mrs.  Kingsle'y,  1878  ;  Eraser's  Mag.,  March, 
1848,  and  June,  1858;  Blackwood's  Mag., 
Nov.  1850,  June,  1855,  Aug.  1858;  London 
Quart.  Kev.,  Sept.  1851 ;  N.  Brit,  llev., 
Aug.  1852. 

CAUSES   OP   THE   DEFECTS   IN    MODERN 
POETRY. 

It  is  impossible  to  give  outward  form  to 
that  which  is  in  its  very  nature  formless, 
like  doubt  and  discontent.  For  on  such 
subjects  thought  itself  is  not  defined  :  it  has 
no  limit,  no  self-coherence,  not  even  method 
or  organic  law.  And  in  a  poem,  as  in  all 
else,  the  body  must  be  formed  according  to 
the  law  of  the  inner  life  ;  the  utterance  must 
be  the  expression,  the  outward  and  visible 
autotype  of  the  spirit  which  animates  it. 
But  where  the  thought  is  defined  by  no 
limits,  it  cannot  express  itself  in  form,  for 
form  is  that  which  has  limits.  Where  it  has 
no  inward  unity  it  cannot  have  any  outward 
one.  If  the  spirit  be  impatient  of  all  moral 
rule,  its  utterance  will  be  equally  impatient 
of  all  artistic  rule  ;  and  thus,  as  we  are  now 
beginning  to  discover  from  experience,  the 
poetry  of  doubt  will  find  itself  unable  to  use 
those  forms  of  verse  which  have  been  always 
held  to  be  the  highest :  tragedy,  epic,  the 
ballad,  and  lastly,  even  the  subjective  lyrical 
ode.  For  they,  too,  to  judge  by  every  great 
lyric  which  remains  to  us,  require  a  ground- 
work of  consistent,  self-coherent  belief;  and 
they  require  also  an  appreciation  of  melody 
even  more  delicate,  and  a  verbal  polish  even 
more  complete,  than  any  other  form  of  poetic 
utterance.  But  where  there  is  no  melody 
within,  there  will  be  no  melody  without.  It 
is  in  vain  to  attempt  the  setting  of  spiritual 
discords  to  physical  music.  The  mere  prac- 
tical patience  and  self-restraint  requisite  to 
work  out  rhythm  when  fixed  on,  will  be 
•wanting;  nay,  the  fitting  rhythm  will  never 
be  found,  the  subject  itself  being  rhythmic: 
and  thus  we  shall  have,  or  rather,  alas  !  do 
have,  a  wider  and  wider  divorce  of  sound 
and  sense,  a  greater  and  greater  carelessness 


for  polish,  and  for  the  charm  of  musical  utter- 
ance, and  watch  the  clear  and  spirit-stirring 
melodies  of  the  older  poets  swept  away  by 
a  deluge  of  half-metrical  prose-run-mad, 
diffuse,  unfinished,  unmusical,  to  which  any 
other  metre  than  that  in  which  it  happens  to 
have  been  written  would  have  been  equally 
appropriate,  because  all  are  equally  inap- 
propriate ;  and  where  men  have  nothing  to 
sing,  it  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence 
how  they  sing  it. 

While  poets  persist  in  thinking  and  writ- 
ing thus,  it  is  vain  for  them  to  talk  loud  about 
the  poet's  divine  mission,  as  the  prophet  of 
mankind,  the  swayer  of  the  universe,  and 
so  forth.  Not  that  we  believe  the  poet 
simply  by  virtue  of  being  a  singer  to  have 
any  such  power.  While  young  gentlemen 
are  talking  about  governing  heaven  and 
earth  by  verse,  Wellingtons  and  Peels,  Ark 
wrights  and  Stephensons,  Frys  and  Chis 
holms,  are  doing  it  by  plain  practical  prose  ; 
and  even  of  those  who  have  moved  and  led 
the  hearts  of  men  by  verse,  every  one,  as 
far  as  we  know,  has  produced  his  magical 
effects  by  poetry  of  the  very  opposite  form 
to  that  which  is  now  in  fashion.  What  poet 
ever  had  more  influence  than  Homer  ?  What 
poet  is  more  utterly  antipodal  to  our  modern 
schools?  There  are  certain  Hebrew  Psalms, 
too,  which  will  be  confessed,  even  by  those 
who  differ  most  from  them,  to  have  exercised 
some  slight  influence  on  human  thought  and 
action,  and  to  be  likely  to  exercise  the  same 
for  some  time  to  come.  Are  they  any  more 
like  our  modern  poetic  forms  than  they  are 
like  our  modern  poetic  matter?  Ay,  even 
in  our  own  time  what  has  been  the  form, 
what  the  temper,  of  all  poetry,  from  Korner 
and  Heine,  what  has  made  the  German  heart 
leap  up,  but  simplicity,  manhood,  clearness, 
finished  melody,  the  very  opposite,  in  ft 
word,  of  our  new  school?  And  to  look  at 
our  home,  what  is  the  modern  poetry  which 
lives  on  the  lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  English'' 
men,  Scotchmen.  Irishmen?  It  is  not  only 
simple  in  form  and  language,  but  much  of 
it  fitted,  by  a  severe  exercise  of  artistic  pa- 
tience, to  tunes  already  existing.  Who  does 
not  remember  how  the  "  Marseillaise"  was 
born,  or  how  Burns's  "  Scots  wha  ha  wi' 
Wallace  bled,"  or  the  story  of  Moore's  taking 
the  old  "lied  Fox  March,"  and  giving  it  a 
new  immortality  as  "Let  Erin  remember 
the  days  of  old,"  while  poor  Einmett  sprang 
up  and  cried,  "Oh,  that  I  had  twenty  thou- 
sand Irishmen  marching  to  that  tune!"  So 
it  is,  even  to  this  day,  and  let  those  who 
hanker  after  poetic  fame  take  note  of  it :  not 
a  poem  which  is  now  really  living  but  has 
gained  its  immortality  by  virtue  of  simplicity 
and  positive  faith. 

Miscellanies,  Vol.  i.  pp.  398-301. 


JOHN  RUSKIN. 


519 


JOHN   RUSKIN, 

the  son  of  a  wine-merchant,  from  whom  he 
inherited  an  ample  fortune,  was  horn  in 
London,  1819;  educated  at  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  where  he  gained  the  Newdi irate 
Prize  in  1839  for  an  English  poem  entitled 
Salsetto  and  Elephanta,  and  graduated  in 
1842.  He  was  instructed  in  drawing  and 
painting  by  Copley,  Fielding,  and  J.  D. 
Harding,  and  became  an  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  Turner,  to  defend  whom  he  wrote 
the  first  volume  of  his  Modern  Painters.  He 
is  a  zealous  Christian  philanthropist,  and  has 
erected  a  number  of  model  houses  for  the 
poor  in  London. 

Modern  Painters,  their  Superiority  in  the 
Art  of  Landscape  Painting  to  all  the  Ancient 
Masters,  by  a  Graduate  of  Oxford,  Lond., 
] 843-60,  5  vols.  imp.  8vo  ;  The  Seven  Lamps 
of  Architecture,  1 849,  imp.  8vo,2d  edit.,  1855, 
imp.  8vo  ;  The  Stones  of  Venice,  1851-53,  3 
vols.  imp.  8vo ;  Examples  of  the  Architect- 
ure of  Venice,  imp.  fol.,  Pts.  i.,  ii.,  iii.,  1851 
(incomplete)  :  Notes  on  the  Construction  of 
Sheep-folds,  1851,  8vo ;  Pre-llaphaclitism, 
1851,  8vo,  2d  edit.,  1862,  demy  8vo;  The 
King  of  the  Golden  River.  1851,  16mo ;  The 
Opening  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  1854,  8vo ; 
Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting,  1854, 
p.  8vo ;  Giotto  and  his  Works  in  Padua,  1854- 
55,  2  Pts.,  r.  8vo  ;  The  Political  Economy  of 
Art,  1857,  8vo;  The  Elements  of  Drawing, 
1857,  p.  8vo,  6th  1000,  1860;  The  Elements 
of  Perspective,  1859,  cr.  8vo ;  The  Two 
Paths  :  being  Lectures  on  Art  and  its  Appli- 
cation to  Decoration  and  Manufacture,  1859, 
p.  8vo  ;  "  Unto  this  Last:"  Four  Essays  on 
the  First  Principles  of  Political  Economy, 
1862,  p.  8vo  ;  Sesame  and  Lilies  :  Two  Lec- 
tures, 1865,  fp.  8vo,  3d  edit.,  1866;  An  En- 
quiry into  some  of  the  Conditions  at  Present 
affecting  the  Study  of  Architecture  in  our 
Schools  :  a  Lecture,  1865,  8vo  ;  The  Ethics  of 
tlie  Dust :  Ten  Lectures  to  Little  Housewives 
on  the  Elements  of  Crystallization,  1865,  cr. 
8vo  ;  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olives  :  Three  Lec- 
tures on  Work,  Traffic,  and  War,  1866  :  Time 
and  Tide,  by  Weare  and  Tyne  :  Twenty-five 
Letters  to  a  Working  Man  of  Sunderland 
on  the  Laws  of  Work,  1867,  12mo;  The 
Queen  of  the  Air  :  being  a  Study  of  the 
Greek  Myths  of  Cloud  and  Storm,  'i860,  cr. 
8vo  ;  Lectures  ou  Art,  1870  ;  Aratra  Pente- 
lici  :  The  Elements  of  Sculpture,  1872. 

lie  also  published  Notes  on  Pictures  at 
the  Royal  Academy,  1855-59,  Notes  on  the 
Turner  Gallery  at  Marlborough  House,  1857, 
Fors  Clavigera,  contributions  to  books, 
papers  in  the  Quarterly  and  other  Reviews, 
Magazines,  etc.  Messrs.  John  Wiley's 
Sons,  New  York,  publish  uniform  editions 
of  Ruskin's  Works, — the  last,  Library  edi- 


tion, with  aBibliography  of  his  Works,  by  R. 
II.  Shepherd  (recently  prepared  for  private 
distribution  in  alimited  edition,  Lond.,  1878), 
1879.  See  also  Selections  from  the  Writings 
of  John  Ruskin,  M.  A.,  London,  Smith,  Elder, 
&  Co.,  1861,  p.  8vo ;  Precious  Thoughts, 
Moral  and  Religious,  Gathered  from  the 
Works  of  John  Ruskin,  A.M.,  by  Mrs.  L.  C. 
Tuthill,  New  York,  J.  Wiley's  Sons,  1865, 
12mo  ;  Pearls  for  Young  Ladies,  from  the 
Later  Works  of  John  Ruskin,  by  Mrs.  L.  C. 
Tuthill,  New  York,  J.  Wiley's  Sons,  1879, 
12mo;  Ruskin:  His  Life,  His  Books,  His  The- 
ories, New  York,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  1879. 

"  Mr.  Ruskin  seems  to  me  one  of  the  few  genu- 
ine writers,  as  distinguished  from  b3ok-makers,  of 
this  age.  His  earnestness  even  auiuses  me  in  cer- 
tain passages  [in  The  Stones  of  Venice]  ;  for  I 
cannot  help  laughing  to  think  how  Utilitarians 
will  fume  and  fret  over  his  deep,  serious,  and  (as 
they  will  think)  fanatical  reverence  for  Art.  That 
pure  and  severe  mind  you  ascribed  to  him  speaks 
in  every  line.  He  writes  like  the  consecrated 
Priest  of  the  Abstract  and  Ideal." — CIIAUI.OTTB 
BUO.VTE  to  GEORGE  H.  LEWES:  Mrs.  Guxkell's  Life 
of  Charlotte  Ui-onle. 

"  Mr.  Ruskin  has  been  before  the  world  for  some 
years  as  the  most  voluminous,  the  most  confident, 
and  the  most  dogmatic  of  art-critics.  He  has  as- 
tonished his  readers  no  less  by  his  platitudes  than 
by  his  paradoxes.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  more 
painful  in  Mr.  Rut-kin's  writings  than  the  tot-.il 
want  of  reverence  for  things  human  and  divinj 
that  pervades  them.  The  treasures  of  ancient  art, 
from  which  successive  ages  have  drunk  dei'p 
draughts  of  inspiration,  are  to  him  nothing  but 
stumbling-blocks  in  a  deep  valley  of  ruin  [Lec- 
tures, p.  219].  .  .  .  Mystery  and  unintelligibility 
have  iti  all  ages  been  the  grand  resource  of  thosa 
who  have  wished  to  impose  upon  the  gullibility 
of  the  world  and  to  pass  for  being  wiser  than 
their  neighbours.  Quacks  religious,  quacks  moral, 
quacks  political,  and  quacks  literary,  have  re- 
sorted to  them,  no  less  than  quacks  legal ;  and 
nowhere  will  they  be  found  in  greater  abundance 
than  in  the  ponderous  tomes  with  which,  year  after 
year,  Mr.  Ruskin  burdens  our  groaning  tables." — 
Blackwood'g  Mag.,  Jan.  1860. 

"  We  value  a  writer  not  in  proportion  to  his 
freedom  from  faults,  but  in  proportion  to  his  posi- 
tive excellencies, — to  the  variety  of  thought  he 
contributes  anil  suggests,  to  the  amount  of  gladden- 
ing and  energizing  emotions  he  excites.  Of  what 
comparative  importance  is  it  that  Mr.  Ruskin  un- 
dervalues this  painter  or  overvalues  the  other,  that 
he  sometimes  glides  from  a  just  argument  into  » 
fallacious  one,  that  ho  is  a  little  absurd  here  and 
not  a  little  arrogant  there,  if,  with  all  these  col- 
lateral mistakes,  he  teaches  truth  of  infinite  value, 
and  so  teaches  it  that  men  will  listen  ?  The  truth 
of  infinite  value  th  it  he  teaches  is  realism,— the 
doctrine  that  all  truth  and  beauty  are  to  be  attained 
by  a  humble  and  faithful  study  of  nature,  and  not 
by  substituting  vague  forms,  bred  by  imagination 
on  the  mists  of  feeling,  in  place  of  definite,  sub- 
stantial reality.  The  thorough  acceptance  of  this 
doctrine  would  remould  our  life ;  and  he  who 
teaches  its  application  to  any  one  department  of 
human  activity  with  such  power  as  Mr.  Ruskin's  ia 


520 


JOHN  R  US  KIN. 


a  prophet  for  his  generation." — Weatm.  Review, 
April,  1856. 

See  also  Blackw.  Mag.,  Oct.  1843,  Sept. 
1851,  Nov.  1856;  Brit.  Quar.  Rev.,  May, 
1847,  Oct.  1860;  N.  Amer.  Rev.,  Jan.  1848, 
April,  1857?  Edin.  Rev.,  Oct..  1851,  April, 
1856;  Eraser's  Mag.,  April,  1854;  Lond. 
Quar.  Rev.,  April,  1856 ;  Westin.  Rev., 
April,  1856,  April,  1857,  Oct.  1863  ;  N.  Brit. 
Rev.,  Feb.  1862,  and  many  other  references 
in  Allibone's  Critical  Dictionary  of  English 
Literature,  ii.  1894. 

VENICE. 

And  now  come  with  me,  for  I  have  kept 
you  too  long  from  your  gondola ;  come  with 
me.  on  an  autumnal  morning,  through  the 
dark  gates  of  Padua,  and  let  us  take  the 
broad  road  leading  towards  the  east.  It  lies 
level,  for  a  league  or  two,  between  its  elms 
and  vine  festoons  full  laden,  their  thin  leaves 
veined  into  scarlet  hectic,  and  their  clusters 
deepened  into  gloomy  blue  ;  then  mounts  an 
embankment  above  the  Brenta,  and  runs 
between  the  river  and  the  broad  plain, 
which  stretches  to  the  north  in  endless  lines 
of  mulberry  and  maize.  The  Brenta  flows 
strongly,  but  slowly;  a  muddy  volume  of 
yellowish-grey  water,  that  neither  hastens 
nor  slackens,  but  glides  heavily  between  its 
monotonous  banks,  with  here  and  there  a 
short,  babbling  eddy  twisted  for  an  instant 
into  its  opaque  surface,  and  vanishing,  as  if 
something  had  been  dragged  into  it  and 
gone  down.  Dusty  and  shadeless,  the  road 
fares  along  the  dyke  on  its  northern  side; 
and  the  tall  white  tower  of  Dolo  is  seen 
trembling  in  the  heat  mist  far  away,  and 
never  seems  nearer  than  it  did  at  first. 
Presently,  you  pass  one  of  the  much-vaunted 
"villas  on  the  Brenta:"  a  glaring,  spectral 
shell  of  brick  and  stucco,  its  windows  with 
painted  architraves  like  picture-frames,  and 
a  court-yard  paved  with  pebbles  in  front  of 
it,  all  burning  in  the  thick  glow  of  the  fever- 
ish sunshine,  but  fenced  from  the  high  road, 
for  magnificence'  sake,  with  goodly  posts 
and  chains ;  then  another,  of  Kew  Gothic, 
with  Chinese  variations,  painted  red  and 
green ;  a  third,  composed  for  the  greater 
part  of  dead  wall,  with  fictitious  windows 
painted  upon  it,  each  with  a  pea-^reen 
blind,  and  a  classical  architrave  in  bad  per- 
spective ;  and  a  fourth,  with  stucco  figures 
set  on  the  top  of  its  garden-wall  :  some  an- 
tique, like  the  kind  to  be  seen  at  the  corner 
of  the  New  Road,  and  some  of  clumsy  gro- 
tesque dwarfs,  with  fat  bodies  and  large 
boots. 

This  is  the  architecture  to  which  her 
studies  of  the  Renaissance  have  conducted 
modern  Italy.  The  sun  climbs  steadily, 


and  warms  into  intense  white  the  walls  of 
the  little  piazza  of  Dolo,  where  we  change 
horses.  Another  dreary  stage  among  the 
now  divided  branches  of  the  Brenta,  form- 
ing irregular  and  half-stagnant  canals;  with 
one  or  two  more  villas  on  the  other  side  of 
them,  but  these  of  the  old  Venetian  type, 
which  we  may  have  recognized  before  at 
Padua,  and  sinking  fast  into  utter  ruin, 
black,  and  rent,  and  lonely,  set  close  to  the 
edge  of  the  dull  water,  with  what  were  once 
small  gardens  beside  them,  kneaded  into 
mud,  and  with  blighted  fragments  of  gnarled 
hedges  and  broken  stakes  for  their  fencing; 
and  here  and  there  a  few  fragments  of  mar- 
ble steps,  which  have  once  given  them  grace- 
ful access  from  the  water's  edge,  now  settling 
into  the  mud  in  broken  joints,  all  aslope, 
and  slippery  with  green  wood.  At  last  the 
road  runs  sharply  to  the  nortii,  and  there  is 
an  open  space,  covered  with  bent  grass,  on 
the  right  of  it :  but  do  not  look  that  way. 
Five  minutes  more,  and  we  are  in  the  upper 
room  of  the  little  inn  at  Mestre,  glad  of  a 
moment's  rest  in  shade.  The  table  is  (al- 
ways I  think)  covered  with  a  cloth  of  nom- 
inal white  and  perennial  grey,  with  plates 
and  glasses  at  due  intervals,  and  small 
loaves  of  a  peculiar  white  bread  made  with 
oil,  and  more  like  knots  of  flour  than  br°ad. 
The  view  from  its  balcony  is  not  cheerful  : 
a  narrow  street,  with  a  solitary  brick  church 
and  barren  campanile  on  the  other  side  of 
it;  and  some  conventual  buildings,  with  a 
few  crimson  remnants  of  fresco  about  their 
windows  ;  and  between  them  and  the  street, 
a  ditch  with  some  slow  current  in  it,  and 
one  or  two  small  houses  beside  it,  one  with 
an  arbour  of  roses  at  its  door,  as  in  an  Eng- 
lish tea-garden,  the  air,  however,  about  ua 
having  in  it  nothing  of  roses,  but  a  close 
smell  of  garlic  and  crabs,  warmed  by  the 
smoke  of  various  stands  of  hot  chestnuts. 
There  is  much  vociferation  also  going  on 
beneath  the  window  respecting  certain 
wheelbarrows  which  are  in  rivalry  for  our 
baggage:  we  appease  their  rivalry  with  our 
best  patience,  and  follow  them  down  the 
narrow  street.  We  have  but  walked  some 
two  hundred  yards  when  we  come  to  a  low 
wharf  or  quay,  at  the  extremity  of  a  canal, 
with  long  steps  on  each  side  down  to  the 
water,  which  latter  we  fancy  for  an  instant 
has  become  black  with  stagnation:  another 
glance  undeceives  us, — it  is  covered  with 
the  black  boats  of  Venice.  We  enter  one 
of  them,  rather  to  try  if  they  be  real  boats 
or  not.  than  with  any  definite  purpose,  and 
glide  away  ;  at  first  feeling  as  if  the  water 
were  yielding  continually  beneath  the  boat 
and  letting  her  sink  into  soft  vacancy.  It 
is  something  clearer  than  any  water  we  have 
seen  lately,  and  of  a  pale  green ;  the  banks 


ELISIIA   KEXT  KANE. 


521 


only  two  or  three  feet  above  it,  of  mud  and 
rank  grass,  with  here  and  there  a  stunted 
tree ;  gliding  swiftly  past  the  small  case- 
ment of  the  gondola,  as  if  they  were  dragged 
by  upon  a  painted  scene.  Stroke  by  stroke, 
\ve  count  the  plunges  of  the  oar,  each  heav- 
ing up  the  side  of  the  boat  slightly  as  her 
silver  beak  shoots  forward.  We  lose  pa- 
tience, and  extricate  ourselves  from  the 
cushions:  the  sea  air  blows  keenly  by  as 
•we  stand  leaning  on  the  roof  of  the  floating 
cell.  In  front,  nothing  to  be  seen  but  long 
canal  and  level  bank  ;  to  the  west,  the  tower 
of  Mestre  is  lowering  fast,  and  behind  it 
there  have  risen  purple  shapes,  of  the  colour 
of  dead  rose-leaves,  all  round  the  horizon, 
feebly  defined  against  the  afternoon  sky. — 
the  Alps  of  Bassano.  Forward  still :  the 
endless  canal  bends  at  last,  and  then  breaks 
into  intricate  angles  about  some  low  bas- 
tions, now  torn  to  pieces  and  staggering  in 
ugly  rents  towards  the  water, — the  bastions 
of  the  fort  of  Malghera.  Another  turn, 
and  another  perspective  of  canal ;  but  not 
interminable.  The  silver  beak  cleaves  it 
fast, — it  widens :  the  rank  grass  of  the 
banks  sinks  lower,  and  at  last  dies  in  tawny 
knots  along  an  expanse  of  weedy  shore. 
Over  it,  on  the  right,  but  a  few  years  back, 
we  might  have  seen  the  lagoon  stretching 
to  the  horizon,  and  the  warm  southern  sky 
bending  over  Malamoceo  to  the  sea.  Now 
we  can  see  nothing  but  what  seems  a  low 
and  monotonous  dock-yard  wall,  with  flat 
arches  to  let  the  tide  through  it; — this  is 
the  railroad  bridge,  conspicuous  above  all 
things.  But  at  the  end  of  those  dismal 
arches  there  rises,  out  of  the  wide  water,  a 
straggling  line  of  low  and  confused  brick 
buildings,  which,  but  for  the  many  towers 
which  are  mingled  among  them,  might  be 
the  suburbs  of  an  English  manufacturing 
town.  Four  or  five  domes,  pale,  and  ap- 
parently at  ci  greater  distance,  rise  over  the 
centre  of  the  line ;  but  the  object  which 
first  catches  the  eye  is  a  sullen  cloud  of 
black  smoke  brooding  over  the  northern 
half  of  it,  and  which  issues  from  the  belfry 
of  a  church.  It  is  Venice. 
The  Stones  of  Venice,  Vol.  i. 

ON  BOOKS  AND  BOOK-BUYERS. 

I  say  we  have  despised  literature:  what 
do  we,  as  a  nation,  care  about  books?  How 
much  do  you  think  we  spend  altogether  on 
our  libraries,  public  or  private,  as  com- 
pared with  what  we  spend  on  our  horses? 
If  a  man  spends  lavishly  on  his  library,  you 
call  him  mad, — a  bibliomaniac.  But  you 
never  call  one  a  horse-maniac,  though  men 
ruin  themselves  every  day  by  their  horses, 
and  you  do  not  hear  of  people  ruining  them- 


selves by  their  books.  Or,  to  go  lower  still, 
how  much  do  you  think  the  contents  of  the 
book-shelves  of  the  United  Kingdom,  public 
and  private,  would  fetch,  us  compared  with 
the  contents  of  its  wine  cellars?  What  posi- 
tion would  its  expenditure  on  literature 
take  as  compared  with  its  expenditure  on. 
luxurious  eating?  We  talk  of  food  for  the 
mind,  as  of  food  for  the  body  :  now,  a  good 
book  contains  such  food  inexhaustibly  :  it 
is  provision  for  life,  and  for  the  best  part  of 
us;  yet  how  long  most  people  would  look  at 
the  best  book  before  they  would  give  the 
price  of  a  large  turbot  for  it !  Though  there 
have  been  men  who  have  pinched  their 
stomachs  and  bared  their  backs  to  buy  a 
book,  whose  libraries  were  cheaper  to  them, 
I  think,  in  the  end,  than  most  men's  dinners 
are.  We  are  few  of  us  put  to  such  a  trial, 
and  more  the  pity;  for,  indeed,  a  precious 
thing  is  all  the  more  precious  to  us  if  it  has 
been  won  by  work  or  economy;  and  if  pub- 
lic libraries  were  half  as  costly  as  public 
dinners,  or  books  cost  the  tenth  part  of 
what  bracelets  do,  even  foolish  men  and 
women  might  sometimes  suspect  there  was 
good  in  reading  as  well  as  in  munching  and 
sparkling  ;  whereas  the  very  cheapness  of 
literature  is  making  even  wiser  people  for- 
get that  if  a  book  is  worth  reading  it  is 
worth  buying. 

Sesame  and  Lilies,  or  King's  Treasuries. 


ELISHA   KENT   KANE,  M.D., 

born  in  Philadelphia,  1820,  educated  at  the 
University  of  Virginia,  and  in  the  Medical 
Department  of  the  University  of  Pennsylva- 
nia, was  appointed  Physician  to  the  Chinese 
Embassy,  1843;  in  1850  sailed  as  Senior 
Medical  Officer  and  Naturalist  to  the  first 
Grinnell  Expedition,  of  which  he  published 
an  account  in  The  United  States  Grinnell 
Expedition  in  Search  of  Sir  John  Franklin  : 
A  Personal  Narrative,  New  York,  1853,  8vo, 
new  edition,  Phila.,  1857,  8vo ;  and  in  1856 
gave  to  the  world,  Arctic  Explorations  :  The 
Second  Grinnell  Expedition  in  Search  of 
Sir  John  Franklin  during  the  Years  1853, 
'54,  '55,  Phila.,  Childs  &  Peterson,  2  vols. 
8vo.  Of  this  expedition  Dr.  Kane  was  the 
commander,  and  well  has  he  told  its  story. 
Sixty-five  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  one 
year. 

"  With  a  less  energetic  lender  the  whole  party 
would  hare  perished." — SIR  JOHN  RICHARDSON. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  most  remnrkable  records  I  have 
ever  met  with  of  difficulties  and  sufferings,  and  of 
the  power  of  a  brave  spirit  to  overcome  them." — 
W»r.  H.  PRESCOTT. 

"His  constant  self-po.'session  during  his  long 
trials,  his  quickness  of  judgment,  his  unshrinking 


522 


HERBERT  SPENCER. 


courage  in  dunger,  his  fertility  in  resources  in  the 
hours  of  greatest  difficulty,  give  him  a  very  high 
place  in  the  very  first  rank  of  Polar  Navigators, 
as  a  leader,  and  commander,  and  man  ;  and  no 
one  of  them  all  has  told  the  story  of  their  adven- 
tures so  charmingly  as  he  has  done." — GEORGE 
BANCROFT. 


THE  SEAL!     THE  SEAL! 

Things  grew  worse  and  worse  with  us : 
the  old  difficulty  of  breathing  came  back 
again,  and  our  feet  swelled  to  such  an  ex- 
tent that  we  were  obliged  to  cut  open  our 
canvas  boots.  But  the  symptom  which  gave 
me  the  most  uneasiness  was  our  inability  to 
sleep.  A  form  of  low  fever  which  hung  by 
us  when  at  work  had  been  kept  down  by 
the  thoroughness  of  our  daily  rest:  all  my 
hopes  of  escape  were  in  the  refreshing  influ- 
ences of  the  halt. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  we  were  now 
in  the  open  bay,  in  the  full  line  of  the  great 
ice-drift  to  the  Atlantic,  and  in  boats  so 
frail  and  unseaworthy  as  to  require  constant 
bailing  to  keep  them  afloat. 

It  was  at  this  crisis  of  our  fortunes  that 
we  saw  a  large  seal  floating — as  is  the  custom 
of  these  animals — on  a  small  patch  of  ice, 
and  seemingly  asleep.  It  was  an  ussuk,  and 
so  large  that  I  at  first  mistook  it  for  a  walrus. 
Signal  was  made  for  the  Hope  to  follow 
astern,  and,  trembling  with  anxiety,  we  pre- 
pared to  crawl  down  upon  him. 

Petersen,  with  the  long  English  rifle,  was 
stationed  in  the  bow,  and  stockings  were 
drawn  over  the  oars  as  mufflers.  As  we 
neared  the  animal  our  excitement  became 
so  intense  that  the  men  could  hardly  keep 
stroke.  I  had  a  set  of  signals  for  such  occa- 
sions, which  spared  us  the  noise  of  the  voice  ; 
and  when  about  three  hundred  yards  off,  the 
oars  were  taken  in,  and  we  moved  on  in  deep 
silence  with  a  single  scull  astern. 

He  was  not  asleep,  for  he  reared  his  head 
when  we  were  almost  within  rifle-shot;  and 
to  this  day  I  can  remember  the  hard,  care- 
worn, almost  despairing  expression  of  the 
men's  thin  faces  as  they  saw  him  move  ; 
their  lives  depended  on  his  capture. 

I  depressed  my  hand  nervously,  as  a  signal 
for  Petersen  to  fire.  McGary  hung  upon 
his  oar,  and  the  bo.it,  slowly  but  noiselessly 
sagging  ahead,  seemed  to  me  Avithin  certain 
range.  Looking  at  Petersen,  I  saw  that  the 
poor  fellow  was  paralyzed  by  his  anxiety, 
trying  vainly  to  obtain  a  rest  for  his  gun 
against  the  cutwater  of  the  boat.  The  seal 
rose  on  his  fore-flippers,  gazed  at  us  for  a 
moment  with  frightened  curiosity,  and  coiled 
himself  for  a  plunge.  At  that  instant,  simul- 
taneously with  the  crack  of  our  rifle,  he  re- 
laxed his  long  length  on  the  ice,  and,  at  the 


very  brink  of  the  water,  his  head  fell  help- 
less to  one  side. 

I  would  have  ordered  another  shot,  but 
no  discipline  could  have  controlled  the  men. 
With  a  wild  yell,  each  vociferating  according 
to  his  own  impulse,  they  urged  both  boats 
upon  the  floes.  A  crowd  of  hands  seized 
the  seal  and  bore  him  up  to  safer  ice.  The 
men  seemed  half-crazy:  I  had  not  realized 
how  much  we  were  reduced  by  absolute 
famine.  They  ran  over  the  floe,  crying  and 
laughing  and  brandishing  their  knives.  It 
was  not  five  minutes  before  every  man  was 
sucking  his  bloody  fingers  or  mouthing  long 
strips  of  raw  blubber. 

Not  an  ounce  of  this  seal  was  lost.  The 
intestines  found  their  way  into  the  soup- 
kettles  without  any  observance  of  the  pre- 
liminary home-processes.  The  cartilaginous 
parts  of  the  fore-flippers  were  cut  off  in  the 
m£l£e,  and  passed  round  to  be  chewed  upon  ; 
and  even  the  liver,  warm  and  raw  as  it  was, 
bade  fair  to  be  eaten  before  it  had  seen  the 
pot.  That  night,  on  the  large  halting-floe, 
to  which,  in  contempt  of  the  dangers  of 
drifting,  we  happy  men  had  hauled  our 
boats,  two  entire  planks  of  the  Red  Eric 
were  devoted  to  a  grand  cooking-fire,  and 
we  enjoyed  a  rare  and  savage  feast. 

Arctic  Explorations :  The  Second  Grinnell 
Expedition,  ii.,  Chap.  xxix. 


HERBERT    SPENCER, 

a  philosophical  writer  of  wide  reputation, 
born  in  Derby,  England,  1820,  was  for  some 
years  a  civil  engineer. 

The  Proper  Sphere  of  Government,  Lond., 
1842;  Social  Statics,  1851,  8vo;  Over  Legis- 
lation, 1854.  p.  8vo  ;  The  Principles  of  Psy- 
chology, 1855,  8vo,  vols.  i.  ii.,  1872-73,  8vo; 
Essays:  Scientific,  Political,  and  Speculative, 
1858-74,  3  vols.  8vo ;  Education :  Intellectual, 
Moral,  and  Physical,  1861,  demy  8vo ;  First 
Principles,  1862.  8vo ;  Essays:  Moral,  Polit- 
ical, and  ^Esthetic,  1863,  8vo;  The  Princi- 
ples of  Biology,  1863,  etc.,  2  vols.  8vo ; 
Classification  of  the  Sciences,  1864,  12mo; 
Spontaneous  Generation,  1870;  Recent  Dis- 
cussions in  Science.  Philosophy,  and  Morals, 
1871,  8vo ;  Principles  of  Sociology,  8vo; 
The  Study  of  Sociology,  1872,  8vo  ;  Descrip- 
tive Sociology,  with  Tables,  5  vols.  roy.  4to  : 
No.  1,  English,  No.  2,  Ancient  American, 
No.  3,  Negritto  and  Malayo-Polynesian 
Races,  No.  4,  African  Races,  No.  5,  Asiatic 
Races:  Illustrations  of  Universal  Progress, 
8vo ;  Sins  of  Trade  and  Commerce,  1875  ; 
The  Data  of  Ethics,  1879,  8vo. 

Messrs.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York, 
publish  uniform  editions  of  Spencer's  works, 


HERBERT  SPENCER. 


523 


• — which  are  remarkable  for  perspicuity  of 
style,  fulness  of  information,  and — in  many 
cases — sophistical  and  inconclusive  reason- 
ings. Nothing  can  be  more  absurd  or  un- 
worthy of  a  true  philosopher  than  his  futile 
efforts  to  escape  the  evidences  of  design  in 
the  works  of  the  Creator. 

EDUCATIONS 

We  come  now  to  the  third  great  division 
of  human  activities, — a  division  for  which 
no  preparation  whatever  is  made.  If  by 
some  strange  chance  not  a  vestige  of  us  de- 
scended to  the  remote  future  save  a  pile  of 
our  school-books  or  some  college  examina- 
tion paper,  we  may  imagine  how  puzzled  an 
antiquary  of  the  period  would  be  on  finding 
in  them  no  indication  that  the  learners  were 
ever  likely  to  be  parents.  "  This  must  have 
been  the  curriculum  for  their  celibates,"  we 
may  fancy  him  concluding.  "I  perceive 
here  an  elaborate  preparation  for  many 
things :  especially  for  reading  the  books  of 
extinct  nations  and  of  co-existing  nations 
(from  which  indeed  it  seems  clear  that  these 
people  had  very  little  worth  reading  in  their 
own  tongue)  ;  but  I  find  no  reference  what- 
ever to  the  bringing  up  of  children.  They 
could  not  have  been  so  absurd  as  to  omit  all 
training  for  this  gravest  of  responsibilities. 
Evidently,  then,  this  was  the  school-course 
of  one  of  their  monastic  orders." 

Seriously,  is  it  not  an  astonishing  fact,  that 
though  on  the  treatment  of  offspring  depend 
their  lives  or  deaths,  and  their  moral  wel- 
fare or  ruin,  yet  not  one  word  of  instruction 
on  the  treatment  of  offspring  is  ever  given 
to  those  who  will  hereafter  be  parents?  Is 
it  not  monstrous  that  the  fate  of  a  new 
generation  should  be  left  to  the  chances  of 
unreasoning  custom,  impulse,  fancy, — joined 
with  the  suggestions  of  ignorant  nurses  and 
the  prejudiced  counsel  of  grandmothers? 
If  a  merchant  commenced  business  without 
any  knowledge  of  arithmetic  and  book- 
keeping, we  should  exclaim  at  his  folly, 
and  look  for  disastrous  consequences.  Or, 
if,  before  studying  anatomy,  a  man  set  up 
as  a  surgical  operator,  we  should  wonder  at 
his  audacity  and  pity  his  patients.  But 
that  parents  should  begin  the  difficult  task  of 
rearing  children  without  ever  having  given  a 
thought  to  the  principles — physical,  moral, 
or  intellectual — which  ought  to  guide  them, 
excites  neither  surprise  at  the  actors  nor 
pity  for  their  victims. 

To  tens  of  thousands  that  are  killed,  add 
hundreds  of  thousands  that  survive  with 
feeble  constitutions,  and  millions  that  grow 
up  with  constitutions  not  so  strong  as  they 
should  be  ;  and  you  will  have  some  idea  of 
the  curse  inflicted  on  their  offspring  by  pa- 


rents ignorant  of  the  laws  of  life.  Do  but 
consider  for  a  moment  that  the  regimen  to 
which  children  are  subject  is  hourly  telling 
upon  them  to  their  life-long  injury  or  bene- 
fit ;  and  that  there  are  twenty  ways  of  going 
wrong  to  one  way  of  going  right;  and  you 
will  get  some  idea  of  the  enormous  mischief 
that  is  almost  everywhere  inflicted  by  the 
thoughtless  haphazard  system  in  common  use. 

Is  it  decided  that  a  boy  shall  be  clothed 
in  some  flimsy  short  dress,  and  be  allowed 
to  go  playing  about  with  limbs  reddened  by 
cold?  The  decision  will  tell  on  his  whole 
future  existence, — either  in  illnesses;  or  in 
stunted  growth  ;  or  in  deficient  energy ;  or 
in  a  maturity  less  vigorous  than  it  ought  to 
have  been,  and  consequent  hindrances  to 
success  and  happiness.  Are  children  doomed 
to  a  monotonous  dietary,  or  a  dietary  that  is 
deficient  in  nutritiveness  ?  Their  ultimate 
physical  power  and  their  efficiency,  as  men 
and  women,  will  inevitably  be  more  or  less 
diminished  by  it.  Are  they  forbidden  vocif- 
erous play,  or  (being  too  ill-clothed  to  bear 
exposure)  are  they  kept  in-doors  in  cold 
weather?  They  are  certain  to  fall  below 
that  measure  of  health  and  strength  to 
which  they  would  else  have  attained.  When 
sons  and  daughters  grow  up  sickly  and  fee- 
ble, parents  commonly  regard  the  event  as  a 
misfortune, — as  a  visitation  of  Providence. 
Thinking  after  the  prevalent  chaotic  fashion, 
they  assume  that  these  evils  come  without 
causes,  or  that  the  causes  are  supernatural. 
Nothing  of  the  kind.  In  some  cases  the 
causes  are  doubtless  inherited  ;  but  in  most 
cases  foolish  regulations  are  the  causes. 
Very  generally  parents  themselves  are  re- 
sponsible for  all  this  pain,  this  debility,  this 
depression,  this  misery.  They  have  under- 
taken to  control  the  lives  of  their  offspring 
from  hour  to  hour;  with  cruel  carelessness 
they  have  neglected  to  learn  anything  about 
these  vital  processes  which  they  are  unceas- 
ingly affecting  by  their  commands  and  pro- 
hibitions;  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  simplest 
physiological  laws,  they  have  been  year  by 
year  undermining  the  constitutions  of  their 
children  ;  and  have  so  inflicted  disease  and 
premature  death,  not  only  on  them  but  on 
their  descendants. 

Equally  great  are  the  ignorance  and  the 
consequent  injury  when  we  turn  from  phys- 
ical training  to  moral  training. 

Consider  the  young  mother  and  her  nur- 
sery legislation. 

But  a  few  years  ago  she  was  at  school, 
where  her  memory  was  crammed  with  words, 
and  names,  and  dates,  and  her  reflective  facul- 
ties scarcely  in  the  slightest  degree  exercised, 
— where  not  one  idea  was  given  her  respect- 
ing the  methods  of  dealing  with  the  opening 
mind  of  childhood  ;  and  where  her  discipline 


524 


HERBERT  SPENCER. 


did  not  in  the  least  fit  her  for  thinking  out 
methods  of  her  own.  The  intervening  years 
have  been  passed  in  practising  music,  in 
fancy-work,  in  novel-reading,  and  in  party- 
giving:  no  thought  having  yet  been  given 
to  the  grave  responsibilities  of  maternity  ; 
and  scarcely  any  of  that  solid  intellectual 
culture  obtained  which  would  be  some  prep- 
aration for  such  responsibilities.  And 
now  see  her  with  an  unfolding  human  char- 
acter committed  to  her  charge, — see  her  pro- 
foundly ignorant  of  the  phenomena  with 
which  she  has  to  deal,  undertaking  to  do 
that  which  can  be  done  but  imperfectly  even 
with  the  aid  of  the  profoundest  knowledge. 
She  knows  nothing  about  the  nature  of 
the  emotions,  their  order  of  evolution,  their 
functions,  or  where  use  ends  and  abuse 
begins.  She  is  under  the  impression  that 
some  of  the  feelings  are  wholly  bad,  which 
is  not  true  of  any  one  of  them.  And  then, 
ignorant  as  she  is  of  that  with  which  she  has 
to  deal,  she  is  equally  ignorant  of  the  effects 
that  will  be  produced  on  it  by  this  or  that 
treatment.  What  can  be  more  inevitable 
than  the  disasters  we  see  hourly  arising? 
Education :  Intellectual,  Moral,  and  Phys- 
ical. 

ON  LANGUAGES. 

One  advantage  claimed  for  that  devotion 
to  language-learning  which  forms  so  promi- 
nent a  feature  in  the  ordinary  curriculum  is, 
that  the  memory  is  thereby  strengthened. 
And  it  is  apparently  assumed  that  this  is  an 
advantage  peculiar  to  the  study  of  words. 
But  the  truth  is,  that  the  sciences  afford  far 
wider  fields  for  the  exercise  of  memory.  It 
is  no  slight  task  to  remember  all  the  facts 
ascertained  respecting  our  solar  system ; 
much  more  to  remember  all  that  is  known 
concerning  the  structure  of  our  galaxy. 
The  new  compounds  which  chemistry  daily 
accumulates  are  so  numerous  that  few,  save 
professors,  know  the  names  of  them  all  ; 
and  to  recollect  the  atomic  constitutions  and 
affinities  of  all  these  compounds,  is  scarcely 
possible  without  making  chemistry  the  oc- 
cupation of  life.  .  .  .  So  vast  is  the  accumu- 
lation of  facts  which  men  of  science  have 
before  them,  that  only  by  dividing  and  sub- 
dividing their  labours  can  they  deal  with  it. 
To  a  complete  knowledge  of  his  own  division, 
each  adds  but  a  general  knowledge  of  the  rest. 

Surely  then,  science,  cultivated  even  to  a 
very  moderate  extent,  affords  adequate  ex- 
ercise for  memory.  To  say  the  very  least, 
it  involves  quite  as  good  a  training  for  this 
faculty  as  language  does. 

But  now  mark,  that  while  for  the  train- 
ing of  mere  memory,  science  is  as  good  as, 
if  not  better  than,  language,  it  has  an  im- 


mense superiority  in  the  kind  of  memory  it 
cultivates.  In  the  acquirement  of  a  lan- 
guage, the  connexions  of  ideas  to  be  estab- 
lished in  the  mind  correspond  to  facts  that 
are  in  great  measure  accidental ;  whereas. 
in  the  acquirement  of  science,  the  connexions 
of  ideas  to  be  established  in  the  mind  cor- 
respond to  facts  that  are  mostly  necessary. 
It  is  true  that  the  relations  of  words  to  their 
meaning  is  in  one  sense  natural,  and  that 
the  genesis  of  these  relations  may  be  traced 
back  a  certain  distance  ;  though  very  rarely 
to  the  beginning  (to  which  let  us  add  the 
remark  that  the  laws  of  this  genesis  form  a 
branch  of  mental  science. — the  science  of 
philology).  But  since  it  will  not  be  con- 
tended that  in  the  acquisition  of  languages, 
as  ordinarily  carried  on,  these  natural  rela- 
tions between  words  and  their  meanings 
are  habitually  traced,  and  the  laws  regu- 
lating them  explained,  it  must  be  admitted 
that  they  are  commonly  learned  as  fortuitous 
relations.  On  the  other  hand,  the  relations 
which  science  presents  are  causal  relations  ; 
and  when  properly  taught,  are  understood 
as  such.  Instead  of  being  practically  acci- 
dental, they  are  necessary;  and  as  such,  give 
exercise  to  the  reasoning  faculties.  While 
language  familiarizes  with  non-rational  re- 
lations, science  familiarizes  with  rational 
relations.  While  the  one  exercises  memory 
only,  the  other  exercises  both  memory  and 
understanding. 

Observe  next  that  a  great  superiority  of 
science  over  language  as  a  means  of  disci- 
pline is,  that  it  cultivates  the  judgment.  As 
in  a  lecture  on  mental  education  delivered 
at  the  Royal  Institution,  Professor  Faraday 
well  remarks,  the  most  common  intellectual 
fault  is  deficiency  of  judgment.  lie  con- 
tends that  "  society,  speaking  generally,  is 
not  only  ignorant  as  respects  education  of 
the  judgment,  but  it  is  also  ignorant  of  its 
ignorance."  And  the  cause  to  which  he  as- 
cribes this  state  is  want  of  scientific  culture. 
The  truth  of  his  conclusion  is  obvious.  Cor- 
rect judgment  with  regard  to  all  surrounding 
things,  events,  and  consequences,  becomes 
possible  only  through  knowledge  of  the  way 
in  which  surrounding  phenomena  depend  on 
each  other.  No  extent  of  acquaintance  with 
the  meaning  of  words  can  give  the  power 
of  forming  correct  inferences  respecting 
causes  and  effects.  The  constant  habit  of 
drawing  conclusions  from  data,  and  then  of 
verifying  those  conclusions  by  observation 
and  experiment,  can  alone  give  the  power  of 
judging.  And  that  it  necessitates  this  habit 
is  one  of  the  immense  advantages  of  science. 

Not  only,  however,  for  intellectual  disci- 
pline is  science  the  best,  but  also  for  moral 
discipline.  The  learning  of  languages  tends, 
if  anything,  further  to  increase  the  already 


GOLD  WIN  SMITH 


525 


undue  respect  for  authority.  Such  and  such 
are  the  meanings  of  these  words,  says  the 
teacher  or  the  dictionary.  So  and  so  is  the 
rule  in  this  case,  says  the  grammar.  By  the 
pupil  these  dicta  are  received  as  unquestion- 
able. His  constant  attitude  of  mind  is  that 
of  submission  to  dogmatic  authority.  And  a 
necessary  result  is  a  tendency  to  accept  with- 
out inquiry  whatever  is  established.  Quite 
opposite  is  the  attitude  of  mind  generated  by 
the  cultivation  of  science.  By  science,  con- 
stant appeal  is  made  to  individual  reason. 
Its  truths  are  not  accepted  upon  authority 
alone  ;  but  all  are  at  liberty  to  test  them, — 
nay,  in  many  cases,  the  pupil  is  required  to 
think  out  his  own  conclusions.  Every  step 
in  a  scientific  conclusion  is  submitted  to  his 
judgment.  He  is  not  asked  to  admit  it 
without  seeing  it  to  be  true.  And  the  trust 
in  his  own  powers  thus  produced  is  further 
increased  by  the  constancy  with  which  Na- 
ture justifies  his  conclusions  when  they  are 
correctly  drawn.  From  all  which  there 
flows  that  independence  which  is  a  most 
valuable  element  in  character.  Nor  is  this 
the  only  moral  benefit  bequeathed  by  scien- 
tific culture.  When  carried  on,  as  it  should 
always  be,  as  much  as  possible  under  the 
form  of  independent  research,  it  exercises 
perseverance  and  sincerity. 
.Education:  Intellectual,  Moral,  and  Phys- 
ical. 


GOLDWIN    SMITH,    LL.D., 

born  1823,  at  Reading,  England,  where  his 
father  was  a  physician,  was  educated  at 
Eton,  and  entered  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
but  was  shortly  afterwards  elected  to  a 
demyship  at  Magdalene  College;  took  his 
degree  of  B.A.  in  1845,  having  obtained  the 
Ireland  and  Hertford  Scholarship  and  the 
Chancellor's  Prize  for  Latin  verse,  and  was 
subsequently  elected  Fellow  of  University 
College,  of  which  he  became  Tutor ;  called 
to  the  Bar  at  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1850,  but  did 
not  practise ;  acted  as  Assistant  Secretary 
to  the  first  Oxford  Commission  (that  of  In- 
quiry), and  as  Secretary  to  the  second  ;  and 
was  a  member  of  the  Education  Commission 
of  1859  •,  Regius  Professor  of  Modern  His- 
tory in  the  University  of  Oxford,  1858  to 
July,  1866,  and  since  his  resignation  has 
delivered  many  lectures  in  advocacy  of  po- 
litical Reform,  of  which  he  is  one  of  the 
most  influential  champions;  Professor  of 
English  and  General  Constitutional  History 
in  Cornell  University,  Ithaca,  New  York, 
1868. 

An  Inaugural  Lecture  delivered  at  Ox- 
ford, Oxf.  and  Lond.,  1859,  Svo;  On  the 
Foundation  of  the  American  Colonies,  1861, 


Svo;  On  the  Study  of  History,  1861,  Svo; 
On  some  Supposed  Consequences  of  the 
Doctrine  of  Historical  Progress,  Oxf.  and 
Lond.,  1861,  Svo;  Lectures  on  Modern  His- 
tory, delivered  at  Oxford,  1859-61,  1861, 
Svo ;  Rational  Religion  and  the  Rational- 
istic Objections  of  the  Bampton  Lectures 
for  1858,  Oxf.,  1861,  Svo;  Irish  History  and 
Irish  Character,  Oxf.  and  Lond.,  1861,  Svo; 
An  Oxford  Professor  on  Church  Endow- 
ments, Lond.,  1862  ;  The  Empire,  Oxf.,  1863, 
p.  Svo ;  Does  the  Bible  sanction  American 
Slavery  ?  1S63,  p.  Svo  ;  A  Letter  to  a  Whig 
Member  of  the  Southern  Independence  As- 
sociation, 2d  edit.,  Lond.  and  Camb.,  1864, 
cr.  Svo  (in  favour,  as  are  others  of  his  pub- 
lications, of  the  Federal  Government  of  the 
United  States)  ;  A  Plea  for  the  Abolition  of 
Tests  in  the  University  of  Oxford,  Oxf.,  1864, 
cr.  Svo  ;  England  and  America,  Bost.,  1865, 
Svo  ;  Speeches  and  Letters,  from  Jan.  1863 
to  Jan.  1865,  on  the  Rebellion,  New  York, 
1865,  2  vols.  Svo;  The  Civil  War  in  Amer- 
ica, Lond.,  1S66,  Svo  ;  Three  English  States- 
men (Pym,  Cromwell,  and  Pitt),  Lond., 
1867,  Svo  and  p.  Svo:  The  Reorganization 
of  the  University  of  Oxford,  Oxf.,  1868,  p. 
Svo ;  A  Short  History  of  England,  down  to 
the  Reformation,  Oxf.,  in  preparation,  1868. 
Contributed  to  the  Anthologia  Oxoniensis, 
Oxford  Essays  (Oxford  Univ.  Reform).  En- 
cyc.  Brit.,  8th  edit.  (Sir  Robert  Peel),  Mac- 
millan's  Mag.,  (London)  Daily  News,  etc. 

"  I  am  a  great  advocate  of  culture  of  every  kind, 
and  I  say,  when  I  find  a  man  like  Professor  Gold- 
win  Smith,  or  Professor  Rogers,  who,  in  addition 
to  profound  classical  learning,  have  a  vast  knowl- 
edge of  modern  affairs,  and  who,  as  well  as  schol- 
ars, are  profound  thinkers;  these  are  men  whom 
I  know  to  have  a  vast  superiority  over  me,  and  I 
bow  to  them  with  reverence." — RICHARD  COBDEN  : 
Speech  at  Kochdale,  Nov.  23,  1864. 

MARCUS  CATO. 

Marcus  Cato  was  the  one  man  whom, 
living  and  dead,  Caesar  evidently  dreaded. 
The  Dictator  even  assailed  his  memory  in  a 
brace  of  pamphlets  entitled  '' Anti-Cato," 
of  the  quality  of  which  we  have  one  or  two 
specimens  in  Plutarch,  from  which  we 
should  infer  that  they  were  scurrilous  and 
slanderous  to  the  last  degree ;  a  proof  even 
that  Caesar  could  feel  fear,  and  that  in  Caesar, 
too,  fear  was  mean.  Dr.  Mommsen  throws 
himself  heartily  into  Caesars  antipathy,  and 
can  scarcely  speak  of  Cato  without  some- 
thing like  a  loss  of  temper.  The  least  un- 
civil thing  which  he  says  of  him,  is  that  he 
was  a  Don  Quixote,  with  Favonius  for  his 
Sancho.  The  phrase  is  not  a  happy  one, 
since  Sancho  is  not  the  caricature  but  the 
counterfoil  of  Don  Quixote;  Quixote  being 
spirit  without  sense,  and  Sancho  sense  with- 


526 


GOLD  WIN  SMITH. 


out  spirit.  Imperialism,  if  it  could  see  itself, 
is  in  fact  a  world  of  Sanchos,  and  it  would 
not  be  the  less  so  if  every  Sancho  of  the 
number  were  master  of  the  whole  of  physi- 
cal science  and  used  it  to  cook  his  food.  Of 
the  two  court-poets  of  Caesar's  successor,  one 
makes  Cato  preside  over  the  spirits  of  the 
good  in  the  Elysian  fields,  while  the  other 
speaks  with  respect,  at  all  events,  of  the 
soul  which  remained  unconquered  in  A  con- 
quered world, — "  Et  cuncta  terrarum  sub- 
acta  prseter  atrocem  animum  Catonis." 
Paterculus,  an  officer  of  Tiberius  and  a 
thorough  Caesarian,  calls  Cato  a  man  of 
ideal  virtue  ("homo  virtuti  simillimus"), 
who  did  right  not  for  appearance  sake,  but 
because  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  do 
wrong.  When  the  victor  is  thus  overawed 
by  the  shade  of  the  vanquished,  the  van- 
quished could  hardly  have  been  a  "  fool." 
Contemporaries  may  be  mistaken  as  to  the 
merits  of  a  character,  but  they  cannot  well 
be  mistaken  as  to  the  space  which  it  occu- 
pied in  their  own  eyes.  Sallust,  the  parti- 
san of  Marius  and  Cassar,  who  had  so  much 
reason  to  hate  the  senatorial  party,  speaks 
of  Coasar  and  Cato  as  the  two  mightiest  op- 
posites  of  his  time,  and  in  an  elaborate  par- 
allel ascribes  to  Caesar  the  qualities  which 
secure  the  success  of  the  adventurer ;  to 
Cato  those  which  make  up  the  character  of 
the  patriot.  It  is  a  mistake  to  regard  Cato 
the  younger  as  merely  an  unseasonable 
repetition  of  Cato  the  elder.  His  inspiration 
came  not  from  a  Roman  form,  but  from  a 
Greek  school  of  philosophy,  and  from  that 
school  which,  with  all  its  errors  and  absurd- 
ities, and  in  spite  of  the  hypocrisy  of  many 
of  its  professors,  really  aimed  highest  in  the 
formation  of  character;  and  the  practical 
teachings  and  aspirations  of  which,  embod- 
ied in  the  reflections  of  Marcus  Aurelins,  it 
is  impossible  to  study  without  profound  re- 
spect for  the  force  of  moral  conception  and 
the  depth  of  moral  insight  which  they  some- 
times display.  Cato  went  to  Greece  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  a  Greek  teacher  in  a  spirit 
very  different  from  the  national  pride  of  his 
ancestor.  It  is  this  which  makes  his  char- 
acter interesting,  that  it  was  an  attempt  at 
all  events  to  grasp  and  hold  fast  by  the  high 
rule  of  life,  in  an  age  when  the  whole  moral 
world  was  sinking  into  a  vortex  of  scoun- 
drelism,  and  faith  in  morality,  public  or 
private,  had  been  lost.  Of  course  the  char- 
acter is  formal,  and  in  some  respects  even 
grotesque.  But  you  may  trace  formalism, 
if  you  look  close  enough,  in  every  life  led  by 
a  rule;  in  everything  between  the  purest 
spiritual  impulse  on  the  one  side,  and  aban- 
doned sensuality  on  the  other.  Attempts 
to  revive  old  Roman  simplicity  of  dress  and 
habit  in  the  age  of  Lucullus  were  no  doubt 


futile  enough:  but  after  all,  this  is  but  the 
symbolical  garb  of  the  Hebrew  prophet. 
We  are  in  ancient  Rome,  not  in  the  smoking- 
room  of  the  House  of  Commons.  We  are 
among  the  countrymen,  too,  of  Savonarola. 
The  character,  as  painted  by  Plutarch,  who 
seems  to  have  drawn  from  the  writings  of 
contemporaries,  is  hard  of  course,  but  not 
cynical.  Cato  was  devoted  to  his  brother 
Caepio,  and  when  Caepio  died,  forgot  all  his 
Stoicism  in  the  passionate  indulgence  of  his 
grief,  and  all  his  frugality  in  lavishing  gold 
and  perfumes  on  the  funeral.  Caesar  in 
Anti-Cato  accused  him  of  sifting  the  ashes 
for  the  gold,  which,  says  Plutarch,  is  like 
charging  Hercules  with  cowardice.  Where 
the  sensual  appetites  are  repressed,  what- 
ever may  be  the  theory  of  life,  the  affections 
are  pretty  sure  to  be  strong,  unless  they  are 
nipped  by  some  such  process  as  is  under- 
gone by  a  monk.  Cato's  resignation  of  his 
fruitful  wife  to  a  childless  friend,  revolting 
as  it  is  to  our  sense,  betokens  less  any  bru- 
tality in  him  than  the  coarseness  of  the  con- 
jugal relations  at  Rome.  Evidently  the 
man  had  the  power  of  touching  the  hearts 
of  others.  His  soldiers,  though  he  gave 
them  no  largesses  and  indulged  them  in  no 
license,  when  he  leaves  them,  strew  their 
garments  under  his  feet.  His  friends  at 
Utica  linger,  at  the  peril  of  their  lives,  to 
give  him  a  sumptuous  funeral.  He  affected 
conviviality,  like  Socrates.  He  seems  to 
have  been  able  to  enjoy  a  joke,  too,  at  his 
own  expense.  He  can  laugh  when  Cicero 
ridicules  his  Stoicism  in  a  speech ;  and 
when  in  a  province  he  meets  the  inhabitants 
of  a  town  turning  out,  and  thinks  at  first 
that  it  is  in  his  own  honour,  but  soon  finds 
that  it  is  in  honour  of  a  much  greater  man, 
the  confidential  servant  of  Pompey,  at  first 
his  dignity  is  outraged,  but  his  anger  soon 
gives  place  to  amusement.  That  his  public 
character  was  perfectly  pure,  no  one  seems 
to  have  doubted;  and  there  is  a  kindliness 
in  his  dealings  with  the  dependents  of 
Rome,  which  shows  that  had  he  been  an 
emperor  he  would  have  been  such  an  em- 
peror as  Trajan, — a  man  whom  he  probably 
resembled,  both  in  the  goodness  of  his  in- 
tentions and  in  the  limited  powers  of  his 
mind.  Impracticable,  of  course,  in  a  certain 
sense  he  was  ;  but  his  part  was  that  of  a  re- 
former, and  to  compromise  with  the  corrup- 
tion against  which  he  was  contending,  would 
have  been  to  lose  the  only  means  of  influ- 
ence, which,  having  no  military  force  and 
no  party,  he  possessed, — that  of  the  perfect 
integrity  of  his  character.  He  is  said  by 
Dr.  Mommsen  to  have  been  incapable  even 
of  conceiving  a  policy.  By  policy  I  suspect 
is  meant  one  of  those  brilliant  schemes  of 
ambition  with  which  some  literary  men  are 


JOHN  RICHARD    GREEN. 


527 


fond  of  identifying  themselves,  fancying,  it 
seems,  that  thereby  they  themselves,  after 
their  measure,  play  the  Caesar.  The  policy 
•which  Cato  conceived  was  simply  that  of 
purifying  and  preserving  the  Republic.  So 
far,  at  all  events,  he  had  an  insight  into  the 
situation,  that  he  knew  that  the  real  malady 
of  the  state  was  want  of  public  spirit,  which 
he  did  his  best  to  supply.  And  the  fact  is, 
that  lie  did  more  than  once  succeed  in  a  re- 
markable way  in  stemming  the  tide  of  cor- 
ruption. Though  every  instinct  bade  him 
struggle  to  the  last,  he  had  sense  enough  to 
see  the  state  of  the  case,  and  to  advise  that, 
to  avert  anarchy,  supreme  power  should  be 
put  into  the  hands  of  Pompey,  whose  politi- 
cal superstition,  if  not  his  loyalty,  there  was 
good  reason  to  trust.  When  at  last  civil 
war  broke  out,  Cato  went  into  it  like  Falk- 
land, crying  "  Peace!"  he  set  his  face  stead- 
ily against  the  excesses  and  cruelties  of  his 
party;  and  when  he  saw  the  field  of  Dyr- 
rhacium  covered  with  his  slain  enemies,  he 
covered  his  face  and  wept.  He  wept,  a  Ro- 
man over  Romans,  but  humanity  will  not 
refuse  the  tribute  of  his  tears.  After  Phar- 
salus  he  cherished  no  illusion,  as  Dr.  Momm- 
sen  himself  admits;  and  though  he  deter- 
mined himself  to  fall  fighting,  he  urged  no 
one  else  to  resistance  ;  he  felt  that  the  duty 
of  an  ordinary  citizen  was  done.  His  terri- 
ble march  over  the  African  desert  showed 
high  powers  of  command,  as  we  shall  see  by 
comparing  it  with  the  desert  march  of  Na- 
poleon. Dr.  Mommsen  ridicules  his  ped- 
antry in  refusing,  on  grounds  of  loyalty,  to 
take  the  commandership-in-chief  over  the 
head  of  a  superior  in  rank.  Cato  was  fight- 
ing for  legality,  and  the  spirit  of  legality 
was  the  soul  of  his  cause.  But  besides  this, 
he  had  never  himself  crossed  his  sword  with 
an  enemy  ;  and  by  declining  the  nominal 
command  he  retained  the  whole  control, 
lie  remained  master  to  the  last  of  the  burn- 
ing vessel.  Our  morality  will  not  approve 
of  his  voluntary  death  :  but  our  morality 
would  give  him  a  sufficient  sanction  for 
living,  even  if  he  was  to  be  bound  to  the 
car  of  the  conqueror.  Looking  to  Roman 
opinion,  he  probably  did  what  honour  dic- 
tated ;  and  those  who  prefer  honour  to  life 
are  not  so  numerous  that  we  can  afford  to 
speak  of  them  with  scorn. 

Macmillan's  Mayazine,  April,  1S6S. 


REV.  JOHN  RICHARD  GREEN 

is  the  author  of  Stray  Studies  from  Eng- 
land and  Italy,  and  A  Short  History  of  the 
English  People,  Lond.,  1875,  sin.  8vo,  en- 


larged into  History  of  the  English  People, 
London,  vols.  i.,  ii.,  1878,  New  York,  vols. 
i.,  ii.,  1878  ;  Readings  from  English  History. 

10  — ri     i  .•*       '  •" 

18 1 9,  12mo. 

SIIAKSPERE'S  LATER  YEARS. 

With  this  great  series  of  historical  and 
social  dramas,  Shakspere  had  passed  far 
beyond  his  fellows,  whether  as  a  tragedian 
or  as  a  writer  of  comedy.  "The  Muso." 
said  Meres,  in  1598,  "would  speak  with 
Shakspere's  finely-filed  phraze,  if  they  would 
speak  English."  His  personal  popularity 
was  now  at  its  height.  His  pleasant  temper 
and  the  vivacity  of  his  wit  had  drawn  him 
early  into  contact  with  the  young  Earl  of 
Southampton,  to  whom  his  "Adonis"  and 
"  Lucrcce"  are  dedicated  ;  and  the  different 
tone  of  the  two  dedications  shows  how  rap- 
idly acquaintance  ripened  into  an  ardent 
friendship.  Shakspere's  wealth  and  influ- 
ence too  were  growing  fast.  He  had  prop- 
erty both  in  Stratford  and  London,  and  his 
fellow-townsmen  made  him  their  suitor  to 
Lord  Burleigh  for  favours  to  be  bestowed 
on  Stratford.  He  was  rich  enough  to  aid 
his  father,  and  to  buy  the  house  at  Stratford 
which  afterwards  became  his  home. 

The  tradition  that  Elizabeth  was  so  pleased 
with  Falstaff  in  "  Henry  the  Fourth"  that 
she  ordered  the  poet  to  show  her  Falstaff  in 
love, — an  order  which  produced  the  "  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor," — whether  true  or  false, 
proves  his  repute  as  a  playwright.  As  the 
group  of  earlier  poets  passed  away,  they 
found  successors  in  Marston,  Dekker,  Mid- 
dleton,  Heywood,  and  Chapman,  and  above 
all  in  Ben  Jonson.  But  none  of  these  could 
dispute  the  supremacy  of  Shakspere.  The 
verdict  of  Meres  that  "  Shakspere  among 
the  English  is  the  most  excellent  in  both 
kinds  for  the  stage,"  represented  the  gen- 
eral feeling  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was 
at  last  fully  master  of  the  resources  of  his 
art.  The  "  Merchant  of  Venice"  marks  the 
perfection  of  his  development  as  a  dramatist 
in  the  completeness  of  its  stage  effect,  the 
ingenuity  of  its  incidents,  the  ease  of  its 
movement,  the  beauty  of  its  higher  passages, 
the  reserve  and  self-control  with  which  its 
poetry  is  used,  the  conception  and  unfolding 
of  character,  and  above  .all  the  mastery  with 
winch  character  and  event  is  grouped  round 
the  figure  of  Shylock.  Master  as  he  is  of 
his  art,  the  poet's  temper  is  still  young:  the 
"  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  is  a  burst  of 
gay  laughter  ;  and  laughter  more  tempered, 
yet  full  of  a  sweeter  fascination,  rings  round 
us  in  "  As  You  Like  It." 

But  in  the  melancholy  and  meditative 
Jaques  of  the  last  drama  we  feel  the  touch 
of  a  new  and  graver  mood.  Youth,  so  full 
and  buoyant  in  the  poet  until  now,  seems 


528 


JOHN  RICHARD    GREEN. 


to  have  passed  almost  suddenly  away. 
Though  Shakspere  had  hardly  reached 
forty,  in  one  of  his  Sonnets  which  cannot 
have  been  written  at  a  much  later  time  than 
this,  there  are  indications  that  he  already 
fjlt  the  advance  of  premature  age.  And  at 
this  moment  the  outer  world  suddenly  dark- 
ened around  him.  The  brilliant  circle  of 
young  nobles  whose  friendship  he  had  shared 
was  broken  up  in  1601  by  the  political  storm 
which  burst  in  a  mad  struggle  of  the  Earl 
of  Essex  for  power.  Essex  himself  fell  on 
the  scaffold ;  his  friend  and  Shakspere's 
idol,  Southampton,  passed  a  prisoner  into 
the  Tower ;  Herbert,  Lord  Pembroke, 
younger  patron  of  the  poet,  was  banished 
from  the  Court.  AVhile  friends  were  thus 
falling  and  hopes  fading  without,  Shak- 
spere's own  mind  seems  to  have  been  going 
through  a  phase  of  bitter  suffering  and  un- 
rest. In  spite  of  the  ingenuity  of  commen- 
tators, it  is  difficult  and  even  impossible  to 
derive  any  knowledge  of  Shakspere's  inner 
history  from  the  Sonnets ;  "  the  strange 
imagery  of  passion  which  passes  over  the 
magic  mirror,"  it  has  been  finely  said,  "has 
no  tangible  evidence  before  or  behind  it." 
But  its  mere  passing  is  itself  an  evidence 
of  the  restlessness  and  agony  within.  The 
change  in  the  character  of  his  dramas  gives 
a  surer  indication  of  his  change  of  mood. 
The  fresh  joyousness,  the  keen  delight  in 
life  and  in  man,  which  breathes  through 
Shakspere's  early  work  disappears  in  com- 
edies such  as  "  Troilus"  and  '*  Measure  for 
Measure."  Disappointment,  disillusion,  a 
new  sense  of  the  evil  and  foulness  that  un- 
derlies so  much  of  human  life,  a  loss  of  the 
old  frank  trust  in  its  beauty  and  goodness, 
threw  their  gloom  over  these  comedies. 
Failure  seems  everywhere.  In  "  Julius 
Caesai-"  the  virtue  of  Brutus  is  foiled  by  its 
ignorance  of  and  isolation  from  mankind  ; 
in  Hamlet  even  penetrating  intellect  proves 
helpless  for  want  of  the  capacity  of  action  ; 
the  poison  of  lago  taints  the  love  of  Desde- 
mona  and  the  grandeur  of  Othello  ;  Lear's 
mighty  passion  battles  helplessly  against 
the  wind  and  the  rain  ;  a  woman's  weakness 
of  frame  dashes  the  cup  of  her  triumph 
from  the  hand  of  Lady  Macbeth ;  lust  and 
self-indulgence  blast  the  heroism  of  Antony  ; 
pride  ruins  the  nobleness  of  Coriolanus. 

But  the  very  struggle  and  self-introspec- 
tion that  these  dramas  betray  were  to  give 
a  depth  and  grandeur  to  Shakspere's  work 
such  as  it  had  never  known  before.  The 
age  was  one  in  which  man's  temper  and 
powers  took  a  new  range  and  energy.  Sid- 
ney or  Raleigh  lived  not  one  but  a  dozen 
lives  at  once ;  the  daring  of  the  adventurer, 
the  philosophy  of  the  scholar,  the  passion 
of  the  lover,  the  fanaticism  of  the  saint, 


towered  into  almost  superhuman  grandeur. 
Man  became  conscious  of  the  immense  re- 
sources that  lay  within  him,  conscious  of 
boundless  powers  that  seemed  to  mock  the 
narrow  world  in  which  they  moved.  All 
through  the  age  of  the  Renascence  one  feels 
the  impress  of  the  gigantic,  this  giant-like 
activity,  this  immense  ambition  and  desire. 
The  very  bombast  and  extravagance  of  the 
times  reveal  cravings  and  impulses  before 
which  common  speech  breaks  down.  It  is 
this  grandeur  of  humanity  that  finds  its 
poetic  expression  in  the  later  work  of  Shak- 
spere.  As  the  poet  penetrated  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  recesses  of  the  soul,  he  saw 
how  great  and  wondrous  a  thing  was  man. 
"  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man  !"  cries  Ham- 
let; "how  noble  in  reason;  how  infinite  in 
faculties;  in  form,  and  moving,  how  express 
and  admirable !  in  action,  how  like  an  ang<-l ! 
in  apprehension,  how  like  a  god  !  the  beauty 
of  the  world  !  the  paragon  of  animals!"  It 
is  the  wonder  of  man  that  spreads  before  us 
as  the  poet  pictures  the  wide  speculation  of 
Hamlet,  the  awful  convulsion  of  a  great  na- 
ture in  Othello,  the  terrible  storm  in  the  soul 
of  Lear  which  blends  with  the  very  storm  of 
the  heavens  themselves,  the  awful  ambition 
that  nerved  a  woman's  hand  to  dabble  itself 
with  the  blood  of  a  murdered  king,  the  reck- 
less lust  that  "  flung  away  a  world  for  love." 
Amid  the  terror  and  awe  of  these  great 
dramas  we  learn  something  of  the  vast 
forces  of  the  age  from  which  they  sprang. 
The  passion  of  Mary  Stuart,  the  ruthless- 
ness  of  Alva,  the  daring  of  Drake,  the  chiv- 
alry of  Sidney,  the  range  of  thought  and 
action  in  Raleigh  or  Elizabeth,  come  better 
home  to  us  as  we  follow  the  mighty  series 
of  tragedies  which  began  in  "Hamlet"  and 
ended  in  "Coriolanus." 

Shakspere's  last  dramas,  the  three  ex- 
quisite works  in  which  he  shows  a  soul  at 
rest  with  itself,  and  with  the  world,  "  Cym- 
beline,"  "  The  Tempest,"  "  Winter's  Tale," 
were  written  in  the  midst  of  ease  and  com- 
petence, in  a  house  at  Stratford  to  which  he 
withdrew  a  few  years  after  the  death  of 
Elizabeth.  In  them  we  lose  all  relation 
with  the  world  or  the  time  and  pass  into  a 
region  of  pure  poetry.  It  is  in  this  peaceful 
and  gracious  close  that  the  life  of  Shakspere 
contrasts  most  vividly  with  that  of  his  great- 
est contemporary.  If  the  imaginative  re- 
sources of  the  new  England  were  seen  in 
the  creators  of  Hamlet  and  the  Faerie  Queen, 
its  purely  intellectual  capacity,  its  vast  com- 
mand over  the  stores  of  human  knowledge, 
the  amazing  sense  of  its  own  powers  with 
which  it  dealt  with  them,  were  seen  in  the 
work  of  Francis  Bacon. 

History  of  1he  English  People,  Vol.  ii. 
Book  vl,  1858. 


WILLIAM  EDWARD  HARTPOLE  LECKY. 


529 


WILLIAM      EDWARD      HART- 
POLE    LECKY, 

born  1838,  is  the  author  of  three  works  of 
great  learning,  entitled  The  History  of  Ra- 
tionalism in  Europe,  Lond.,  1865,  2  vols. 
8vo ;  History  of  European  Morals  from 
Augustus  to  Charlemagne,  Lond.,  1869,  2 
vols.  8vo,  and  A  History  of  England  in  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  Lond.,  1878,  2  vols.  8vo. 

CHARACTER  AND  INFLUENCE  OF  CHRIST. 

But  if  Christianity  was  remarkable  for 
its  appeals  to  the  selfish  or  interested  side 
of  our  nature,  it  was  far  more  remarkable 
for  the  empire  it  attained  over  disinterested 
enthusiasm.  The  Platonists  exhorted  men 
to  imitate  God,  the  Stoic,  to  follow  reason, 
the  Christian,  to  the  love  of  Christ.  The 
later  Stoics  had  often  united  their  notions 
of  excellence  in  an  ideal  sage,  and  Epictetus 
had  even  urged  his  disciples  to  set  before 
them  some  man  of  surpassing  excellence, 
and  to  imagine  him  continually  near  them  ; 
but  the  utmost  the  Stoic  ideal  could  become 
was  a  model  for  imitation,  and  the  admira- 
tion it  inspired  could  never  deepen  into  affec- 
tion. It  was  reserved  for  Christianity  to 
present  to  the  world  an  ideal  character, 
which  through  all  the  changes  of  eighteen 
centuries  has  inspired  the  hearts  of  men 
with  an  impassioned  love,  has  shown  itself 
capable  of  acting  on  all  ages,  nations,  tem- 
peraments, and  conditions,  has  been  not 
only  the  highest  pattern  of  virtue  but  the 
strongest  incentive  to  its  practice,  .and  has 
exercised  so  deep  an  influence  that  it  may 
be  truly  said  that  the  simple  record  of  three 
short  years  of  active  life  has  done  more  to 
regenerate  and  soften  mankind  than  all  the 
disquisitions  of  philosophers  and  all  the  ex- 
hortations of  moralists.  This  has  indeed 
been  the  well-spring  of  whatever  is  best  and 
purest  in  the  Christian  life.  Amid  all  the 
sins  and  failings,  amid  all  the  priestcraft  and 
persecution  and  fanaticism  that  have  defaced 
the  Church,  it  has  preserved  in  the  character 
of  its  Founder  an  enduring  principle  of  re- 
generation. Perfect  love  knows  no  rights. 
It  creates  a  boundless,  uncalculating  self- 
abnegation  that  transforms  the  character, 
and  is  the  parent  of  every  virtue.  Side  by 
side  with  the  terrorism  and  superstition  of 
dogmatism  there  have  ever  existed  in  Chris- 
tianity those  who  would  echo  the  wish  of  St. 
Theresa,  that  she  could  blot  out  both  heaven 
and  hell,  to  serve  God  for  Himself  alone  ; 
and  the  power  of  the  love  of  Christ  has  been 
displayed  alike  in  the  most  heroic  pages  of 
Christian  martyrdom,  in  the  most  pathetic 
pages  of  Christian  resignation,  and  in  the 
tenderest  pages  of  Christian  charity.  It 
was  shown  by  the  martyrs  who  sank  be- 
34 


neath  the  fangs  of  wild  beasts,  extending 
to  the  last  moment  their  arms  in  the  form 
of  the  cross  they  loved  ;  who  ordered  their 
chains  to  be  buried  with  them  as  the  insig- 
nia of  their  warfare ;  who  looked  with  joy 
upon  their  ghastly  wounds  because  they 
had  been  received  for  Christ ;  who  welcomed 
death  as  the  bridegroom  welcomes  the  bride, 
because  it  would  bring  them  nearer  to  Him. 
History  of  European  Morals. 

ON  SUICIDE. 

Two  or  three  English  suicides  left  behind 
them  elaborate  defences,  as  did  also  a  Swede 
named  llobeck,  who  drowned  himself  in 
1735,  and  whose  treatise  published  in  the 
following  year,  acquired  considerable  celeb- 
rity. But  the  most  influential  writings 
about  suicides  were  those  of  the  French 
philosophers  and  revolutionists.  Montaigne, 
without  discussing  its  abstract  lawfulness, 
recounts  with  much  admiration  many  of  the 
instances  in  antiquity.  Montesquieu,  in  a 
youthful  work,  defended  it  with  ardent  en- 
thusiasm. Rousseau  devoted  to  the  subject 
two  letters  of  a  burning  and  passionate  elo- 
quence, in  the  first  of  which  he  presented 
with  matchless  power  the  arguments  in  its 
favour,  while  in  the  second  he  denounced 
those  arguments  as  sophistical,  dilated  upon 
the  impiety  of  abandoning  the  post  of  duty, 
and  upon  the  cowardice  of  despair,  and  with 
a  deep  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  re- 
vealed the  selfishness  that  lies  at  the  root  of 
most  suicide,  exhorting  all  those  who  felt 
impelled  to  it  to  set  about  some  work  for  the 
good  of  others,  in  which  they  would  as- 
suredly find  relief.  Voltaire,  in  the  best- 
known  couplet  he  ever  wrote,  defends  the  act 
on  occasions  of  extreme  necessity.  Among 
the  atheistical  party  it  was  warmly  eulogized, 
and  Holbach  and  Deslandes  were  prominent 
as  its  defenders.  The  rapid  decomposition 
of  religious  opinions  weakened  the  popular 
sense  of  its  enormity,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  humanity  of  the  age,  and  also  a  clearer 
sense  of  the  true  limits  of  legislation,  pro- 
duced a  reaction  against  the  horrible  laws 
on  the  subject.  Grotius  had  defended  them. 
Montesquieu  at  first  denounced  them  with 
unqualified  energy,  but  in  his  later  years  in 
some  degree  modified  his  opinions.  Bec- 
caria,  who  was,  more  than  any  other  writer, 
the  representative  of  the  opinions  of  the 
French  school  on  such  matters,  condemned 
them  partly  as  unjust  to  the  innocent  sur- 
vivors, partly  as  incapable  of  deterring  any 
man  who  was  resolved  upon  the  act.  .  .  . 
The  common  sentiment  of  Christendom  has, 
however,  ratified  the  judgment  which  the 
Christian  teachers  pronounced  upon  the  act, 
though  it  has  somewhat  modified  the  severity 


530 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


of  the  old  censure,  and  has  abandoned  some 
of  the  old  arguments.  It  was  reserved  for 
Madame  de  Stae'l,  who,  in  a  youthful  work 
upon  the  Passions,  had  commended  suicide, 
to  reconstruct  this  department  of  ethics, 
which  had  been  somewhat  disturbed  at  the 
Revolution,  and  she  did  so  in  a  little  treatise 
which  is  a  model  of  calm,  candid,  and  philo- 
sophic piety.  Frankly  abandoning  the  old 
theological  notions  that  the  deed  was  of  the 
nature  of  murder,  that  it  was  the  worst  of 
crimes,  and  that  it  was  always,  or  even  gen- 
erally, the  offspring  of  cowardice ;  aban- 
doning, too,  all  attempts  to  scare  men  by 
religious  terrorism,  she  proceeded,  not  so 
much  to  meet  in  detail  the  isolated  argu- 
ments of  its  defenders,  as  to  sketch  the  ideal 
of  a  truly  virtuous  man,  and  to  show  how 
such  a  character  would  secure  men  against 
all  temptation  to  suicide.  .  .  .  Sentiments 
of  this  kind  have,  through  the  influence  of 
Christianity,  thoroughly  pervaded  European 
society,  and  suicide,  in  modern  times,  is 
almost  always  found  to  have  sprung  either 
from  absolute  insanity,  from  diseases  which, 
though  not  amounting  to  insanity,  are  yet 
sufficient  to  discolour  our  judgments,  or 
from  that  last  excess  of  sorrow,  when  resig- 
nation and  hope  are  both  extinct.  Con- 
sidering it  in  this  light,  I  know  few  things 
more  fitted  to  quality  the  optimism  we  so 
often  hear,  than  the  fact  that  statistics  show 
it  to  be  rapidly  increasing,  and  to  be  pe- 
culiarly characteristic  of  those  nations  which 
rank  most  high  in  intellectual  development 
and  in  general  civilization.  In  one  or  tAvo 
countries,  strong  religious  feeling  has  coun- 
teracted the  tendency,  but  the  comparison 
of  town  and  country,  of  different  countries, 
of  different  provinces  of  the  same  country, 
and  of  different  periods  of  history,  proves 
conclusively  its  reality. 

History    of  European    Morals,     Vol.   ii. 
Chap.  iv. 


GEORGE    ELIOT, 

is  the  nom  de  plume  of  Miss  Marian  C. 
Evans,  and  Mrs.  Lewes,  the  widow  of 
George  Henry  Lewes,  born  in  the  north  of 
England  about  1820.  As  a  novelist  she  stands 
in  the  first  rank. 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  Lond.,  ]858; 
Adam  Bede,  1859;  The  Mill  on  the  Floss, 
I860;  Silas  Marner,  1861;  Komola,  1863; 
Felix  Holt,  Radical.  1866;  The  Spanish 
Gipsy,  a  Poem,  in  Five  Books,  1868,  new 
edit.,  1875,  12mo:  Middlemarch,  1871-72; 
The  Legend  of  Jubal,  and  other  Poems, 
1875,  12mo;  Daniel  Deronda,  1876;  Novels, 
new  editions,  1870,  7  vols.  in  G,  p.  8vo  ;  Se- 
lect Passages  from  George  Eliot,  Edin.  and 


Lond.,  1879;  Theophrastus  Such,  1879. 
She  translated  Strauss's  Life  of  Jesus,  1846, 
and  Feuerbach's  Essence  of  Christianity, 
1853,  and  has  contributed  to  the  West- 
minster Review,  etc. 

"Komola  is  a  marvellously  able  story  of  the 
revival  of  the  taste  and  beauty  and  freedom  of 
Hellenic  manners  and  letters  under  Lorenzo  di 
Medici  and  the  scholars  of  his  Court,  side  by  side 
with  the  revival  of  Koinan  virtue,  and  more  than 
the  ancient  austerity  and  piety,  under  the  great 
Dominican,  Savonarola.  The  period  of  history  is 
one  which  of  all  others  may  well  have  engrossing  in- 
terest for  George  Eliot." — (Lond.)  Quart,  liev.,  Oct. 
1860.  See  also  Westm.  Rev.,  April,  1859,  Blackw. 
May.,  April,  1859,  May,  I860;  Edin.  Rev.,  July, 
1859;  lint.  Quart.  Rev.,  Oct.  1863,  Oct.  1868;  At- 
lantic Mon.,  Oct.  1866 ;  Essays,  by  R.  H.  Hutton. 


MRS.    POYSER   AND   THE    SQUIRE. 

"Ah,  now  this  I  like,"  said  Mr.  Donni- 
thorne,  looking  round  at  the  damp  temple 
of  cleanliness  (Mrs.  Poyser's  dairy)  but 
keeping  near  the  door.  "  I'm  sure  I  should 
like  my  breakfast  better  if  I  knew  the  butter 
and  cream  came  from  this  dairy.  Thank 
you,  that  really  is  a  pleasant  sight.  Unfor- 
tunately, my  slight  tendency  to  rheumatism 
makes  me  afraid  of  damp  ;  I'll  sit  down  in 
your  comfortable  kitchen.  Ah,  Poyser,  how 
do  you  do?  In  the  midst  of  business,  I  see, 
as  usual.  I've  been  looking  at  your  wife's 
beautiful  dairy, — the  best  manager  in  the 
parish,  is  she  not?'1 

Mr.  Poyser  had  just  entered  in  shirt- 
sleeves and  open  waistcoat,  with  a  face  a 
shade  redder  than  usual  from  the  exertion 
of  "  pitching."  As  he  stood — red,  rotund, 
and  radiant  before  the  small  wiry,  cool  old 
gentleman — he  looked  like  a  prize-apple  by 
the  side  of  a  withered  crab. 

"  Will  you  please  to  take  this  chair,  sir  ?" 
he  said,  lifting  his  father's  arm-chair  for- 
ward a  little;  "you'll  find  it  easy." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  never  sit  in  easy- 
chairs,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  seating 
himself  on  a  small  chair  near  the  door. 
"  Do  you  know,  Mrs.  Poyser, — sit  down, 
pray,  both  of  you, — I've  been  far  from  con- 
tented for  some  time  with  Mrs.  Satchell's 
dairy  management.  I  think  she  has  not  a 
good  method,  as  you  have." 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  can't  speak  to  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Poyser,  in  a  hard  voice,  rolling  and 
unrolling  her  knitting,  and  looking  icily  out 
of  the  window,  as  she  continued  to  stand 
opposite  the  Squire.  Poyser  might  sit  down 
if  he  liked,  she  thought:  she  wasn't  going 
to  sit  down,  as  if  she'd  give  in  to  any  such 
smooth-tongued  palaver.  Mr.  Poyser,  who 
looked  and  felt  the  reverse  of  icy,  did  sit 
down  in  his  three-cornered  chair. 

"  And  now,  Poyser,  as  Satchell  is  laid  up, 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


531 


I  am  intending  to  let  the  Chase  Farm  to  a 
respectable  tenant.  I'm  tired  of  having  a 
farm  on  my  own  hands, — nothing  is  made 
the  best  of  in  such  cases,  as  you  know.  A 
satisfactory  bailiff  is  hard  to  find  ;  and  I 
think  you  and  I,  Poyser,  and  your  excellent 
wife  here,  can  enter  into  a  little  arrange- 
ment in  consequence,  which  will  be  to  our 
mutual  advantage." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  with  a  good- 
natured  blankness  of  imagination  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  arrangement. 

"If  I'm  called  upon  to  speak,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Poyser,  after  glancing  at  her  husband 
with  pity  at  his  softness,  ''you  know  better 
than  me  ;  but  I  don't  see  what  the  Chase 
Farm  is  t'  us, — we've  cumber  enough  w' 
our  own  farm.  Not  but  what  I'm  glad  to 
hear  o'  anybody  respectable  coming  into  the 
parish;  there's  some  as  ha'  been  brought  in 
as  hasn't  been  looked  on  i'  that  character." 

"  You're  likely  to  find  Mr.  Thurle  an  ex- 
cellent neighbour,  I  assure  you.  Such  a 
one  as  you  will  feel  glad  to  have  accommo- 
dated by  the  little  plan  I'm  going  to  men- 
tion, especially  as  I  hope  you  will  find  it  as 
much  to  your  advantage  as  his." 

"Indeed,  sir,  if  it's  anything  t'  our  ad- 
vantage, it'll  be  the  first  offer  o'  the  sort 
I've  beared  on.  It's  them  as  take  advantage 
that  get  advantage  i'  this  world,  /  think  ; 
folks  have  to  wait  long  enough  afore  it's 
brought  to  'em." 

"  The  fact  is,  Poyser,"  said  the  Squire, 
ignoring  Mrs.  Poyser's  theory  of  worldly 
prosperity,  "  there  is  too  much  dairy  land, 
and  too  little  plough  land,  on  the  Chase 
Farm,  to  suit  Thurle's  purpose. — indeed,  he 
will  only  take  the  farm  on  condition  of  some 
change  in  it;  his  wife,  it  appears,  is  not  a 
clever  dairy-woman  like  yours.  Now,  the 
plan  I'm  thinking  of  is  to  effect  a  little  ex- 
change. If  you  were  to  have  the  Hollow 
Pastures  you  might  increase  your  dairy, 
which  must  be  so  profitable  under  your  wife's 
management:  and  I  should  request  you, 
Mrs.  Poyser,  to  supply  my  house  with  milk, 
cream,  and  butter  at  the  market  prices. 
On  the  other  hand,  Poyser,  you  might  let 
Thurle  have  the  Lower  and  Upper  Ridges, 
which  really,  with  our  wet  seasons,  would  be 
a  good  riddance  for  you.  There  is  much 
less  risk  in  dairy  land  than  corn  land." 

Mr.  Poyser  was  leaning  forward,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  on  one  side 
and  his  mouth  screwed  up, — apparently  .ab- 
sorbed in  making  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
meet  so  as  to  represent  with  perfect  accu- 
racy the  ribs  of  a  ship.  lie  was  much  too 
acute  a  man  not  to  set  through  the  whole 
business,  and  to  foresee  perfectly  what 
would  be  his  wife's  view  of  the  subject; 
but  he  disliked  giving  unpleasant  answers. 


Unless  it  was  on  a  point  of  farming  practice, 
he  would  rather  give  up  than  have  a  quarrel 
any  day  ;  and  after  all  it  mattered  more  to 
his  wife  than  to  him.  So  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' silence  he  looked  up  to  her,  and  said 
mildly,  "  What  dost  say?" 

Mrs.  Poyser  had  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
husband  with  cold  severity  during  his  si- 
lence, but  now  she  turned  away  her  head 
with  a  toss,  looked  icily  at  the  opposite  roof 
of  the  cow-shed,  and  spearing  her  knitting 
together  with  the  loose  pin,  held  it  firmly 
between  her  clasped  hands. 

"Say?  Why  I  say  you  may  do  as  you 
like  about  giving  up  any  o'  your  corn  land 
afore  your  lease  is  up,  which  it  won't  be  for 
a  year  come  next  Michaelmas,  but  I'll  not 
consent  to  take  more  dairy  work  into  my 
hands  either  for  love  or  money,  and  there's 
nayther  love  nor  money  here,  as  I  can  see, 
on'y  other  folks's  love  o'  themselves,  and  the 
money  as  is  to  go  into  other  folks's  pockets. 
I  know  there's  them  as  is  born  t'  own  the 
land,  and  them  as  is  born  t'  sweat  on't," — 
here  Mrs.  Poyser  paused  to  gasp  a  little, — 
"and  I  know  it's  christened  folks's  duty  to 
submit  to  their  betters  as  fur  as  flesh  and 
blood  'ull  bear  it ;  but  I'll  not  make  a  martyr 
o'  myself,  and  wear  myself  to  skin  and  bone, 
and  worret  myself  as  if  I  was  a  churn  wi' 
butter  a-coming  in  it,  for  no  landlord  in  Eng- 
land, not  if  he  was  King  George  himself." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Poyser,  certainly 
not,"  said  the  Squire,  still  confident  in  his 
own  powers  of  persuasion;  "you  must  not 
overwork  yourself;  but  don't  you  think  your 
work  will  rather  be  lessened  than  increased 
in  this  way  ?  There  is  so  much  milk  re- 
quired at  the  Abbey  that  you  will  have 
little  increase  of  cheese  and  butter-making 
from  the  addition  to  your  dairy ;  and  I  be- 
lieve selling  the  milk  is  the  most  profitable 
way  of  disposing  of  dairy  produce,  is  it  not?" 

"Ay,  that's  true,"  said  Mr.  Poyser,  un- 
able to  repress  an  opinion  on  a  question  of 
farming  profits,  and  forgetting  that  it  was 
not  in  this  case  a  purely  abstract  question. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser  bitterly, 
turning  her  head  half  way  towards  her  hus- 
band, and  looking  at  the  vacant  arm-chair, — 
"  I  dare  say  it's  true  for  men  as  sit  i'  th' 
chimney-corner  and  make  believe  as  every- 
thing's cut  wi'  ins  an'  outs  to  fit  int'  every- 
thing else.  If  you  could  make  a  pudding 
wi'  thinking  o'  the  batter,  it  'ud  be  easy 
getting  dinner.  How  do  I  know  whether 
the  milk  '11  be  wanted  constant?  What's 
to  make  me  sure  as  the  house  won't  be  put 
o'  board  wage  afore  we're  many  months 
older,  and  then  I  may  have  to  lie  awake 
o'  nights  wi'  twenty  gallons  o'  milk  on  my 
mind, — and  Dingall  'ull  take  no  more  butter, 
let  alone  paying  for  it ;  and  we  must  fat  pigs 


532 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


till  we're  obliged  to  beg  the  butcher  on  our 
knees  to  buy  'em,  and  lose  half  of  'em  wi' 
the  measles.  And  there's  the  fetching  and 
carrying,  as  'ud  be  welly  half  a  day's  work 
for  a  man  an'  hoss, — thafs  to  be  took  out  o' 
the  profits,  I  reckon?  But  there's  folks  'ud 
hold  a  sieve  under  the  pump  and  expect  to 
carry  away  the  water." 

"  That  difficulty — about  the  fetching  and 
carrying — you  will  not  have,  Mrs.  Poyser," 
said  the  Squire,  who  thought  that  this  en- 
trance into  particulars  indicated  a  distant 
inclination  to  compromise  on  Mrs.  Poyser's 
part, — "Bethell  will  do  that  regularly  with 
the  cart  and  pony." 

"  Oh,  sir,  begging  your  pardon,  I've  never 
been  used  t'  having  gentlefolks's  servants 
coming  about  my  back  places,  a-making  love 
to  both  the  gells  at  once,  and  keeping  'em 
with  their  hands  on  their  hips  listening  to 
all  manner  o'  gossip  when  they  should  be 
down  on  their  knees  a-scouring.  If  we're 
to  go  to  ruin,  it  shanna'  be  wi'  having  our 
back  kitchen  turned  into  a  public." 

"Well,  Poyser,"  said  the  Squire,  shifting 
his  tactics,  and  looking  as  if  he  thought  Mrs. 
Poyser  had  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the 
proceedings  and  left  the  room,  "you  can 
turn  the  Hollows  into  feeding-land.  I  can 
easily  make  another  arrangement  about  sup- 
plying my  house.  And  I  shall  not  forget 
your  readiness  to  accommodate  your  land- 
lord as  well  as  a  neighbour.  I  know  you 
will  be  glad  to  have  your  lease  renewed  for 
three  years  when  the  present  one  expires, 
otherwise  I  dare  say  Thurle,  who  is  a  man 
of  some  capital,  would  be  glad  to  take  both 
the  farms,  as  they  could  be  worked  so  well 
together.  But  I  don't  want  to  part  with  an 
old  tenant  like  you." 

To  be  thrust  out  of  the  discussion  in  this 
way  would  have  been  enough  to  complete 
Mrs.  Poyser's  exasperation,  even  without 
the  final  threat.  Her  husband,  really 
alarmed  at  the  possibility  of  their  leaving 
the  old  place  where  he  had  been  bred  and 
born, — for  he  believed  the  old  Squire  had 
small  spite  enough  for  anything, — was  be- 
ginning a  mild  remonstrance  explanatory  of 
the  inconvenience  he  should  find  in  having 
to  buy  and  sell  more  stock,  with — 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think  as  it's  rether  hard" 
....  when  Mrs.  Poyser  burst  in  with  the 
desperate  determination  to  have  her  say  out 
this  once,  though  it  were  to  rain  notices  to 
quit,  and  the  only  shelter  were  the  work- 
house. 

"Then,  sir,  if  I  may  speak, — as  for  all 
I'm  a  woman,  and  there's  folks  as  thinks  a 
woman's  a  fool  enough  to  stan'  by  an'  look 
on  while  the  men  sign  her  soul  away,  I've  a 
right  to  speak,  for  I  make  one  quarter  o'  the 
rent,  and  save  the  other  quarter, — I  say,  if 


Mr.  Thurle's  so  ready  to  take  farms  under 
you,  it's  a  pity  but  what  he  should  take  this, 
and  see  if  lie  likes  to  live  in  a  house  wi'  all 
the  plagues  o'  Egypt  in't, — wi'  the  cellar  full 
o'  water,  and  frogs  and  toads  hoppin'  up  the 
steps  by  dozens, — and  the  floors  rotten,  and 
the  rats  and  mice  gnawing  every  bit  o' 
cheese,  and  runnin'  over  our  heads  as  we  lie 
i'  bed  till  we  expect 'em  to  eat  us  up  alive, — 
as  it's  a  mercy  they  hanna  eat  the  children 
long  ago.  I  should  like  to  see  if  there's  an- 
other tenant  besides  Poyser  as  'ud  put  up 
wi'  never  having  a  bit  o'  repairs  done  till  a 
place  tumbles  down, — and  not  then,  on'y 
wi'  begging  and  praying,  and  having  to  pay 
half, — and  being  strung  up  wi'  the  rent  as 
it's  much  if  he  gets  enough  out  o'  the  land 
to  pay,  for  all  he's  put  his  own  money  into 
the  ground  beforehand.  See  if  you'll  get  si 
stranger  to  lead  such  a  life  here  as  that;  a 
maggot  must  be  born  i'  the  rotten  cheese  to 
like  it,  I  reckon.  You  may  run  away  from  my 
words,  sir,"  continued  Mrs.  Poyser,  following 
the  old  Squire  beyond  the  door, — for  after 
the  first  moments  of  stunned  surprise  he  had 
got  up,  and,  waving  his  hand  towards  her 
with  a  smile,  had  walked  out  towards  hia 
pony.  But  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  get 
away  immediately,  for  John  was  walking 
the  pony  up  and  down  the  yard,  and  was 
some  distance  from  the  causeway  when  his 
master  beckoned. 

"  You  may  run  away  from  my  words,  sir, 
and  you  may  go  spinnin1  underhand  ways 
o'  doing  us  a  mischief,  for  you've  got  Old 
Harry  to  your  friend,  though  nobody  else  is  ; 
but  1  tell  you  for  once  as  we're  not  dumb 
creatures  to  be.  abused  and  made  money  on 
!>y  them  as  ha'  got  the  lash  i'  their  hands, 
for  want  of  knowing  how  t'  undo  the  tackle. 
An'  if  I'm  th'  only  one  as  speaks  my  mind, 
there's  plenty  of  the  same  way  o'  thinkin  i' 
this  parish  and  the  next  to  't,  for  your 
name's  no  better  than  a  brimstone  mutch 
in  everybody's  nose. — if  it  isna  two  or  three 
old  folks  as  you  think  o'  saving  your  soul 
by  giving  'em  a  bit  o'  flannel  and  a  drop  o' 
porridge.  An'  you  may  be  right  i'  thinking 
it'll  take  but  little  to  save  your  soul,  for 
it'll  be  the  smallest  savin'  y'  iver  made,  wi' 
all  your  scrapin'." 

There  are  occasions  on  which  two  servant- 
girls  and  a  wagoner  may  be  a  formidable 
audience,  and  as  the  Squire  rode  away  on 
his  black  pony  even  the  gift  of  short-sight- 
edness did  not  prevent  him  from  being 
aware  that  Molly  and  Nancy  and  Tim  were 
grinning  not  far  from  him.  Perhaps  he 
suspected  that  sour  old  John  was  grinning 
behind  him, — which  was  also  the  fact.  Mean- 
while the  bull-dog,  the  black-and-tan  terrier, 
Alick's  sheep-dog,  and  the  gander  hissing  at 
a  safe  distance  from  the  pony's  heels,  carried 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


533 


out  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Peyser's  solo  in  an  im- 
pressive quartette. 

Mrs.  Poyser,  however,  had  no  sooner  seen 
the  puny  move  off  than  she  turned  round, 
gave  the  two  hilarious  damsels  a  look  which 
drove  them  into  the  hack  kitchen,  and  un- 
speuring  her  knitting  began  to  knit  again 
•with  her  usual  rapidity  as  she  re-entered  the 
house. 

'' Thee'st  done  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Poyser, 
a  little  alarmed  and  uneasy,  but  not  without 
some  triumphant  amusement  at  his  wife's 
outbreak. 

"  Yis,  I  know  I've  done  it,"  said  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser, "  but  I've  had  my  say  out,  and  I  shall  be 
tli'  easier  fort  all  my  life.  There's  no  pleas- 
ure i'  living  if  you're  to  be  corked  up  for 
iver,  and  only  dribble  your  mind  out  by  the 
sly,  like  a  leaky  barrel.  I  shan't  repent 
saying  what  I  think  if  I  live  to  be  as  old  as 
the  old  Squire,  and  there's  little  likelihoods, 
— for  it  seems  as  if  them  as  aren't  wanted 
here  are  th'  only  folks  as  aren't  wanted  i' 
tii'  other  world." 

"  But  thee  wotna  like  moving  from  th'  old 
place  this  Michaelmas  twelvemonth,"  said 
Mr.  Poyser,  "  and  going  into  a  strange  par- 
ish, where  thee  know'st  nobody.  It'll  be 
hard  upon  us  both,  and  upo'  father  too." 

';  Eh,  it's  no  use  worreting ;  there's 
plenty  o'  things  may  happen  between  this 
and  Michaelmas  twelvemonth.  The  Cap- 
tain may  be  master  afore  then,  for  what  we 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Poyser,  inclined  to  take 
an  unusually  hopeful  view  of  an  embarrass- 
ment which  had  been  brought  about  by  her 
own  merit,  and  not  by  other  people's  fault. 

"  Pm  none  for  worreting,"  said  Mr. 
Poyser,  rising  from  his  three-cornered  chair 
and  walking  slowly  towards  the  door  :  "  but 
I  should  be  loth  to  leave  th'  old  place,  and 
the  parish  where  I  was  bred  and  born,  and 
father  afore  me.  We  should  leave  our  roots 
behind  us,  I  doubt,  and  niver  thrive  again." 

Adam  Bede. 

THE  BURNING  OF  VANITIES. 

This  was  the  preparation  for  a  new  sort 
of  bonfire — the  Burning  of  Vanities.  Hid- 
den in  the  interior  of  the  pyramid  was  a 
plentiful  store  of  dry  fuel  and  gunpowder  ; 
and  on  this  last  day  of  the  festival,  at  even- 
ing, the  pile  of  vanities  was  to  be  set  ablaze 
to  the  sound  of  trumpets,  and  the  ugly  old 
Carnival  was  to  tumble  into  the  flames 
amidst  the  songs  of  reforming  triumph. 

This  crowning  act  of  the  new  festivities 
could  hardly  have  been  prepared  but  for  a 
peculiar  organization  which  had  been  started 
by  Savonarola  two  years  before.  The  mass 
of  the  Florentine  boyhood  and  youth  was 
no  longer  left  to  its  own  genial  promptings 


towards  street  mischief  and  crude  dissolute- 
ness. Under  the  training  of  Fra  Domenico, 
a  sort  of  lieutenant  to  Savonarola,  lads  and 
striplings,  the  hope  of  Florence,  were  to 
have  none  but  pure  words  on  their  lips, 
were  to  have  a  zeal  for  unseen  good  that 
should  put  to  shame  the  lukewarmness  of 
their  elders,  and  were  to  know  no  pleasures 
save  of  an  angelic  sort, — singing  divine 
praises  and  walking  in  white  robes.  .  .  . 

As  for  the  collections  from  street  passen- 
gers, they  were  to  be  greater  than  ever, — 
not  for  gross  and  superfluous  suppers,  but 
for  the  benefit  of  the  hungry  and  needy  ; 
and  besides  there  was  the  collecting  of  the 
Anathema,  or  the  Vanities  to  be  laid  on  the 
great  pyramidal  bonfire.  .  .  . 

When  Romola  said  that  some  one  else  ex- 
pected her,  she  meant  her  cousin  Brigida, 
but  she  was  far  from  suspecting  how  much 
that  good  kinswoman  was  in  need  of  her. 
Returning  together  towards  the  Piazza,  they 
had  descried  the  company  of  youths  coming 
to  a  stand  before  Tessa,  and  when  Romola, 
having  approached  near  enough  to  see  the 
simple  little  contadina's  distress,  said,  "  Wait 
for  me  a  moment,  cousin,"  Monna  Brigida 
said,  hastily,  "  Ah,  I  will  not  go  on  :  come 
for  me  to  Boni's  shop;  I  shall  go  back 
there." 

The  truth  was,  Monna  Brigida  had  a  con- 
sciousness on  the  one  hand  of  certain  "  van- 
ities" carried  on  her  person,  and  on  the 
other  of  a  growing  alarm  lest  the  Piagnoni 
should  be  right  in  holding  that  rouge,  and 
false  hair,  and  pearl  embroidery  endamagod 
the  soul.  Their  serious  view  of  things  filled 
the  air  like  an  odour-,  nothing  seemed  to  have 
exactly  the  same  flavour  as  it  used  to  have  ; 
and  there  was  the  dear  child  Romola,  in  her 
youth  and  beauty,  leading  a  life  that  was 
uncomfortably  suggestive  of  rigorous  de- 
mands on  woman.  A  widow  at  fifty-five 
whose  satisfaction  has  been  largely  drawn 
from  what  she  thinks  of  her  own  person, 
and  what  she  believes  others  think  of  it,  re- 
quires a  great  fund  of  imagination  to  keep 
her  spirits  buoyant.  And  Monna  Brigida 
had  begun  to  have  frequent  struggles  at  her 
toilette.  If  her  soul  would  prosper  better 
without  them,  was  it  really  worth  while  to 
put  on  the  rouge  and  the  braids?  But  when 
she  lifted  up  the  hand-mirror  and  saw  a  sal- 
low face  with  baggy  cheeks,  and  crow's-feet 
that  were  not  to  be  dissimulated  by  any  sim- 
pering of  the  lips, — when  she  parted  her 
gray  hair,  and  let  it  lie  in  simple  Piagnone 
fashion  round  her  face,  her  courage  failed. 
Monna  Berta  would  certainly  burst  out 
laughing  at  her,  and  call  her  an  old  hag, 
and  as  Monna  Berta  was  really  only  fifty 
two,  she  had  a  superiority  which  would 
make  the  observation  cutting.  Every  woman 


534 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


who  was  not  a  Piagnone  would  give  a  shrug 
at  the  sight  of  her,  and  the  men  would  ac- 
cost her  as  if  she  were  their  grandmother. 
Whereas,  at  fifty-five  a  woman  was  not  so 
very  old, — she  only  required  making  up  a 
little.  So  the  rouge  and  the  braids  and  the 
embroidered  berretta  went  on  again,  and 
Monna  Brigida  was  satisfied  with  the  ac- 
customed eftect:  as  for  her  neck,  if  she  cov- 
ered it  up  people  might  suppose  it  was  too 
old  to  show,  and  on  the  contrary,  with  the 
necklaces  round  it,  it  looked  better  than 
Monna  Berta's.  This  very  day,  when  she 
was  preparing  for  the  Piagnone  Carnival, 
such  a  struggle  had  occurred,  and  the  con- 
flicting fears  and  longings  which  caused  the 
struggle  caused  her  to  turn  back  and  seek 
refuge  in  the  druggist's  shop  rather  than 
encounter  the  collectors  of  the  Anathema 
when  ilomola  was  not  by  her  side. 

But  Monna  Brigida  was  not  quite  rapid 
enough  in  her  retreat.  She  had  been  de- 
scried even  before  she  turned  away,  by  the 
white-robed  boys  in  the  rear  of  those  who 
wheeled  round  towards  Tessa,  and  the  will- 
ingness with  which  Tessa  was  given  up  was, 
perhaps,  slightly  due  to  the  fact  that  part  of 
the  troop  had  already  accosted  a  personage 
carrying  more  markedly  upon  her  the  dan- 
gerous weight  of  the  Anathema.  It  hap- 
pened that  several  of  this  troop  were  at  the 
youngest  age  taken  into  peculiar  training; 
and  a  small  fellow  of  ten,  his  olive  wreath 
resting  above  cherubic  cheeks  and  wide 
brown  eyes,  his  imagination  really  pos- 
sessed with  a  hovering  awe  at  existence  as 
something  in  which  great  consequences  im- 
pended on  being  good  or  bad,  his  longings 
nevertheless  running  in  the  direction  of 
mastery  and  mischief,  was  the  first  to  reach 
Monna  Brigida  and  place  himself  across  her 
path.  She  felt  angry,  and  looked  for  an 
open  door,  but  there  was  not  one  at  hand, 
and  by  attempting  to  escape  now  she  would 
only  make  matters  worse.  But  it  was  not 
the  cherubic-faced  young  one  who  first  ad- 
dressed her;  it  was  a  youth  of  fifteen  who 
held  one  handle  of  a  wide  basket. 

"  Venerable  mother !''  he  began,  "  the 
blessed  Jesus  commands  you  to  give  up  the 
Anathema  which  you  carry  upon  you.  That 
cap  embroidered  with  pearls,  those  jewels 
that  fasten  up  your  false  hair, — let  them  be 
given  up  and  sold  for  the  poor  ;  and  cast  the 
hair  itself  away  from  you,  as  a  lie  that  is 
only  fit  for  burning.  Doubtless,  too,  you 
have  other  jewels  under  your  silk  mantle." 

"Yes,  lady,"  said  the  youth  at  the  other 
handle,  who  had  many  of  Fra  Girolamo's 
phrases  by  heart,  "  they  are  too  heavy  for 
you  :  they  are  heavier  than  a  millstone,  and 
are  weighting  you  for  perdition.  Will  you 
adorn  yourself  with  the  hunger  of  the  poor, 


and  be  proud  to  carry  God's  curse  upon  your 
head  ?" 

"  In  truth  you  are  old,  buona  madre,"  said 
the  cherubic  boy,  in  a  sweet  soprano.  "  You 
look  very  ugly  with  the  red  on  your  checks 
and  that  black  glistening  hair,  and  those 
fine  things.  It  is  only  Satan  who  can  like 
to  see  you.  Your  Angel  is  sorry.  He  wants 
you  to  rub  away  the  red." 

The  little  fellow  snatched  a  soft  silk  scarf 
from  the  basket,  and  held  it  towards  Monna 
Brigida,  that  she  might  use  it  as  her  guardian 
angel  desired.  Her  anger  and  mortification 
were  fast  giving  way  to  spiritual  alarm. 
Monna  Berta,  and  that  cloud  of  witnesses, 
highly-dressed  society  in  general,  were  not 
looking  at  her,  and  she  was  surrounded  by 
young  monitors,  whose  white  robes,  and 
wreaths,  and  red  crosses,  and  dreadful  can- 
dour, h.nd  something  awful  in  their  unusual- 
ness.  Her  Franciscan  confessor,  Fra  Cris- 
toforo,  of  Santa  Croce,  was  not  at  hand  to 
reinforce  her  distrust  of  Dominican  teaching, 
and  she  was  helplessly  possessed  and  shaken 
by  a  vague  sense  that  a  supreme  warning 
was  come  to  her.  Unvisited  by  the  least 
suggestion  of  any  other  course  that  was 
open  to  her,  she  took  the  scarf  that  was 
held  out,  and  rubbed  her  cheeks  with 
trembling  submissiveness. 

"  It  is  well,  madonna,"  said  the  second 
youth.  "  It  is  a  holy  beginning.  And 
when  you  have  taken  those  vanities  from 
your  head,  the  dew  of  heavenly  grace  will 
descend  on  it."  The  infusion  of  mischief 
was  getting  stronger,  and  putting  his  hand 
to  one  of  the  jewelled  pins  that  fastened  her 
braids  to  the  berretta,  he  drew  it  out.  The 
heavy  black  plait  fell  down  over  Monna 
Brigida's  face,  and  dragged  the  rest  of  the 
head-gear  forward.  It  was  a  new  reason  for 
not  hesitating  :  she  put  up  her  hands  hastily, 
undid  the  other  fastenings,  and  flung  down 
into  the  basket  of  doom  her  beloved  crim- 
son velvet  berretta,  with  all  its  unsurpassed 
embroidery  of  seed-pearls,  and  stood  an  nn- 
rouged  woman,  with  gray  hair  pushed  back- 
ward from  a  face  where  certain  deep  lines 
of  age  had  triumphed  over  embonpoint. 

But  the  berretta  was  not  allowed  to  lie  in 
the  basket.  With  impish  zeal  the  youngsters 
lifted  it  up,  and  held  it  pitilessly  with  the 
false  hair  dangling. 

"  See,  venerable  mother,"  said  the  taller 
youth,  "  what  ugly  lies  you  have  delivered 
yourself  from  !  And  now  you  look  like  the 
blessed  Saint  Anna,  the  mother  of  the  Holy 
Virgin." 

Thoughts  of  going  into  a  convent  forth- 
with, and  never  showing  herself  in  the 
world  again,  were  rushing  through  Monna 
Brigida's  mind.  There  was  nothing  possi- 
ble for  her  but  to  take  care  of  her  soul.  Of 


GEORGE  ELIOT. 


535 


course,  there  were  spectators  laughing  :  she 
had  no  need  to  look  round  to  assure  herself 
of  that.  Well !  it  would,  perhaps,  be  better 
to  be  forced  to  think  more  of  Paradise.  But 
at  the  thought  that  the  dear  accustomed 
world  was  no  longer  in  her  choice,  there 
gathered  some  of  those  hard  tears  which 
just  moisten  elderly  eyes,  and  she  could  see 
but  dimly  a  large  rough  hand  holding  a  red 
cross,  which  was  suddenly  thrust  before  her 
over  the  shoulders  of  the  boys,  while  a  strong 
guttural  voice  said,  "Only  four  quattrini, 
madonna,  blessing  and  all  !  Buy  it.  You'll 
find  a  comfort  in  it  now  your  wig's  gone. 
Deh  !  what  are  we  sinners  doing  all  our 
lives  ?  Making  soup  in  a  basket,  and  getting 
nothing  but  the  scum  for  our  stomachs. 
Better  buy  a  blessing,  madonna  !  Only  four 
quattrini ;  the  profit  is  not  so  much  as  the 
smell  of  a  danaro,  and  it  goes  to  the  poor." 

Monna  Brigida,  in  dim-eyed  confusion, 
was  proceeding  to  the  further  submission  of 
reaching  money  from  her  embroidered  scar- 
sella,  at  present  hidden  by  her  silk  mantle; 
when  the  group  around  her,  which  she  had 
not  yet  entertained  the  idea  of  escaping, 
opened  before  a  figure  as  welcome  as  an 
angel  loosing  prison  bolts. 

"  Romola,  look  at  me  !"  said  Monna  Bri- 
gida, in  a  piteous  tone,  putting  cut  both  her 
hands. 

The  white  troop  was  already  moving 
away,  with  a  slight  consciousness  that  its 
zeal  about  the  head-gear  had  been  super- 
abundant enough  to  afford  a  dispensation 
from  any  further  demand  for  penitential 
offerings. 

"Dear  cousin,  don't  be  distressed,"  said 
Romola,  smitten  with  pity,  yet  hardly  able 
to  help  smiling  at  the  sudden  apparition  of 
her  kinswoman  in  a  genuine,  natural  guise, 
strangely  contrasted  with  all  her  memories 
of  her.  She  took  the  black  drapery  from 
her  own  head,  and  threw  it  over  Monna 
Brigida's.  "  There,"  she  went  on,  sooth- 
ingly, "  no  one  will  remark  you  now.  We 
will  turn  down  the  Via  del  Palagio  and  go 
straight  to  our  house." 

They  hastened  away,  Monna  Brigida 
grasping  Ilomola's  hand  tightly  as  if  to  get 
a  stronger  assurance  of  her  being  actually 
there. 

"Ah,  my  Romola,  my  dear  child,"  said 
the  short  fat  woman,  hurrying  witli  frequent 
steps  to  keep  pace  with  the  majestic  young 


figure  beside  her.  "  What  an  old  scarecrow 
I  am !  I  must  be  good, — I  mean  to  be 
good !" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  buy  a  cross  !"  said  the  guttu- 
ral voice,  while  the  rough  hand  was  thrust 
once  more  before  Monna  Brigida ;  for  Bratti 
was  not  to  be  abashed  by  Ilomola's  presence 
into  renouncing  a  probable  customer,  and 
had  quietly  followed  up  their  retreat.  "  Only 
four  quattrini,  blessing  and  all, — and  if  there 
was  any  profit,  it  would  all  go  to  the  poor."  '\ 

Monna  Brigida  would  have  been  com- 
pelled to  pause,  even  if  she  had  been  in  a 
less  submissive  mood.  She  put  up  one 
hand  deprecatingly  to  arrest  Romola's  re- 
monstrance, and  with  the  other  reached  a 
grosso,  worth  many  white  quattrini,  saying, 
in  an  entreating  tone, — • 

"  Take  it,  good  man,  and  begone." 

"  You're  in  the  right,  madonna,"  said 
Bratti,  taking  the  coin  quickly,  and  thrusting 
the  cross  into  her  hand.  "  I'll  not  offer  you 
change,  for  I  might  as  well  rob  you  of  a 
mass.  What  !  we  must  all  be  scorched  a 
little,  but  you'll  come  off  the  easier;  better 
fall  from  the  window  than  the  roof.  A  good 
Easter  and  a  good  year  to  you  !" 

"  Well,  Romola,"  cried  Monna  Brigida, 
pathetically,  as  Bratti  left  them,  "  if  I'm 
to  be  a  Piagnone  it's  no  matter  how  I 
look." 

"  Dear  cousin,"  said  Romola,  looking  at 
her  affectionately,  "you  don't  know  how 
much  better  you  look  than  you  ever  did 
before.  I  see  now  how  good-natured  your 
face  is,  like  yourself.  That  red  and  finery 
seemed  to  thrust  themselves  forward  and 
hide  expression.  Ask  our  Piero  or  any 
other  painter  if  he  would  not  rather  paint 
your  portrait  now  than  before.  I  think  all 
lines  of  the  human  face  have  something 
either  touching  or  grand,  unless  they  seem, 
to  come  from  low  passions.  How  fine  old 
men  are,  like  my  godfather!  Why  should 
not  old  women  look  grand  and  simple  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  one  gets  to  be  sixty,  my 
Romola,"  said  Brigida,  relapsing  a  little  ; 
"but  I'm  only  fifty-five,  and  Monna  Berta 
and  every  body, — but  it's  no  use  :  I  will  bo 
good  like  you.  Your  mother,  if  she'd  been, 
alive,  would  have  been  as  old  as  I  am, — we 
were  cousins  together.  One  must  either  die 
or  get  old.  But  it  doesn't  matter  about 
being  old,  if  one's  a  Piagnone." 

Romola,  Chap,  xlix.,  li. 


GENERAL    INDEX. 


A. 

Abbot  on  Shipping,  485. 
Abbotsford,  Irving  at,  369. 
Ab.lallah,  257. 
Abernethy  on  Sterne,  175. 
ABOLITION  OF  CHRISTIANITY,  126. 
Abstracts,  Preston  on,  485. 
Academy  of  Compliments,  The, 

349. 
Achilles,  Hawkeswortb.  on,  196. 

Pope  on,  157. 
Actions,  187,  396,  512. 
ACTIVITY  AND  POWER,  393. 
Adams,  John,  364,  439. 
ADAMS,  JOHN  QUINCY,  289. 
ADDISO.V,  JOSEPH,  133. 
Addison,  Joseph  :  Cowper  on,  244. 

Goldsmith  on.  231,  232,  233. 

Hazlitt  on,  129. 

Jeffrey  on,  314,  317. 

Johnson  on,  133. 

Macaulay  on,  133,  448,  450. 

Mel  moth  on,  188. 

Pope  on,  133. 

Adelung,  Dictionary  of,  182. 
ADMINISTRATORS  AND  EXECUTORS, 

485. 

Admiralty  Reports,  485. 
Adventurer,  The,  195,  197,  198, 

218. 
ADVICE  TO  UNMARRIED  LADIES, 

158. 

^Elian  on  Zoilus,  154. 
JKmilius,  library  of,  247. 
./Eneas,  Pope  on,  157. 

voyage  of,  238. 
JEneid,  Ritso  on,  485. 
JEschylus,  Macaulay  on,  449. 
./Esop,  Bacon  on,  393. 

Brougham  on,  341. 
Affections,  12,  1(54,  174,  187,  209, 

297,  344,  524. 
Africa,  344. 

Age  of  the  species,  340. 
Age,  old,  482. 
Agincourt,  514. 
Akenside,  Jeffrey  on,  317. 
ALBANIA,  395. 

Albanians,  Byron  on,  396,  397. 
Alchemy,  240. 
Alexander  the  Great,  291,   293, 

319,  470,  486. 
Alexandrian  Library,  248. 
Alfred,  Hume  on,  190. 
AH  Pacha,  395,  396. 
Alison,  Sir  A.,  on  Hallam,  335. 

on  Macaulay,  440. 

on  Prescott,  422. 


Alison,  Sir  A.,  to  S.  Austin  Alli- 

bone,  422. 

Allibone,  S.  Austin :   Alison   to, 
422. 

Carlyle  to,  419. 

Be  Quincey,  E.,  to,  381. 

Evarts  to,  357. 

Everett  to,  357,  505. 

Everett's  Index  and,  409. 

Lieber  to,  362. 

Macaulay  to,  423. 

Prescott  to,  404,  505. 

Sunnier  to,  357. 

Critical  Dictionary  of,  366, 
372,387,406,408,422,440, 
471,  479,  498,  520. 

Poetical  Selections  of,  471. 

reflections  on  war  by,  319. 
Almanacks,  225. 
Alps,  500,  521. 
Alva,  Duke  of,  528. 
Amadis  de  Gaul,  338. 
Ambassador,  Wiquefort's,  485. 
Ambition,  225,  526. 
Ambrosianse,  Noctes,  376. 
AMERICA,  234. 

America,  102,  234,  312,  348,  350, 
353,  363,  368,  410,  417,  437, 
483,  500. 

AMERICA,  WAR  WITH,  177. 
American  language,  54. 
AMERICAN  LITERATURE,  353,  410. 
AMERICAN  REVOLUTION,  250. 
AMUSEMENTS,  SUNDAY,  273. 
Amy  Robsart,  310. 
Anacharsis.  256. 
Anncreon,  138. 
Anarchy,  286. 

"  Ancestors,  wisdom  of  our,"  340. 
ANCESTRY,  PRIDE  OF,  362. 
Andrewes,  Bishop,  328. 
Angell  and  Ames,  485. 
Angelo,  Michael,  411. 
Angels,  298. 
Anger,  Penn  on,  120. 
Angler,  Complete,  54. 
Anguillara's  Ovid,  185. 
ANIMALS,  CRUELTY  TO,  356. 
ANIMALS,  INFERIOR,  CRUELTY  TO, 

172. 
Anne,  Queen,  authors  of  the  age 

of,  231,  232,  233,  316. 
Antiooh,  Winthrop  on,  479. 
Antiquities,  265. 
Antiquity  of  man,  434. 
Antithesis,  217. 
Antoninus,  256. 
Antony,  396,  528. 
Anxiety,  folly  of,  110. 


Apocrypha,  54. 
Apollonius  Tyaneus,  247. 
Apology  by  Barclay,  121. 
Apothecary,  301. 
Arabia,  257. 
Arabian  Nights,  196. 
Arabic  language,  257. 
ARBUTHNOT,  JOHN,  M.D.,  233. 

Goldsmith  on,  140. 
Arcadia,  the,  239. 
Archaeology,  513. 
Archelaus,  138. 
Archimedes,  402,  508. 
Architecture,  180,  383,  494,  508, 

520. 

Arectri,  411. 
Aretine,  348. 

Ariosto,  240,  336,  348,  373,  374. 
Aristides,  166,  379. 
Aristocracy,  15. 
Aristophanes,  180. 
Aristotle,  146,  181,  218,  421. 
Arkwright,  Sir  R.,  518. 
Arlington,  Lord,  232. 
Armstrong  cannon,  508. 
Arno,  the,  411,  499. 
Arnold,  Fred.,  440. 
ARNOLD,  THOMAS,  D.D.,  419. 
Arsenal  at  Venice,  508. 
Art,  196,  501. 
Artaxerxes,  180. 
Arthur,  King,  240. 
ARTS,  402. 

As  You  Like  It,  527. 
Ascension  of  Christ,  70. 
ASCHAM,  ROGER,  28. 
Ascham,  Roger,  238,  332. 
ASCHAM'S  SCHOOLMASTER,  28. 
Ashburton,  Lord,  251. 
Asia,  203,  344,  384,  421. 
Assisi,  Francis  of,  20. 
Assurances,  Emerigon  on,  485. 
Assyria,  303. 
Astrology,  127,  210,  421. 
Astronomy,  128,  341,  356,  424. 
ASTRONOMY,  USES  OF,  411. 
Atheism,  73,  127,  306,  412. 
Athenaeum,  168,  350,  474. 
Athens,  authors  of,  63,  180,  203. 

books  at,  247. 

conquered,  138. 

government  of,  10. 

Locke  on,  102. 

Paul  at,  404,  434. 

philosophy  at,  404. 

schools  of,  102. 
ATHENS,  ST.  PAUL  AT,  404. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  493. 
Atonement,  the,  355,  428. 

637 


538 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


ATTACK  UPON  THE  BASTILE,  418. 
Atterbury,  F.,  Goldsmith  on,  232. 

Macaula.v  on,  440. 
ATTERBUUY,  POPE  TO,  158. 
Attic  us,  Cicero  to,  264. 
Attributes  of  God,  136,  142. 
AUGUSTAN  AGE  OP  ENGLAND,  230. 
Augustus,  age  of,  139,  168,  169, 

248,  348.  391. 
Austin  on  Blackstone,  221. 
Authors,  English,  184,  203,  224, 
230-233,  313,  345,  348. 

French,  203,  224,  230. 

Greek,  16,  63,  137,  183,  203, 
218,  224,  237,  238,  404. 

Italian,  183,  185,  218,  224, 
230, 239, 240, 348, 421,  499. 

Latin,  16,  124,137,224,237, 
238,  264. 

Oriental,  203,  224. 

study  of,  140. 
AUTHOHSHIP,  427. 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  SUNDAY,  206. 
Avellanda,  336. 
Aventine  Mount,  248. 

B. 

Babylon,  tunnel  at,  508. 
Babylonia,  303. 
BACON,  FRANCIS,  39. 
BACON,  LORD,  306. 
Bacon,   Francis,  Lord  Verulam, 
Brougham  on,  340. 

Combe  on,  393. 

Emerson  on,  462. 

Hazlitt  on,  345. 

Herschel  on,  402. 

Ilillard  on,  476,  478. 

Hunt  on,  375. 

Jeffrey  on,  315,  317. 

Johnson  on,  182. 

Macaulay  on,  443. 

On  Uses,  485. 

prayer  of,  40. 
Bailments,  Jones  on,  485. 
Baldwin's  Constitutional  Views, 

485. 

BANCROFT,  GEORGE,  437. 
Bancroft,  George,  244,  521. 
Bandello,  240. 
Barber,  Frank,  441. 
Barcelona,  507. 
BARCLAY,  ROBERT,  121. 
Barillon,  445. 

Barnwall  and  Alderson,  491. 
BARROW,  ISAAC,  D.D.,  93. 
Barrow,  Isaac,  232,  315. 
Barton's  Suit  in  Equity,  485. 
Baskerville,  168. 
Bassano,  Alps  of,  521. 
BASTILK,  ATTACK  UPON  THE,  418. 
Bath,  Earl  of,  446. 
Bathurst,  Lord,  234. 
BATTLE  OF  THE  NILE,  319. 
BATTLB  OF  PRINCETON,  245. 
BATTLE  OF  TRAFALGAR,  322. 
BATTLE  OF  TRKNTON,  244. 
BAXTER,  RICHARD,  74. 
Baxter,  Richard,  67,  74. 
Bayer,  E.  P.,  264. 
Baylor,  Colonel,  245. 
Bayne,  Peter,  452,  453. 


Beaconsfield,  Earl  of,  287. 
BEARDS,  154. 

BEATTIE,  JAMES,  LL.D.,  252. 
Beattie,  James,  LL.D.,  327. 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  98, 270, 

327,  329,  345,  449. 
Beaumont,  Sir  John,  168. 
BEAUTIES  OF  THE  PSALMS,  241. 
BEAUTY,  458. 
BEAUTY,  ESSAY  ON,  39. 
BEAUTY,  PERSONAL,  208. 
BEAUTY  AND  LOVE,  132. 
Beccaria,  529. 
BECKFORD,  WILLIAM,  278. 
BEECHER,  HENRY  WARD,  D.D., 

502. 

Benares,  443. 
BENEVOLENCE  AND  FRIENDSHIP, 

153. 

Beni,  183,  218. 
BENTHAM,  JEREMY,  270. 
Bentham,  Jeremy,  302. 
Bentley  on  Pope's  Homer,  185. 
BERKELEY,  GEORGE,  D.D.,  150. 
Bertrand,  General,  290. 
BEST  ENGLISH  PEOPLE,  488. 
BEVERIDGE,  WILLIAM,  D.D.,  112. 
Bible,  the,  128,  274,  346,  434. 
BIBLE  AS  A  STUDY,  451. 
Bibliomaniac,  521. 
Bickersteth  on  Erskine,  155. 
Billington,  Mrs.,  443. 
Bills,  Byles  on,  485,491. 
Bingham  on  Infancy  and  Cover- 
ture, 485.      . 
BINNEY,  HORACE,  357. 
Binney,  Horace,  484. 
Biographie  Universelle,  223. 
Biography,  196,  225. 
Biography,  Industrial,  507. 
Bion,  181. 

BIRDS,  Music  OF,  156. 
BIRTH,  NOBLE,  PRIDE  OF,  119. 
Black  Prince,  514. 
BLACKSTONE,  SIR  WILLIAM,  220. 
Blackstone,  Sir  William,  483,484. 
BLACKWALL,  ANTHONY,  137. 
Blackwall,  Anthony,  137. 
Blackwood's  Magazine,  237,387, 

493,  505,  511,  517,  518,   519, 

530. 

Blades  on  Caxton,  20. 
BLAIR,  HUGH,  D.D.,  202. 
Blair,  Hugh,  148,  161. 
Blakey,  History  of  Philosophy, 

250. 

Blenheim,  441. 
Boadicea,  290. 
Bo-bo,  325. 
Boccace,  240. 
Boetius  on  books,  17. 
Bogue,  Dr.,  293. 
Bohn's  Lowndes,  122,  124,  157. 
Boiardo,  240. 

BOIS-GUILBERT     AND      REBECCA, 

309. 
Boleyn,  Anne,  239. 

BOLINGBROKE,  LORD,  145. 

Bolingbroke,  Lord,  232,233. 
Bonhours,  216. 
Book-binding.  327. 
Book  Buyers  and  Books,  521. 
Book-maniac,  521. 


Book-stall  reading,  329. 

BOOKS,  478. 

Books,  16,  17,  61,  64,  127,  145, 

174,   237-241,  247,    313,  314, 

333,  341,  345,  347,  352,  387, 

441,  500. 

BOOKS,  BUYING  OF,  503. 
BOOKS,  CHOICE  OF,  419. 
BOOKS,  MEDITATION  AMONG  THE, 

224. 

BOOKS  AND  BOOK-BUYERS,  521. 
BOOKS  AND  READING,  LAMB  ON, 

327. 
BOOKS  AND  READING,  WATTS  ON. 

140. 

Bopp,  182. 
Bossu,  218. 

Boston,  Address  nt,  313. 
Boswell's  Johnson,  44,  91,  126, 

142,   148,  178,  190,  199,  202, 

224,  226,  273. 
Botanic  Garden,  507. 
Botany,  432. 
Botta,  M.,  512. 
Boulay-Paty,  Droit  Commercial, 

485. 

Boulton,  M.,  508. 
Bourdaloue,  413. 
Bouterwek,  336,  337. 
BOYLE,  ROBERT,  88. 
Boyle  Lectures,  88. 
Bracebridgc  Hall,  368. 
Braddock's  Expedition,  438, 486. 
Brahant,  Louis,  304. 
Brain,  394,  481. 
Braybrooke,  Lord,  101. 
Brazil,  Pedro  II.  of,  471. 
BREAKERS,  IMAGE,  505. 
BREEDING,  GOOD,  166. 
Brenta,  520. 
Bridge,  Natural,  486. 
Bridges,  Suspension,  508. 
Brief  Inquiry  by  Upshur,  485. 
Bright,  Mynors,  101. 
Britain,  Harrison  on,  52. 
BRITAIN,  LANGUAGES  OF,  52. 
Britain,  Romans  in,  53. 
BRITISH    NATION,  INDUSTRY  or 

THE,  361. 
British  Quarterly   Review,  302, 

493,  505,  514,  520,  530. 
Brodie  on  Clarendon,  65. 

on  Hume,  190. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  519. 
Brooke,  Lord,  and  Sir  P.  Sidney, 

331. 

Brother  Jonathan,  351. 
BROUGHAM,  LORD,  338. 
Brougham,  Lord,  83,  102,  106, 

177,  181,  220,  259,  293. 
Brown,  John,  M.D.,  488. 
BROWN,  THOMAS,  M.D.,  343. 
Brown,  Thomas,  M.D.,  393. 
BROWNE,  SIR  THOMAS,  58. 
Bruce,  Robert,  394. 
Brueys,  Admiral,  320. 
Brumoy,  218. 
Brunswick,  House  of,  234. 
Brute-mindedness,  417. 
Brutus,  256,  290,  528. 
Bryant,  W.  C.,  366,  500. 
Brydges,  Sir  S.  E.,  366,  379. 
Buckland,  Dr.  W.,  433,  453. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


539 


Buckle  on  Burke,  233. 

BUDGELL,  EUSTACE,  153. 

BULL,  SQUIRE,  AND  HIS  SON,  350. 

BULWER  :  see  LYTTON,  LOKD. 

BUNYAN,  JOHN,  90. 

Bunyan,  John,  440. 

BUONAPARTE,  NAPOLEON,  387. 

Buonaparte,  Napoleon,  286,  290, 
319,  395,  413,  486. 

BUKKB,  EDMUND,  233. 

Burke,  Edmund,  12,  251,  317, 
443,  449. 

Burlarnaqui's  Natural  and  Politi- 
cal Law,  485. 

Burnet,  Bishop,  24,  72,  109,  115. 

Burney,  Frances,  450. 

BURNING  OF  VANITIES,  533. 

Burns,  Robert,  346,  518. 

BURRITT,  ELIHIT,  486. 

BURTON,  ROBERT,  44. 

Burton,  Robert,  270,  328. 

BURY,  RICHARD  DE,  16. 

Business,  147,  171. 

BUSY-BODY,  ON  THE,  43. 

Butler,  Charles,  llorce  Juridicae 

of,  485. 

BUTLER,  BISHOP  JOSEPH,  163. 
Butler,  Bishop  Joseph,  283. 
BUTLER,  SAMUEL,  69. 
Butler,  Samuel,  154,  373. 
BUYING  BOOKS,  503. 
Byles  on  Bills,  485,  491. 
Bynkershoeck,  De  Foro  Legato- 
rum  of,  485. 

Questiones  of,  485. 
BYRON,  LORD,  395. 
Byron,  Lord  :  on  Beckford,  278. 

on  Disraeli,  288. 

on  Rousseau,  192. 

on  Southey,  319. 

Tuckeruian  on,  500. 

C. 

Cabanis,  482. 

Cad  walla  ler,  General,  245. 

Csepio,  526. 

Csesar,  Julius,  124,  138,  187,  188, 
247,  291,  293,  319,  496,  526. 

Caesars,  the,  257. 

Caius  Mariu?,  14. 

CALAMITY,  COMPENSATIONS  OF, 
460. 

Calhoun,  John  C.,  485. 

Caliban.  348. 

Calvinists,  238. 

CAXTON,  AVILLIAM,  20. 

Campbell,  Lord  John,  483. 

Campbell,  Thomas,  216. 

CANDID  MAN,  466. 

Candidates,  14. 

Cannabis  Indica,  508. 

Cannon,  Armstrong,  508. 

Cannon,  old,  508. 

Cant  terms,  433. 

Capitoline  Library,  248. 

CAPTURE  OF  MAMBKINO'S  HEL- 
MET, 33. 

CAREY,  HENRY  CHARLES,  LL.D., 
407. 

CARLETON,  WILLIAM,  434. 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS,  414. 

Carlyle,  Thos.,  on  Johnson,  181. 
to  S.  A.  Allibone,  419. 


Caro,  Hannibal,  99,  100. 
CARTER,  ELIZABETH,  199. 
Cases  in  Supreme  Court  U.  S., 

485. 

Casimir  of  Poland,  201. 
Casscl,  507. 
Castel  Melhor,  446. 
Castelvetro,  218. 
Castiglion,  348. 
Castile,  512. 
Castile,  Isabella  of,  290. 
CASTLE-BUILDING,  130. 
CASTLE  OF  UDOLPHO,  283. 
Catherine  of  Braganza,  446. 
Catherine  of  Russia,  290. 
Catholicism,    Roman,    239,    240, 

284,  286,  290,  434,  445,  446, 

499,  515,  516. 
Catiline,  348. 
CATO,  MARCUS,  525. 
CAVENDISH,  GEORGE,  25. 
Caxton,  Dibdin  on,  20. 
Cellini,  499. 
Celsus,  247. 
Censor,  The,  448. 
CENSORSHIP  OF  THE  PRESS,  64. 
CERVANTES,  32. 
Cervantes,  195,  217,  336. 
Chalmers,  A.,  Dictionary  of,  16, 

20. 

CHALMERS,  THOMAS,  D.D.,  354. 
Chalmers,  Thomas,  D.D.,  76,  163. 
Chainloe,  Sir  R.,  29. 
Champion,  The,  448. 
Chancery,  338. 
Chancery,  Rowland's,  485. 
CHANGES  IN  LANGUAGE,  433. 
CHANNING,    WILLIAM     ELLERY, 

D.D.,  352. 

Chapman,  George,  348,  527. 
CHAPONE,  ESTHER,  226. 
CHARACTER,  DECISION  OF,  297. 
CHARACTER  OF  CHARLES  I.,  66. 
CHARACTER  OF  CHARLES  V..  211. 
CHARACTER  OF  EDWARD   EVER- 
ETT, 476. 

CHARACTER  OF  HAMLET,  348. 
CHARACTER  OF  MARTIN  LUTHER, 

211. 
CHARACTER  OF  NEW  ENGLAND, 

112. 

Characteristics,  131. 
Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays, 

349. 

Charity,  153,  347. 
Charlemagne,  293. 
CHARLES  I. :  Clarendon  on,  66. 

De  Quincey  on,  383. 
Charles  IL,  ago  of,  129,  230,  231, 

316,  442,  458. 

CHARLES  II.,  DEATH  OF,  444. 
CHARLES  V.,  CHARACTER  OF,  211. 
Charles  V.,  190. 

CHARLETON,  WALTER,  M.D.,  80. 
Charleton,  Walter,  M.D.,  394. 
Charlotte,  Princess,  death  of,  282. 
CHARNOCK,  STEPHEN,  D.D.,  86. 
CHATHAM,  EARL  OF,  176. 
Chaucer,  373. 

Cheerfulness,  429,  431,  432. 
Chemistry,  508. 
CHENKVIX,  RICHARD,  361. 
Cherubini,  482. 


CHESTERFIELD,  EARL  OF,  166. 
Chesterfield,  Earl  of,  288. 
Chiffinch,  446. 
CHILDE  HAROLD,  397. 
Childe  Harold,  398,  500. 
CHILDREN,  PENN'S  ADVICE  TO  HIS, 

119. 
Children  and    Parents,  12,  164, 

174,  187,  297,  344,  523. 
Children  of  darkness,  428. 
CHILDREN  OF  LIGHT,  428. 
Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper, 

473. 

China,  421. 
Chinese,  324,  325,  340,  383,  421, 

508. 

CHINESE,  CONDITION  OF  THE,  310. 
Chitty  on  Criminal  Law,  485,  491. 
Chivalry,  romances  of,  337. 
Chloroform,  508. 
CHOICE  OF  BOOKS,  418. 
Christ,  58, 1 1 2,  148, 1 89,  226,  247, 
249, 250, 265,  290, 347, 355,  360, 
365, 417, 428,  429,  430, 451,  506, 
510,  516,  529. 
CHRIST,  ASCENSION  OF,  70. 
CHRIST,  INCARNATION  OF,  76. 
"  Christian  Philosopher,''  302. 
Christianity,  112,  217,  241,  274, 
283,  290, 347,  365, 404, 409, 451 . 
CHRISTIANITY,  ABOLITION  OF,  126. 
CHRISTIANITY  AND  NATURAL  RE- 
LIGION, 255. 

CHRISTIANITY  AND  STOICISM,  199. 
CHRISTIANITY  THE  GREAT  REM- 
EDY, 479. 

Christianity,  Latin,  404. 
CHRISTIAN'S   DEPENDENCE   UPOS 

His  REDEEMER,  359. 
CHRISTMAS,  SCROOGE'S,  495. 
Chronology,  147. 
Church  of  England,  27, 126, 143, 

236,  274,351. 
Chuzzlewit,  Martin,  493. 
CICERO,  12. 
Cicero,  Arnold  on,  421. 

Atticus  and,  264. 

Burke  on,  12. 

Cato  on,  526. 

Goldsmith  on,  232. 

Hazlitt  on,  348. 

Jeffrey  on,  314. 

Jones,  Sir  W.,  on,  364. 

Macaulay  on,  443,  448. 

Melmoth  on,  187. 

on  eloquence,  188. 

on  immortality,  257. 

on  praise,  189. 

poetrv  of,  150. 

Rollin  on,  124. 

Smith,  Sydney,  on,  302. 

Speroni  on,  101. 

translations  by,  185. 

Tusculan  Questions  of,  18. 
CICERO  AGAINST  VERRES,  12. 
CITY,  NIGHT  VIEW  OF  THE,  417. 
CIVIL  LAW,  485. 
Civil  Law,  Domat's,  485. 
CIVILIZATION,  389. 
Civilization,  362. 
CLARENDON,  EARL  OF,  fi5. 
Clarendon,  Earl   of:    Brougham 
on,  340. 


540 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Clarendon,  Earl  of:  Dryden  on, 
100. 

Jeffrey  on,  317. 

on  Charles  I.,  66. 

on  Cromwell,  66. 
Claret,  269. 
Clarissa,  329. 

Clarke,   Adam,    D.D. :   on  Dod- 
dridge,  170. 

on  Pliny,  187. 

CLARKE,  SAMUKL,  D.D.,  142. 
Clarke,  Samuel,  D.D.,  163,  232, 

283. 

CLASSICAL  EDUCATION,  421. 
Classical  Studies,  139,  149,  238, 

299,  421,  483. 
Clergy,  Addison  on  the,  133. 

duties  of,  23. 
Cleveland,  C.  D.,  498. 
Clive,  Lord,  319. 
CLOVERNOOK  AND  ITS  INN,  456. 
Coal  gas,  508. 
Cobden,  Richard,  525. 
Cockburn,  Lord,  313. 
Coins,  ancient,  353. 
Coke,  Lord,  315,  345.  491. 

Institutes  of,  485. 

Littleton  and,  485,491. 
Coleridge,  Sir  John  T. :  on  Horace 

Binney,  357. 

Coleridge,    Samuel   Taylor:    De 
Quineey  on,  383. 

Hazlitt  on,  319. 

on  Baxter.  74. 

on  Fuller,  61. 

on  poetry,  374. 
Colleges,  491. 

Collingwood,  Admiral,  323. 
Colours,  Latin  names  of,  272. 
Colquhoun's   Summary  of  Civil 

Law,  485. 
COLUMBUS,   FIRST    VOYAGE    OP, 

368. 
Columbus,  voyages  of,  369,  414, 

416. 

COMBE,  ANDREW,  430. 
COMBE,  GKORGB,  392. 
Comedy,  184,  185. 
Comic  dramatists  of  the  Restora- 
tion, 316. 

COMMANDMENT,  THE  NEW,  249. 
Commerce,  220,  361. 
Commercial  Cours  de  Droit,  485. 
Comrnodus,  248. 
Compendium,  Mackeldy's,  485. 
COMPENSATIONS    OP    CALAMITY, 

460. 
COMPLAINT  OF  THE  SHORTNESS  OP 

HUMAN  LIFE,  146. 
Complete  Angler,  54. 
Complexion,  208,  209. 
Composition,    Literary,    16,   40, 

379. 

Comte,  M.,  408. 
Comus,  270. 

CONDITION  OF  THE  CHINESE,  340. 
Condorcet,  169. 
CONDUCT  OF  LIFF,,  59. 
Confessional,  284. 
CONFESSIONS   OP   A    DRUNKARD, 

329. 

CONFIRMATION    OP    SCRIPTURES, 
513. 


Conflict  of  Laws,  485. 

Confucius,  341,  391. 

Congrcve,  Goldsmith  on,  231. 
Macaulay  on,  450. 
on  Dryden,  97. 

Congreve,  Sir  W.,  rocket  of,  508. 

CONSCIENCE,  164. 

Conscience,  office  of,  105,  108, 
429. 

CONSCIOUSNESS  OF  IMMORTALITY, 
342. 

Consolations  in  Travel,  343. 

Constantine,  248. 

Constitution,  English,  177,  182, 
302,  485. 

Constitution,  United  States: 
Baldwin's  Views,  485. 
Rnwle  on,  485. 
Story  on,  485. 

Constitutional  History,  Hallam's, 

335.  485. 
May's,  335. 

CONSTITUTIONAL  LAW,  485. 

CONTEMPLATION  AND  MELAN- 
CHOLY, Burton  on,  44. 

CONTENTMENT,  Walton  on,  54. 

Contingent  Remainders,  485. 

Contracts,  Smith  on,  485. 

Controversy,  148,  225,  279,  346. 

CONTROVERSY,  Baxter  on,  74. 

CONTROVERSY,  VALUE  OF,  Hall 
on,  282. 

Conversation,  67,  94,  128,  138, 
166,  171,  174,  186,  208,  243, 
268,  276,  352,  433,  449,  478. 

CONVERSATION,  Fuller  on,  61. 

CONVERSATION,  Usher  on,  209. 

CONVERSATIONS,  IMAGINARY, 
LANDOR'S,  331,  332. 

Conveyancing,  Preston  on,  485. 

COOPER,  ANTHONY  ASHLEY,  131. 

Copernicus,  411,  412. 

COPYRIGHT,  Macaulay  on,  441. 

Coriolanus,  348,  528. 

Corneille,  218,  482. 

Cornelia,  290. 

Cornu,  banker,  304. 

Cornwall,  language  of,  54. 

Corporations,  Angell  and  Ames 
on,  485. 

Corregio,  499. 

Cortes,  F.,  426. 

Cosmogony,  Jenkinson  on,  229. 

Cosmogony,  Mosaic,  433. 

Country  life,  162. 

Courage,  416. 

COURSE  OF  STUDY,  16. 

Court,  inns  of,  491. 

Courtesy  and  Stateliness,  Emer- 
son on,  459. 

Courtship,  161. 

Covent  Garden  Journal,  491. 

Coverley,  de,  Sir  Roger,  154, 155, 
491. 

Coverture  and  Infancy,  485. 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM,  M.D.,  78. 

Cowley,    Abraham:     Goldsmith 

on,  232. 

Jeffrey  on,  315,  317. 
Macaulay  on,  442,  449. 

COWPER,  WILLIAM,  242. 

Cowper,    William :     Combe    on, 
393,  394. 


Cowper,    William :    Jeffrey    on, 

317. 

on  Addison.  244. 
on  Beattie,  252. 
on  Pope,  157. 

Crnbbe's  Tales  of  the  Hall,  393. 

Crawley,  Pitt,  490. 

Creation,  the,  153,  433,  523. 

CREATOR  AND  His  WORKS,  135. 

Creed,  Pearson  on  the,  70. 

Cricket,  432. 

CRIMES  AND  FORFEITURES,  485. 

Crimes  and  Misdemeanors,  Rus- 
sell on,  485. 

Criminal   Evidence,    Chitty    on, 
485. 

Criminal  Law,  Chitty  on,  485. 

Crispus,  140. 

Critics,  127,  140,  180,  183,  184, 
185,  216,  317. 

CROMWELL,  OLIVER,  392. 

CROMWELL,    OLIVER,    Clarendon 
on,  65. 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  231,  394,  514. 

Cross,  119. 

Crown,  119. 

Crown  Law,  Foster's,  485. 

Crown,  Pleas  of  the,  Hale's,  485. 

CRUELTY  TO  ANIMALS,  356. 

CRUELTY  TO  INFERIOR  ANIMALS, 
172. 

CUDWORTH,  RALPH,  77. 

CULTIVATION  OF  TASTE,  202. 

CUMBERLAND,  RICHARD,  246. 

Cunningham,    Allan,    287,    373, 
376,  466. 

Curiosity,  500. 

Cuvier  on  Sir  H.  Davy,  342. 

Cymbeline,  528. 

Cymric  language,  52. 

Cyrus,  180. 

D. 

D'Anoi?,  Countess,  196. 
D'Arblay,  Madame,  204. 
Da  Vinci,  L.,  508. 
Dacier,  Madame,  253. 
Daguerreotype,  508. 
Dallas,  Chief  Justice,  443. 
Dallas,  R.  C.,  397. 
DALRYMPLE,  DAVID,  224. 
Dalrymple's,    Sir   John,   Feudal 

Property,  485. 
Danaeus,  daughters  of,  304. 
Dante,  218,  348,  373,  374,  411, 

461,  498. 

Darkness,  children  of,  428. 
Darwin,  Dr.  E.,  507. 
Daughter,  death  of  a,  91. 
Davcnant,  Dr.,  232. 
David,  Psalms  of,  135,  241,  317. 
DAVY,  SIR  HUMPHRY,  342. 
Davy,  Sir  Humphry,  172/508. 
DAY  OF  JUDGMENT,  226. 
Day  of  Judgment,  310,  382. 
Daybreak,  Everett  on,  412. 
De  Fleury,  Cardinal,  483. 
DE  FOE,  DANIEL,  124. 
De  Garay,  Blasco,  507. 
De  Jure  Belli  et  Pacis,  485. 
De  rHopital,  Madame,  201. 
De  La  Roche,  T.,  508. 


GENERAL  IXDEX. 


541 


De  La  Rochefoucaalt,  217. 

De  Launay,  418. 

De  Lorine  on   the  Constitution, 

485. 

De  Mulesherbes,  194. 
De  Quiucey,  Emily,  to  S.  Austin 

Allibone,  381. 
DE  QUINCEY,  THOMAS,  380. 
De  Quincey,  T.,  324,  331. 
De  Stae'l,  Madame,  388,  530. 
Deadening  pain,  508. 
Death,  hope  in,  343. 
DEATH,  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  TIME 

OF,  116. 

DEATH  OF  A  DAUGHTER,  91. 
DKATII  OF  CHARLES  II.,  444. 
DKATII  OF  NELSON,  322. 
DEATH  OF  PRESCOTT.  406. 
DKATH-BED  REPENTANCE,  72. 
DECISION  OF  CHARACTER,  297. 
DECKER,  THOMAS,  113. 
Decker,  Thomas,  44'J,  527. 
DEFECTS    i.v    MODERN    POETRY, 

518. 

Deists,  283. 
Delassement's    Physico  -  Mathe- 

matiques,  508. 
Delight  of  the  Eyes,  279. 
Demosthenes,  78,  101,  181,  218, 

362,  3<J5,  427,  444,  448. 
Denham,  450. 
Denmark,  348. 
Dennis',  184. 
Depression,  50,  481. 
Desdemona,  528. 
Design,  evidences  of,  73,  261, 523. 
DESIRE   OF   THE    HAPPINESS    OF 

OTHERS,  343. 
Deslades,  529. 
Despotism,  286. 
Destiny,  415. 

DETRACTION,  Felltham  on,  60. 
DEVILS  IN  THE  HEAD,  50. 
Devises,  Powell  on,  485. 
Devonshire,  Duchess  of,  443. 
DEVOTIONAL  FEELINGS,  170. 
Dil>din  on  Cuxton,  20. 
DICK,  THOMAS,  LL.D.,  302. 
DICKENS,  CHARLES,  492. 
Dinner,  268,  269. 
Dioclesian,  248. 
Discourse  on  the  Law  of  Nations, 

485. 

DISCOVERY  OF  THE  PACIFIC,  511. 
Disorder,  417. 

Disorders  of  the  Mind,  481. 
DISRAELI,  ISAAC,  287. 
D.SSEKTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG, 

324. 

DIVINE  BENEVOLENCE,  261. 
DIVINE  GOVERNMENT,  110. 
Divine  Legation,  167. 
DIVINE  REVELATION,  128. 
Divines,  duty  of,  23. 
Divinity,  225. 
DIVINITY,    LAW,    AND    PHYSIC, 

133. 

Division  of  Labour,  220. 
Dobson,  Mrs.  S.,  Life  of  Petrarch 

by,  19. 

Doctor  and  Student,  485. 

Doctors,  Addison  on,  134. 

Harris  on,  180. 


Doctors,  Sydney  Smith  on,  301. 
DODDRIDGE,  PHILIP,  D.D.,  170. 
Doddridge,  Philip,  D.D.,  110, 

112,  115,  139,  142. 
DODSLEY,  ROBERT,  171. 
Domat's  Civil  Law,  485. 
Domestic  Relations,  by  Reeves, 

485. 

Domitian,  248. 
Don  Gabriel,  264. 
Don  Querido,  154. 
DON  QUIXOTE,  32. 
Dos  QUIXOTE,  336. 
Don  Quixote,  195,  217,  525. 
Donne,  John,  D.D.,  374. 
Dart,  Synod  of,  143. 
Douce  on  Johnson,  181. 
Drake,  Nathan,  M.D.,  129,  144, 

154,  195,  247,  345,  528. 
Drnma,  the,  138,  183,  196,  218, 
225,  231,  239,  240,  317,  329, 
348,  373. 
Dramatists   of  the   Restoration, 

129. 

Drayton,  M.,  270,  328. 
Dreams,  383,  385. 
Druinmond,  328. 
DRUNKARD,   CONFESSIONS  OF  A, 

329. 

Drunkenness,  184,  464. 
DRYDEN,  JOHN,  97. 
Dryden,  John  :  Congreve  on,  98. 

dreams  of,  383. 

Goldsmith  on,  231. 

Jeffrey  on,  316. 

Johnson  on,  97. 

Macaulay  on,  449. 

on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
98. 

on  Jonson,  98. 

on  Milton,  99. 

on  Shakspeare,  98. 

on  Spenser,  98. 

on  Virgil,  185,  253. 

Steele  quotes,  130. 

Walpole  quotes,  201. 
Du  Bartas,  348. 
Du  Cange,  182. 

Dublin  Quarterly  Medical  Jour- 
nal, 481. 
Dublin     University     Magazine, 

511. 

Dudley  Observatory,  412. 
Duer  on  Insurance,  485. 
Dunce,  a  Wag  always  a,  127. 
Dunciad,  Pope's,  148. 
Dunlap's     Admiralty     Practice, 

485. 

Dunning,  251. 
Duras,  Lewis,  446. 
Dutch  language,  53,  434. 
Dutch  Republic,  505. 
Duty,  332,  429. 
Dvvight,  Timothy,  312. 

E. 

EARLY   CHARACTER   OF   HENRY 

VIII.,  514. 

EARLY  MARRIAGES,  173. 
EARTH,  INSIGNIFICANCE  OF  THE, 

355. 
EARTHQUAKES,  LONDON,  201. 


East,  the,  180. 

East  Jersey,  121. 

Easy,  Robert,  269. 

EC  hard,  History  of,  163. 

Eclectic  Review,  511. 

ECONOMICAL  WIFE,  266. 

Economy,  119,  301. 

Edinburgh  Review,  21,  35,  61, 
101, 106,125, 158, 173, 190,200, 
259, 288, 30 1,302, 345,  365,  386, 
389, 433, 440, 452, 493,  505,  514, 
520,  530. 

Education,  102,  202,  314, 341, 432, 
482. 

EDUCATION,  Milton  on,  63. 

EDUCATION,  Spencer  on,  523. 

EDUCATION,  CLASSICAL,  421. 

EDUCATION,  FEMALE,  Lady  Mon- 
tagu on,  162. 

EDUCATION,  FEMALE,  Sydney 
Smith  on,  300. 

EDUCATION  OF  MIDDLE  CLASSES, 
420. 

Edward  IV.,  514. 

Effects  of  opium,  381. 

Egyptians,  302,  508. 

Eikon  Basilike,  359. 

Eldon,  Lord,  491. 

Electric  telegraph,  508. 

ELEGANCE,  THOUGHTS  ON,  207. 

Elia,  Essays  of,  326,  327. 

ELIOT,  GEORGE,  530. 

ELIZABETH  OF  ENGLAND,  423. 

ELIZABETH,  CHARACTER  OF,  122. 

ELIZABETH,  LITERATURE  OF  THE 
AGE  OF,  345. 

ELIZABETH,  POETRY  OF  THE  AGE 
OF,  237. 

ELIZABETH,  SIDNEY  TO,  39. 

ELIZABETH,  QUEEN,  191. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  230,  240,  347, 
527,  528. 

ELIZABETH,  AMY  ROBSART,  AND 
LEICESTER,  310. 

Ellenborough,  Lord,  443. 

Elliott,  George,  443. 

Ellis,  George,  65. 

Ellis,  Rev.  Rufus,  407. 

Ellwood,  Mrs.,  206. 

ELL  WOOD,  THOMAS,  114. 

Elocution,  183. 

ELOQUENCE,  364. 

Eloquence,  180, 181, 183, 338. 443. 
477. 

Elwin,  Rev.  M.,  157. 

ELYOT,  SIR  THOMAS,  51. 

Elysian  fields,  304,  485,  526. 

Emerigon  des  Assurances,  485. 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO,  457. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  331,  501. 

Emmett,  518. 

EMPLOYING  OUR  TIME,  72. 

EMPLOYMENT  OF  INDIANS,  177. 

Encyclopaedia  Americana,  484. 

Encyclopaedia  Anglicana,  327. 

Encyclopaedia  Britnnnica,  102, 
151,  163,  189,  220,  261,  271, 
327,  343,  450,  518,  525. 

Energy,  297. 

Enfield  on  H.  More,  73. 

England,  Augustan  age  of,  230. 
factions  in.  ."7. 
history  of,  123,421. 


542 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


England,  printing  in,  20. 

English  authors,  230,  241. 

English  language,  52.  53,  62,  63, 
101,  180,  182,  183,  185,  203, 
231,  232,  233,  239,  269,  315, 
352,  434,  449,  474,  527. 

ENGLISH  LITERATURE,  PROGRESS 
OF,  313. 

ENGLISH  PEOPLE.  BEST,  488. 

English  People,  History  of,  528. 

English  Poetry,  by  Warton,  56. 

Engraving.  508. 

ENTHUSIASM,  DEFENCE  OF,  499. 

Epaphroditus,  248. 

Ephesus,  365. 

Epic  poetry,  196,  373. 

Epictetus,  199,  200,  256,  529. 

Epicureans,  404. 

Epicurus,  200,  225. 

Episcopacy,  127. 

Epistles  of  Pliny,  15. 

Equity,  Barton's  Suit  in,  485. 
Evidence,  Gresley's,  485. 
Jeremy  on,  485. 
Pleading,  484. 
Pleading,  Mitford's,  485. 
and  Real  Estate,  485. 

Ernesti,  300. 

Erskineon  Fox,  272. 

ERSKINE,  RALPH,  155. 

Essay  on  Human  Understanding, 
102. 

Essex,  Countess  of,  91. 

Essex,  Earl  of,  91,  191,  528. 

Estates,  Probate  on,  485. 

Eternal  Banquet,  279. 

Eternal  life,  148,  303,  332,  342, 
365. 

Eternal  punishments,  303. 

Eternal  rewards,  303. 

Eternity,  85,  148,  164,  418. 

ETERNITY  AND  TIME,  Hall  on, 
281. 

ETKRNITY  AND  TIME,  Heber  on, 
365. 

Eunomus,  Wynne's,  485. 

Euphrates  tunnel,  508. 

Euripides,  138,  183,  449. 

European  morals,  529. 

Eutyches,  216. 

Evans,  Marian  C.,  530. 

Evarts,  W.  M.,  on  Binney,  357. 

EVELYN,  JOHN,  81. 

Everett,  Alexander  II.,  367. 

EVERETT,  EDWARD,  409. 

EVERETT,  EDWARD,  Hillard  on, 
476. 

Everett,  Edward,  on  Binney,  357. 
on  Motley,  505. 
on  Washington,  481. 
on  Webster,  362. 
to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  357, 
505. 

EVIDENCE,  485. 

Evidence,  Greenleaf  on,  485. 

Evidence,  Criminal,  Roscoe  on, 
485. 

EVIDENCES  OF  DIVINE  REVELA- 
TION, 128,  451. 

EVIL  SPEAKING,  50. 

Evretnond,  Saint,  217. 

Ewing,  General,  245. 

EXCAVATIONS  AT  NIMROUD,  512. 


EXCELLENCY  OF  THE  CHRISTIAN 

RELIGION,  93. 
EXECUTION  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF 

SCOTS,  515. 

Executors,  Toller  on,  485. 
Executors',  Williams  on,  485. 
EXECUTORS  AND  ADMINISTRATORS, 

485. 

EXERCISE,  430. 
EXERCISE,  DIFFERENT  KINDS  OF, 

52. 

Existence  of  God,  73. 
Ezekiel,  347,  415. 

F. 

Fabius,  policy  of,  22. 

Faerie  Queen,  240,  528. 

Fairfax,  Edward,  348. 

Fairfax,  Lord  T.,  437. 

Faith,  360,  437,  454,  455. 

Falkland,  Lord,  527. 

Fal  staff,  239,  527. 

Fame,  188,231,233,342. 

FAME,  LOVE  OF,  188. 

FAME  OF  WASHINGTON,  174. 

FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD,  227. 

FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD  IN  AF- 
FLICTION, 228. 

FAMILY  OF  WAKEFIELD  IN  PROS- 
PERITY, 229. 

Fanaticism,  529. 

Fanshawe,  Sir  R.,  232. 

Faraday,  M.,  524. 

Farmer  on  Milton,  62. 

Farquhar.  G.,  327. 

Fashion,  London,  489. 

FAULTS,  504. 

Fearne  on  Contingent  Remain- 
ders, 485. 

FEAST  IN  THE  MANNER  OF  THE 
ANCIENTS,  213. 

Federalist,  The,  485. 

Feeling,  373  :  see  AFFECTIONS. 

FELLTHAM,  OWEN,  60. 

Felton,  Cornelius  C.,  488. 

FELTON,  HENRY,  D.D.,  149. 

Felton,  Henry,  D.D.,  110,  112, 
216. 

FEMALE  EDUCATION,  Lady  Mon- 
tagu on,  162. 

FEMALE  EDUCATION,  Sydney 
Smith  on,  300. 

Females,  learned,  238. 

Fenelon,  218. 

Ferdinand  of  Wales,  201. 

Feversham,  Earl  of,  446. 

FIELDING,  HENRY,  174. 

Fielding,  Henry,  327,  328,  329, 
338,  491. 

Fields,  James  T.,  462,  488. 

Fiesole,  411. 

Finch's  Law,  485. 

Fingal,  Warburton  on,  168. 

Fire  in  London  of  1666,  81,  508. 

FIRST  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS, 
368. 

FISHER,  JOHN,  20. 

Fletcher,  Giles,  270. 

Fletcher,  John,  120,  270,  329, 
373,  449. 

Florence,  411,  499,  533. 

Flowers,  language  of,  502. 


Fontenelle.  483. 

Foot  and  Webster,  364. 

FORBES,  LADY,  BEATTIE  TO,  252. 

Ford,  John,  449. 

Forfeitures,  Yorke  on,  485. 

Forfeitures,  Criminal,  485. 

FORMATION  OF  A  RIGHT  TASTE. 

149. 

Foro  Legatorum,  485. 
Forster,  John,  493. 
FORTUNE,  REMEDIES  OF,  18. 
Fortunes  of  Nigel,  113. 
Foscolo,  Ugo,  499. 
FOSSILS  OF  THE  OLD  RED  SAND- 
STONE, 453. 
FOSTER,  JOHN,  295. 
Footer,  Sir  M.,  Crown  Law  of, 

485. 

Fox,  CHARLES  JAMES,  272. 
Fox,    Charles   James,    221,   302, 

338,  413,  443,  444. 
France :  authors  of,  230,  348,  421. 

Critics  of,  183,  216. 

Franklin  in,  260. 

Moralists  of,  216. 

Philosophy  in,  306. 

Revolution  in,  of  1789,  236. 

Voyage  to,  56. 

Young  in,  508. 
Francis  of  Assisi,  20. 
Francis  I.,  190. 
Francis,  Sir  Philip,  293. 
FRANKLIN,  A,  48. 
FRANKLIN,    BENJAMIN,    LL.D., 

172. 
FRANKLIN,    BENJAMIN,    LL.D., 

Jefferson  on,  260. 
FRANKLIN,     BENJAMIN,    LL.D., 

Priestley  on,  250. 
Franklin,  Benjamin,  LL.D.,  341, 

352,  461. 
Fraser's  Magazine,  511,  512,  518, 

520. 

Frederick  the  Great,  319. 
Freeholder,  The,  133. 
Freethinker,  The,  448. 
FRENCH,  CHARACTER  OF  THE,  57. 
French,  101,  185,  394. 

authors,  223,  230. 

language,  53,  57,  183,  185. 

philosophers,  529. 

Revolution  of  1789,  285,  317, 
418,  529. 

school  of  literature,  316. 

style  of  the,  230. 
Friendship,  119,  165,  171. 
FRIENDSHIP  AND  BENEVOLENCE, 

153. 

FRIENDSHIP  IN  HKAVEN,  386. 
FROUDE,  JAMES  ANTHONY,  513. 
Froude  on  Sir  T.  More,  23. 
FULLER,  THOMAS,  61. 
Fuller,  Thomas,  329. 
Fuseli,  dreams  of,  383. 
FUTURE  STATE  OF  THE  HEATHEN, 

242. 
FUTURE  STATE  PROVED,  151. 

G. 

Galileo,  280,  402,  412. 
Games,  138,  431. 
Garcilasso,  264. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


543 


Gardiner,  Bishop,  154. 

Garrick,  David,  175,  176,  442. 

Gas  coal,  503. 

Gauthey,  507. 

Gay,  John,  450. 

Geilius  Aulus,  272. 

Generalizing.  105. 

Geneva,  Lake  of,  500. 

GENIUS,  460. 

Genius,  499. 

Gentleman's  Magazine,  277,  441, 

456. 

Geography,  163. 

Geology,  432,  433,  434,  452,  453. 
Geometry,  Chinese,  341. 
George  I.,  age  of,  316. 
George  II.,  age  of,  316. 
George  III.,  age  of,  178. 
(Jeorge  IV.,  age  of,  443. 
Gerinanieus,  185. 
Germany,  authors  of,  421. 

criticism  in,  336. 

exercise  in,  432. 

philosophy  in,  306. 

poetry  of,  518. 
Galen,  140. 

GIBBON,  EDWARD,  256. 
Gibbon,    Edward,    Decline    and 
Fall  of,  128,  256,  485. 

Emerson  quotes,  458. 

Lamb  on,  327. 

Macaulay  on,  443. 

Mackintosh  on,  210. 

on  Hume,  189. 

on  Robertson,  190. 

on  AVarburton,  167. 

on  White,  265. 

Sharswood  cites,  485. 
Gibson,  preaching  of,  148. 
Gideon's  fleece,  416. 
GILPIN,  WILLIAM,  223. 
Giotto,  434. 
Giphantie,  508. 
Glass,  Chinese,  341. 
Glory,  desire  of,  342. 
God,  attributes  of,  86.  136,  142. 

EXISTENCE  OP,  73. 

existence  of,  127,  303. 

goodness    of,  135,  153,  164, 
261,  345,  356,  378. 

Honour  to,  95. 

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF,  77. 

incomprehensibility  of,  193, 
194. 

JUDGMENTS  OF,  58. 

KNOWLEDGE  OF,  86. 

love  of,  306,  342,  430. 

mercy  of,  137,  155. 

nature  of,  147. 

omnipresence  of,  136,  480. 

omniscience  of,  136,  480. 

POWER  OF,  87. 

power  of,  135,  152,  405,  417, 
424,  439,  461. 

ways  of,  197. 

WISDOM  OF,  87. 

wisdom   of,    146,   223,    344, 
345. 

works  of,  135,  141,  254,  342. 

worship  of,  425. 
Goddard,  Dr.,  102. 
Godolphin,  Sir  W.,  232. 
GODWIN,  WILLIAM,  277. 


GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER,  227. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  156,  317,329, 

440,  491. 
Gondola,  520. 
Good,  John  M.,  293. 
GOOD  BREEDING,  Chesterfield  on, 

166. 

GOOD  BREEDING,  Warton  on,  218. 
Good  Samaritan,  347. 
Good  Sense,  232. 
Good  Taste,  123. 
GOOD  WORKS,  173. 
Goodness,  331. 
Googe,  Barnaby,  507. 
Gordian,  Emperor,  248. 
Gossec,  F.  J.,  482. 
Gothe  on  Goldsmith,  227. 
Gothic  romance,  239,  240. 
Goths  and  Vandals,  134. 
Government,   10,  121,  180,    191, 
235,  271, 286, 302, 340, 353,  387, 
392,  514,  525. 

Government,  Discourses  on,  84. 
GOVERNMENT,  DIVINE,  110. 
GOVERNMENT  AND  LIBERTY,  83. 
Gower,  Lord,  251. 
Gracchi,  the,  290. 
Grafton,  Duke  of,  446. 
Granger,    Biographical    History 

by,  144. 

GRANT,  SIR  WILLIAM,  338. 
Granville,  John,  446. 
Gravitation,  153. 
Gray,  Thomas,  140,  253,  317,  374. 
Great  actions,  512. 
Great  Britain,  genius  of,  346. 
Great  Teacher,  the,  319. 
GREATNESS,  INCONVENIENCE  OF, 

30. 

Greece,  history  of,  421. 
Greek  authors,  16,  63,  137,  184, 
203,    218,  319,   348,  404, 
421,  422. 

drama,  138,  218,  373. 

fire,  508. 

language,  53,  63,  135,  147, 
149,  151,  157,  163,  180, 
181,  182,  185,  237,  299, 
353,421,434. 

librarians,  248. 

New  Testament,  137,  434. 

orators,  483. 

philosophers,  257,  303,  404, 
526. 

tragedy,  218,  373. 
Greek  and  Latin,  Milton  on,  63. 

Sydney  Smith  on,  299. 
Greeks,  the,  180,347,408. 
GHEEN,  Jonx  RICHARD,  527. 
Green,  T.,  on  Jenyns,  172. 
Greene,  General,  290. 
Greenleaf  on  Evidence,  484,  485. 
Gregory,  0.,  on  R.  Hall,  280. 
Gresley     on     Equity    Evidence, 

485. 

Grey,  Charles,  Earl,  444. 
GREY,  LADY  JANE,  332. 
Grey,  Lady  Jane,  29. 
Grimm,  J.  and  W.  K.,  182. 
Griswold,  R.  AV.,  462,  475. 
Grotius,  do  Jure  Belli  et  Pacis, 
485. 

de  Vcritate,  107. 


Grotius:  on  suicide,  529. 

on  the  law  of  nature,  256. 
Guardian,  The,    129,    133,    144, 

151,152,153,  156,247. 
GUIZOT,  F.  P.,  389. 
Guizot,  F.  P.,434. 
Gull's  Horne-Booke,  113. 
Gunpowder,  421,  508. 
Gwynn,  Eleanor,  445,  446. 

H. 

HABIT  AND  PRACTICE,  103. 
Hachish,  508. 
Hadrian,  Emperor,  248. 
HAILES,  LORD,  224. 
Haklvytvs  Posthumos,  46. 
HALE,  SIR  MATTHEW,  67. 

Common  Law,  485. 

Pleas  of  the  Crown,  485. 
HALES,  JOHN,  48. 
Hales,  John,  on  Shakespeare,  98. 
Half-Hours,    Knight's,    22,  359, 

498. 

HALL,  CAPTAIN  BASIL,  399. 
HALL,  JOSEPH,  D.D.,  42. 
HALL,  ROBERT,  280. 
Hall,  Robert :  Cowper  on,  242. 

on  Burke,  234. 

on  Stewart,  276. 
HALLAM,  HENRY,  335. 
Hallam,  Constitutional    History 
of,  485. 

Literary    History    of,    109, 
237. 

Middle  Ages  of,  485. 

on  Hoadley,  143. 

on  Kurd,  204. 

on  Pascal,  84. 

on  Sidney,  83. 

on  Taylor,  72. 
Hamilton,  Binney  on,  358. 
Hamilton,  Lady,  323. 
Hamlet,  175,  176,  184,  188,  348, 

449,  478,  528. 
Hannibal,  22,  291,  447. 
Hanover,  House  of,  234,  294. 
Happiness,   108,   148,   162,    217, 
226.  231,  261,  299,  331,  359, 
428,  429. 

HAPPINESS,  DESIRE  OF,  343. 
HAPPINESS,  Leighton  on,  69. 
HAPPINESS  AND  MISERY,  197. 
HAPPINESS  OF  SOLITUDE,  193. 
Hardy,  Captain,  321,  323. 
Hare,  Pope  on,  148. 
HARE,  JULIUS  CHARLES,  428. 
HARLEY,  DEATH  OF,  262. 
Harrington,  Ariosto  by,  348. 
HARRIS,  JAMES,  M.P.,  179. 
HARRISON,  WILLIAM,  52. 
Hastings.  Warren  :  Burke  on,  12, 
236. 

government  of,  319. 
HASTINGS,  WARHEN,  TRIAL  OF, 

442. 
II.VWKESWORTH,    JOHN,    LL.D., 

195. 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL,  462. 
Haylcy,  AV. :  Macaulay  on,  442. 

Seward  on,  270. 
Haync  and  AVebster,  364. 
UAZLITT,  AVILLIAM,  345 


544 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Hazlitt,  W. :  Jeffrey  on,  317. 

on  Addison,  129. 

on  Hunt,  373. 

on  Jeffrey,  313. 

on  Pope,  157. 

on  Shakespeare,  318. 

on  Southey,  319. 

on  Steele,  129. 
Health,  24,  267,  343,  432. 
HEATHEN,  FUTURE  STATE  OP  THE, 

242. 

Heathfield,  Lord,  443. 
Heaven,  18. 

HEAVEN,  FRIENDSHIPS  IN,  386. 
JlKiiKis,  REGINALD,  364. 
Hebrew  language,  53,  135,  434. 
Hebrew  Psalms,  518. 
Heeren,  A.  H.  L.,  427. 
Heine,  II.,  518. 
Heliodorus,  239. 
Heliotype,  508. 
HELPS,  SIR  ARTHUR,  510. 
Henley,  Orator,  148. 
Henry  II.,  Lyttelton,  178. 
Henry  IV.,  Shakspere's,  527. 
Henry   VIII.,  26,  47,  190,  286, 

310,  423. 

HENRY    VIII.,    EARLY    CHAR- 
ACTER OF,  514. 
Henry,  Philip,  112. 
HERBERT,  LOKD  EDWARD,  46. 
Herbert,  Lord  Edward,  514. 
Herbert,  George,  289. 
Hercules,  248,  526. 
Hermes,  by  Harris,  180. 
Herodotus,  138. 
HERSCHEL,  SIR  JOHN  FREDERICK 

WILLIAM,  D.C.L.,  400. 
Hesiod,  348. 

Hesperian  gardens,  304,  348. 
HEYLIN,  PETER,  D.D.,  56. 
Heywood,  Thomas,  527. 
Ilickes,    George,    Thesaurus    of, 

182. 

Hiero,  138. 
Hierocles,  183. 
High  Dutch,  53. 
Hill,  lectures  of,  76. 
HILLAKD,     GEORGE     STILLMAN, 

475. 

Hindoos,  434. 
Hindostan,  421. 
Hippocrates,  140. 
Historians,  180,  264,  421. 
Historical    Society   of    Pennsyl- 
vania, 410. 
History,  128,  139.  145,  147,  163, 

189,  196,  312,  362,421. 
History  of   England,    190,    192, 
286. 

English  People,  528. 

English  Poetry,  17,  20,  237, 
241. 

Rome,  1C3. 

Scotland,  210. 

Study  of,  16,  40. 

United  States,  437. 
HISTORY,  CREDIT  DUE  TO,  75. 
History,  Natural,  432. 
Hive,  Northern,  134. 
Ho-ti,  325. 

HOADLY,  BENJAMIN,  D.D.,  143. 
HOBBES,  THOMAS,  60. 


Hobbes,  Thomas,  142,  240,  315, 

445. 

Holbach  on  suicide,  529. 
Holy  Spirit,  226. 
Home,  509. 
Homer :  Arnold  on,  421. 

Beattie  on,  253. 

Bentley  on,  186. 

BLACKWALL  ON,  137. 

Chapman  translates,  348. 

De  Quincey  on,  383. 

Dick  on,  304. 

Dryden  on,  101. 

Felton  on,  149. 

Fox  on,  272. 

Harris  on,  181. 

Hazlitt  on,  348. 

Hunt  on,  373. 

Johnson  on,  185. 

Kingsley  on,  518. 

Nichol  on,  415. 

-Plato  on,  137. 

POPE  ON,  157. 

Pope  translates,  185,  186. 

Prescott  on.  427. 

Rapin  on,  218. 

Seward  on,  270. 

Wakefield  on,  272. 

Warton  on,  218. 

Zoilus  on,  137,  154. 
Honour,  342. 
HONOUR,  TITLES  OP,  121. 
Honour  to  God,  95. 
HOOKER,  RICHARD,  35. 
Hooker.  Richard :  Hazlitt  on,  345. 

Jeffrey  on,  317. 

Johnson  on,  182. 
Hope,  343,  362. 
HOPKINS,  EZEKIEL,  105. 
Horace:  Blackwall  on,  139. 

Dryden  on,  98,  99,  100. 

Felton  on,  149. 

Jeffrey  on,  314. 

Macaulay  on,  447. 

Rollin  on,  124. 

Spence  on,  169. 
Horse  Juridicise,  Butler's,  485. 
HORNE,  GKORGR.  D.D.,  241. 
Home,  T.  H.,  112,  137,  169. 
HORRORS  OP  WAR,  Hall  on,  280. 
Horse-Mania,  Ruskin  on,  521. 
HORSLBY.  SAMUEL,  D.D.,  248. 
Hospitality,  345. 
House  of  Common!',  338,  339. 
Housekeeping,  269. 
Howard,  decision  of,  298. 
Howe,  Bishop  M.  A.  De  Wolfe, 

450. 

Howe,  General,  246. 
HOWEI.L,  JAMES,  55. 
Howell,  James,  289. 
Huddleston,  Father,  and  Charles 

II.,  446. 

Hudibras  by  Butler,  154. 
Hudson,  Apocrypha  by,  54. 
HUGHES,  JOHN,  144. 
HUMAN  LIFE,  SHORTNF.SSOF,  146. 
Human  Mind,  Philosophy  of  the, 

345. 
Human  Nature,  by  Butler,  165. 

by  Hobbes,  50. 

Human       Understanding,       by 
Locke,  102. 


HUME,  DAVID,  189. 

Hume,  David:  Jeffrey  on,  317. 

Lamb  on,  327. 

on  despotism,  286. 

on  Milton,  62. 

on  Rousseau,  193. 

on  Temple,  91. 

Warburton  on,  168. 
HUMILITY,  Selden  on,  50. 
HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH,  372. 
Hunt,  James    Henry  Leigh,    on 

Lady  Montagu,  162. 
HURD,  RICHARD,  D.D.,  204. 
KURD,  WARBURTON  TO,  167. 
Husband  and  Wife,  485. 
Husbandrie,  Arte  of,  507. 
Hutchinson,  John,  256. 
Hutchinson,  Thomas,  251. 
Huygcnius,  C.,  135. 
HYDE,  EDWARD,  EARL  OF  CLAR- 
ENDON, 65. 
Hydropathy,  508. 
Hyginus,  C.  J.,  248. 
Hyperides,  444. 
Hypocrisy,  208,  258. 

I. 

Tago,  528. 

Idea  of  a  Patriot  King.  232. 

Ideas,  association  of,  139. 

Idleness,  479. 

Idler,  The,  450. 

Idolatry,  199,  424. 

Ignorance,  147,  417,  420. 

IGNORANCE  OF  TIME  OF  DEATH, 
116. 

II  Penseroso,  264,  270. 

Iliad  by  Salvini,  185. 

IMAGE-BREAKERS  OF  THE  NETH- 
ERLANDS, 505. 

IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS,  LAN- 
DOR'S,  331,  332. 

Imagination,  127.  373. 

IMMODERATE  SELF-LOVE,  108. 

Immortality,  84,  151,  226,  257, 
281,  303,  342,  343. 

IMMORTALITY,  UNIVERSAL  BE- 
LIEF IN,  302. 

IMMORTALITY,  CONSCIOUSNESS  OF, 
342. 

Immortality  of  the  Soul,  144. 

Imperial  Dictionary  of  Universal 
Biography,  9,  14,  23,  30,  401, 
415,  526. 

IMPROVEMENT  OF  MEMORY,  139. 

Improvement  of  the  Mind,  131. 

INCARNATION,  MYSTERY  OF  THE, 
76. 

Incentive  to  Pleasure,  279. 

Inchbald,  Mrs.,  270. 

INCOMPREHENSIBILITY  OF  GOD,  77. 

INCONVENIENCE  OF  GREATNESS, 
30. 

India,  236,  303,  442,  444. 

INDIANS,  EMPLOYMENT  OF,  177. 

Indostan,  383. 

Industrial  Biography,  508. 

Industry,  Penn  on,  119. 

INDUSTRY  OF  THE  BRITISH  NA- 
TION, 361. 

INEFFICACY  OF  MERE  MORAL 
PREACHING,  354. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


545 


INFALLIBILITY,  PROTESTANT,  143. 
Infancy  and  Coverture,  485. 
Infant  education,  432. 
INFERIOR  ANIMALS,  CRUELTY  TO, 

172. 

Infidelity,  Boyle  on,  88. 
INFLUENCE  OF  SCIENCE,  401. 
Inglis,  J.  B.,  translates  De  Bury, 

18. 

INGRATITUDE  INCURABLE,  106. 
INJUDICIOUS    HASTE    IN    STUDY, 

104. 

Inns  of  Court,  491. 
Inquiry,  Brief,  Upshur's,  485. 
INQUIRY    AND    PRIVATE    JUDG- 
MENT IN  RELIGION,  48. 
Inquisition,  387,  411. 
Insanity,  337. 

INSANITY,  SYMPTOMS  OF,  481. 
Insignificance  of  Man,  135. 
INSIGNIFICANCE  OF  THE  EARTH, 

355. 
Institutes,  Coke's,  485. 

Justinian's,  485. 

Rutherford's,  485. 
Insurance,  Duer  on,  485. 
Intellectual  System,  77. 
Intemperance,  184,  329,  464. 
INTERNATIONAL  LAW,  485. 
International    Law,    Wheaton's, 

485. 

INVENTIONS  REVIVED,  507. 
Irene,  Johnson's,  448. 
IRISH    VILLAGE    AND     SCHOOL- 
HOUSE,  434. 

IRVING,  WASHINGTON,  3B6. 
Irving  at  Abbotsford,  369. 
IRVING'S  LAST  INTERVIEW  WITH 

SCOTT,  371. 

ISABELLA  OF  SPAIN,  423. 
Isabella  of  Spain,  290. 
Isaiah,  prophecies  of,  347. 
Isocrates,   181. 
Italy,  architecture  of,  520. 

authors  of,  183,  185,  218, 
224,  230,  239,  240,  348, 
421,  499. 

enthusiasm  of,  499. 

language  of,  183. 

music  of,  156. 
Ixion,  304. 

J. 

JAMES  VI.  AND  I.,  41. 

James  VI.  and   I.,  age  of,  191, 

230,  247,  315,  347. 
JEFFKRSON,  THOMAS,  259. 
JEFFREY,  LORD  FRANCIS,  313. 
Jeffrey,  Lord  Francis  :  on  Frank- 
lin, 172. 

on  Mackintosh,  285. 
on  Pepys,  101. 
on  Richardson,  158. 
on  Scott,  307. 
JENYNS,  SOAME,  171. 
Jenyns.  Soame,  328. 
Jews,  128,  129,  288,347. 
Job  translated  by  Good,  136. 
Johnson,  Arthur,  translates  Ten- 

nemann,  186. 

JOHNSON,  SAMUEL,  LL.D.,  181. 
JOHNSON,   SAMUEL,    LL.D.:    by 
Macaulay,  447. 
35 


Johnson,  Samuel,  LL.D. :  Carlyle 
on,  181. 

Carter  and,  199. 

Jeffrey  on,  317. 

Knox  imitates,  273. 

Lives  of  the  Poets  by,  144, 
449. 

Macaulay  on,  441,  447. 

on  Addison,  133. 

on  Arbuthnot,  141. 

on  Blair,  202. 

on  Chesterfield,  166. 

on  Clarke,  142. 

on  Dryden,  97,  98. 

on  Fielding,  175. 

on  Hailes,  224. 

on  Hume,  190. 

on  Richardson,  158. 

on  Sherlock,  148. 

on  Swift,  126. 

on  Temple,  1)1. 

on  Watts,  139. 

Thrale,  Mrs.,  and,  226. 

Tuckerman  and,  499. 
JONATHAN   AND    SQUIRE    BULL, 

350. 

Jonathan  Wild,  327. 
JONES,  SIR  WILLIAM,  263. 
Jonson,  Ben,  217,  348. 
Joseph  and  his  brethren,  347. 
Josephus,  244,  327. 
JUDGMENT,  DAY  OF,  226. 
Judgment,  Day  of,  105,  303,  311. 
Judgment  of  Virgil,  157. 
JUDGMENTS  OF  GOD,  58. 
Judicial  Establishments,  272. 
Juliet,  500. 
J  UNI  us,  293. 
Justice,  223. 

K. 

KANE,  ELISHA  KENT,  M.D.,  521. 

Kemble,  John  Philip,  393. 

Ken,  Bishop,  445. 

Kenilworth,  240. 

Kennedy,  Elizabeth,  516. 

Kent,  Earl  of,  515,  516,  517. 

Kent,  James :    Commentaries  of, 

484. 
on  Blackstone,  221. 

Kiddle,  Dr.  P.,  471. 

KING  OF  TEZCUCO,  THE,  424. 

Kings,  duties  of,  35. 

Kings,  Shakespeare's,  184. 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES,  517. 

Kirk,  John  Foster,  406. 

Knight,  Charles  :  English  Cyclo- 
paedia of,  406,  437. 
Half-Hours  of,  22,  359,  498. 

KNIGHTS  OF  THE  TEMPLE,  491. 

Knowledge,   104,  147,  238,  353, 
401,416,420,428,430. 

KNOWLEDGE,  GOD'S,  86. 

KNOWLEDGE,  LOVE  OF,  51. 

KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE  MIND,  186. 

Knowles,  Admiral,  201. 

Knox,  John,  395. 

KNOX,  VICESIMUS,  273. 

Knox,  Vicesimus,  on  Clarke,  142. 

Kurner:  Kingsley  on,  518. 


L. 

La  Bruydre,  217. 

Labour,  415,  41  tt. 

LABOUR,  DIVISION  OF,  220. 

LADIES,  UNMARRIED,  158. 

Lselius,  conversation  of,  138. 

Laidlaw,  W.,  370. 

LAMB,  CHARLES,  324. 

Lamb,  Charles,  on  Walton,  54. 

Lammermoor,  Bride  of,  309. 

Lancet,  The,  481. 

LANDOR,  AVALTER  SAVAGE,  330. 

Lnngton,  B.,  450. 

LANGUAGE,  CHANGES  is,  433. 

Language,  law,  53. 
of  flowers,  502. 
of  the  stars,  502. 
PROPHETIC,  118. 

Languages,  16,  52,  53,  54,  57,  62, 
63,  101,  118,  135,  147, 149,  151, 
157,  162,  163,  180,  181,  182, 
183,  185,  186,  187,  203,  231, 
232,  237,  239,  248,  257,  264, 
265,  268,  269,  272,  276,  299, 
315,  336,  352,  353,  421,  433, 
434,  449,  474,  475,  486,  524, 
527. 

Languages,  Burritt  and,  486. 

Languages,  Milton  on,  63. 

LANGUAGES,  Spencer  on,  524. 

Languages,  Sydney  Smith  on, 
299. 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  250,  340. 

Lardner,  N.,  329. 

LAST  JUDGMENT,  105. 

Last  trumpet,  310. 

Latham,  R.  G.,  182. 

LATIMER,  HUGH,  22. 

Latimer,  Hugh,  burnt,  26. 

Latin,  16,  52,  53,  62,  63, 101, 147, 
149,  157,  163,  180,  187,  203, 
237,  268,  272,  276,  299. 

LATIN  AND  GREEK,  Too  MUCH, 
299. 

Latin  Christianity,  404. 

Latin  librarians,  248. 

LAUGHTER,  Hobbes  on,  51. 

Lausus,  101. 

Lavoisier,  300. 

Law,  271,  315,  328,393,  403,  434, 
443. 

Law,  Bacon  on,  40. 

Law  books,  225. 

Law,  Chitty  on  Criminal,  485. 

LAW,  CONSTITUTIONAL,  485. 

Law  Disposal,  Lovelass's,  485. 

Law  language,  53. 

LAW,  NATURAL  AND  INTERNA- 
TIONAL, 485. 

Law,  Natural  and  Political,  485. 

Law  of  Nations,  410,  485. 

LAW  OF  NATURE,  36. 

Law  of  Nature,  223. 

Law  Reports,  485. 

Law,  Ritso  on,  485. 

LAW  STUDIES,  483. 

LAW,  STUDY  OF  THE,  221. 

Law,  Study  of,  225. 

LAW,  PHYSIC,  AND  DIVINITY,  133. 

Laws,  10,  166,  312,338,  353,  514, 
529. 

Laws,  conflict  of,  485. 


546 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


LAWS  IN  GENERAL,  223. 

Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  37. 

LAWS,  SLEEPING,  271. 

Lawyers,  127,301,491. 
Addisonon,  133, 134. 
Martial  on,  133. 

Lay  Monastery,  the,  448. 

LAYARD,  AUSTEN  HENRY,  D.C.L., 
M.P.,  512. 

L'Allegro,  263,  270. 

Le  Fevre,  218. 

Le  Monnier,  508. 

Le  Sage,  A.  R.,  338. 

Lear,  348,  528. 

Learning,  238,  340. 

Learning,  Useless,  145. 

LECKY,  WILLIAM  EDWARD  HART- 
POLE,  529. 

Lee,  N. :  Goldsmith  on,  231. 

Legacies,  Roper  on,  485. 

Leicester,  Lord,  310. 

Leigh's  Nisi  Prius,  484. 

LEIGHTON,  ROBERT,  D.D.,  68. 

Leo  X.,  age  of,  230. 

Leonidas,  458. 

Leroy,  M.,  482. 

L'Estrange,    Sir    R.,   231,    233, 
244. 

Lesage,  George  L.,  508. 

Letter  by  Sir  M.  Hale,  67. 

Letter-writers,  women  as,  109. 

Letters,  party  in,  231. 

Leviathan,  by  Hobbes,  50. 

Lewes,  George  II.,  519. 

LEXICOGRAPHY,  182. 

Liberty,  180,  353,  389,  410,  458. 

LIBERTY  AND  GOVERNMENT,  83. 

Libraries,  247,  353,  506,  521. 

LIBRARIES,  ROMAN,  247. 

LIBBER,  P.,  to  S.  Austin  Allibone, 
362. 

Life,  conduct  of,  54. 

Life,  eternal,  148,  342,  366. 

Life,  happiness  of,  54,  108,  115. 

LIFE  NOT  TOO  SHORT,  115. 

LIFE,  SHORTNESS  OF,  146. 

LIGHT,  CHILDREN  OF,  428. 

LITERARY  ASPIRATIONS  OP  MIL- 
TON, 62. 

Literary  Gazette,  474. 

LITERATURE,  AMERICAN,  410. 

Literature,  foreign,  353. 

Liternture,  National,  353. 

LITERATURE    OP    THE    AGE    OF 
ELIZABETH,  345. 

Literature,  study  of,  16,  300. 

Littleton,  Coke  upon,  485,  491. 

Littleton's  Tenures,  485. 

Littre,  M.  P.  E.,  182. 

Lives  of  Philosophers,  220. 

Lives  of  Poets,  449. 

Livy  :  De  Quincey  on,  382. 
Rollin,  124. 

LOCKE,  JOHN,  102. 

Locke,  John  :  Gibbon  on,  259. 
Goldsmith  on,  232. 
Hall  on,  283. 
on  Voyages,  46. 

Lockhart,  John  G.,  371,  399. 

Logic,  Arbuthnot  on,  141. 

Logic,  Carey  on,  409. 

Lomond,  M.,  508. 

London  customs,  113. 


LONDON  EARTHQUAKES,  201. 

London  Fire  of  1666,  81. 

London  Plague  of  1665, 101, 114, 
125. 

London     Plague,    Ellwood     on, 
114. 

London  society,  489. 

Loneliness,  509. 

Longevity,  115. 

LONGFELLOW,     HENRY     WADS- 
WORTH,  470. 

Longinus  on  St.  Paul,  170. 

LORD'S  SUPPER,  334. 

Lordat,  Dr.,  482. 

Louis  XIV.,  age  of,  219,  230. 
Napoleon  on,  291. 

Lounger,  The,  266,  269. 

LOVE,  BACON  ON,  39. 

Love :  Brown  on,  343. 
Kiehardson  on,  161. 
Warton,  239. 

LOVE,  POWER  OF,  458. 

LOVE  OF  FAME,  188. 

LOVE  OP  KNOWLEDGE,  51. 

LOVE  AND  BEAUTY,  132. 

Lovelass's  Law  Disposal,  485. 

Lowndes's  Bibliographer's  Man- 
ual, 122,  124,  157. 

Lowth,  Bishop,  on  Hermes,  180. 

Lucilius,  Spence  on,  169. 

Lucrece,  Rape  of,  373,  527. 

Lucretius,  Dryden  on,  100. 

Lucullus,  247. 

Lully,  Raymond,  327. 

LUTHER,  MARTIN,  211. 

LUTHER,  283,  395,  434. 

Lyall  on  Jeffrey,  313. 

Lycurgus,  255. 

LYELL,  SIR  CHARLES,  LL.D.,  433. 

Lygdamis  expelled,  138. 

LYTTELTON,  LORD  GEORGE,  178. 

Lyttelton,  Lord  George,  204. 

LYTTON,  LORD,  465. 

M. 

Macadamized  roads,  508. 
MACAULAY,  LORD,  440. 
Macaulay,     Lord :     Arnold    on, 
440. 

Milman  on,  404,  440. 

on  Addison,  133,  448. 

on  Bacon,  443,  476. 

on  Bentham,  271. 

on  Bunyan,  90. 

on  Cicero,  18,  443. 

on  Comic  Dramatists,  373. 

on  Hunt,  373. 

on  Johnson,  182,  447. 

on  Junius,  293. 

on  Lord  Lyttelton,  178. 

on  Macchiavelli,  21. 

on  Mackintosh,  285. 

on  Milton,  62. 

on  Newton,  118. 

on  Paley,  261. 

on  Pascal,  84. 

on  Petrarch,  18. 

on  Prescott,  423. 

on  Raleigh,  35. 

on  Sydney  Smith,  299. 

on  Tickell,  156. 

on  Tusculan  Questions,  18. 

on  Walpole,  200. 


Macaulay,   Lord:    on   Whiston, 
128. 

to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  423. 
Macaulay,  Zachary,  440. 
Macbeth,  129,  240,  349,  500,  528. 
MACCHIAVELLI,  21. 
Macchiavelli,  336,  348. 
MacCulloch,  J.  R.,  189. 
MacKean,  Kate,  408. 
Mackeldy's  Compendium,  485. 
MACKENZIE,  SIR  GEORGE,  109. 
MACKENZIE,  HENRY,  262. 
Mackenzie,  R.  S.,  376. 
MACKINTOSH,  SIR  JAMES,  285. 
Mackintosh,    Sir    James:     Dis- 
course of,  485. 

Macaulay  on,  178. 

on  Bentham,  271. 

on  Berkeley,  151. 

on  Brown,  343. 

on  Butler,  343. 

on  Clarke,  142. 

on  Foster,  295. 

on  Hume,  189. 

on  Junius,  293. 

on  Locke,  102. 

on  Mackenzie,  109. 

on  Phillips,  387. 

on  Robertson,  210. 

on  Shaftesbury,  131. 

on  Smith,  102,  220. 

on  Swift,  126. 

on  Warburton,  167. 
Macmillan's  Magazine,  527. 
Madonnas,  499. 
Maecenas  :  Blackwall  on,  139. 

Spence  on,  169. 
Magians,  303,  412. 
Magnus,  Albertus,  508. 
MAHOMET,  DESCRIPTION  OP,  257. 
Mahomet,  180. 
Mahratta  war,  508. 
Maintenon,  Madame,  219. 
Mainwaring,  233. 
Malamocco,  521. 
Malay,  De  Quincey's,  384. 
Malebranche,  188. 
Malghera,  521. 
Malone,  Edmond,  168,  449. 

Lamb  on,  328. 

Shakespeare's  bust  and,  328. 
MAMBRINO'S  HELMET,  33. 
Man,  insignificance  of,  135. 

progress  of,  469. 

ruler  of  the  earth,  356. 
MAN'S  WRITING  A  MEMOIR  OF 

HIMSELF,  295. 
Mandragora,  508. 
Mango  Copac,  255. 
Manners,  166,  500,  501. 

of  New  England,  500,  501. 
Mansfield,  Lord,  484. 
MANT,  RICHARD,  333. 
Marcus  Aurelius,  526. 
MARGARET,  COUNTESS  OP  RICH- 
MOND, 20. 

Maria  Theresa,  290. 
Mariner's  compass,  341,  421. 
Marius,  Sallust  on,  526. 
Marlborough,  Duke  of,  441. 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  328,  449. 
MARRIAGES,  EARLY,  173. 
Marseillaise,  518. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


547 


Marseilles  tunnel,  508. 

Mai  shall,  Charles,  508. 

Marshall,  Chief  Justice,  357. 

Marston,  John,  527. 

Martial  on  lawyers,  133. 

MARTINEAU,  HARRIET,  454. 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  123,  210, 
528. 

MAHY,  QUEEN  OP  SCOTS,  EXECU- 
TION' OP,  515. 

Massinger,  Philip,  449. 

Materialists,    Sir    H.    Davy   on, 
342. 

MATHEMATICAL  LEARNING,  141. 

Mathematics,  40,  163,  427,  508. 

Mathias  on  Melmoth,  187. 

MATRIMONIAL  HAPPINESS,  162. 

MATRIMONY,  497. 

Matrimony,  266. 

Maturin,  Rev.  R.,  30. 

Maundrull,  Journey  of,  45. 

Mayo,  Chinese,  508. 

Measure  for  Measure,  528. 

Media,  Magians  in,  303. 

Medicine,  180. 

MEDITATION  AMONG  THE  BOOKS, 
•22-1. 

Melancholy,  135,  262,  328. 

MELANCHOLY    AND    CONTEMPLA- 
TION, Burton  on,  44. 

MELMOTH,  WILLIAM,  187. 

Melody,  Temple  of,  278. 

Melville,  Andrew,  515. 

Melville,  Lord,  339,  443. 

MEMOIRS  OP  HIMSELF,  295. 

MEMORY,  Stewart  on,.  276. 

MEMORY,  Wiuslow  on,  482. 

Memory,  Pliny  on,  16. 
Spencer  on,  524. 
Warton  on,  238. 

MEMORY,  IMPROVING  THE,  Fuller 
on,  61. 

MEMORY,  IMPROVING  THE,  Watts 
on,  139. 

Men  of  Letters,  time  of  George 
III.,  181. 

Menage,  Gilles,  218. 

MenanUer,  180,  185,  404. 

Menenius,  184. 

Mental  stimulus,  431. 

Mercer,  General,  246. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  527. 

Mercy  of  God,  Addison  on,  137. 

MERCY  OP  GOD,  Erskine  on,  155. 

Meres,  Francis,  527. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  527. 

Mestre,  tower  of,  520,  521. 

Mexico,  Spaniards  in,  426. 

MEXICO,  VALLEY  AND  CITY  OF, 
426. 

Mezentius  and  Lausus,  101. 

Microscope,  421. 

MIDDLE  CLASS  EDUCATION,  420. 

Middleton,  Thomas,  527. 

Mill,  James,  on  Stewart,  276. 

Miller  and  the  steamboat,  507. 

MILLER,  HUGH,  452. 

MILMAN,    HENRY    HART,    D.D., 
403. 

Milman,  Henry  H.,  440. 

MILTON,  JOHN,  62. 

Milton,  John  :  Arnold  on,  421. 
Beattie  on,  254. 


Milton,  John  :  Channing  on,  352. 
Combe  on,  395. 

DllYDEN    ON,  99. 

Ellwood  on,  114. 

Everett  on,  411. 

Farmer  on,  62. 

Felton  on,  149. 

Hazlitt  on,  346. 

Hume  on,  62. 

Hunt  on,  373,  374. 

Jeffrey  on,  315,  316. 

Jonson  on,  182. 

Jones  on,  263. 

Lamb  on,  328. 

Macaulay  on,  62,  442. 

on  books.  64. 

ON     CENSORSHIP    OP     THE 
PRESS,  64. 

ON  EDUCATION,  63. 

sublimity  of,  149. 

Warton,  J.,  on,  218. 

Warton,  T.,  on,  270. 
Mimnermus,  180. 
Mind,  Disorders  of  the,  481. 
Mind  in  old  age,  482. 
Mind,  improvement  of  the,  131, 

140. 

MIND,  KNOWLEDGE  OF  THE,  186. 
Minds,  use  of,  104. 
Minos,  304. 
Minstrel,  The,  252. 
Minstrelsy,  239. 
Mirabeau,  271. 
Miracles,  111,  128,  247,  366. 
Mirror,  The,  266. 
Miser,  a,  297. 

MISERY  AND  HAPPINESS,  197. 
Misfortune,  343. 
Mitford's  Equity  Pleading,  484, 

485. 
MODERN   POETRY,   DEFECTS   IN, 

518. 
MODERN     STATE     OF     ANCIENT 

COUNTRIES,  46. 

Moir's  Poetical  Literature,  404. 
Mommsen,  Dr.,  525,  526,  527. 
Monarchy,  180. 
Monmouth,  Duke  of,  446. 
MONTAGU,  ELIZABETH,  203. 
MONTAGU,  LADY  MARY   WORT- 
LEY,  161. 

Montague,  Elizabeth,  443. 
MONTAIGNE,  MicHEL  DE,  30. 
Montaigne,  Michel  de,  217,  529. 
Montesquieu,  529. 
Monthly  Review,  380. 
Moore, 'Thomas,  299,   319,   387, 

518. 

MORAL  CONDUCT,  198. 
MORAL  PREACHING,  354. 
Morality,  312,  527,  529. 
MORALITY  IN  WORDS,  474. 
Morals,  142,  297,  354,  524,  525. 
Morals,  European,  529. 
MORE,  HUNRY,  D.D.,  73. 
More,  Henry,  D.D.,  233. 
MORE,  SIR  THOMAS,  23. 
MORE,  SIR  THOMAS,  Mackintosh 

on,  286. 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  470. 
MORK'S,  SIR  THOMAS,  RESIGNA- 
TION OF  THE  GREAT  SEAL,  46. 
MORELL,  J.  D.,  186,  343. 


Morning,  Everett  on,  412. 

Mortgages,  Powell  on,  485. 

Mosaic  cosmogony,  433. 

Moscow,  413. 

Moses,  249,  250. 

Mother  and  child,  344,  523. 

MOTLEY,  JOHN  LOTHROP,  LL.D., 

D.C.L.,  504. 
Mount  Vernon,  413. 
Mowbray,  Barbara,  517. 

MRS.    POYSER    AND    THE     SQU1RK, 

530. 

Mummies,  Browne  on,  59. 
Muscles,  431. 
Muses,  527. 

Museum  at  Venice,  508. 
Music,  124. 
Music  OF  BIRDS,  156. 
Music  of  Italy,  156. 
Muskets,  old,  508. 
Mustapha,  180. 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  283. 
MYSTERY  OF  THE  INCARNATION, 

76. 
Mythology,  238,  239,  348. 

N. 

NAMES,  Sterne  on,  195. 

Napier,   Macvey,  313,  343,  440, 

466,  488,  493,  499. 
NARRATIVE,    Hawkesworth    on, 

195. 

National  character,  361. 
NATIONAL  LITERATURE,  353. 
Nations,  Law  of,  485. 
NATIONS,  WEALTH  OF,  220. 
Natural  Bridge  of  Virginia,  486. 
Natural  History,  432. 
Natural  Law,  Burlamaqui's,  485. 
NATURAL   AND   ESSENTIAL  Div- 

FERENCEOF  RIGHT  AND  WRONG, 

142. 
NATURAL      AND      FANTASTICAL 

PLEASURES,  152. 
NATURAL    AND    INTERNATIONAL 

LAW,  485. 

Natural  and  Political  Law,  485. 
Natural  Religion.  129. 
NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY,  88. 
Natural    Philosophy,    306,    402, 

508. 
Nature,  107,  135,  193,  226,  231, 

253,   254,  261,  263,  264,  306, 

318,  356. 

NATURE,  LAW  OF,  36. 
Nature,  law  of,  223. 
Nature,  religion  of,  188. 
Navigation,  341. 
NEAPOLITAN  CHURCH,  284. 
NECESSITY  AND  BENEFITS  OF  THE 

LORD'S  SUPPER,  334. 
Nectar  of  the  Soul,  279. 
Needlework,  163. 
NEGLECT,  Felltham  on,  60. 
Negotiations  of  Wolsey,  26. 
Nelson,  Life  of,  319. 
Nelson,  Lady,  321. 
NELSON,  LOUD,  DEATH  OF,  322. 
Nepenthe,  508. 
NETHERLANDS,  IMAGE-BREAKERS 

OF  THE,  505. 
New  Atlantis,  456. 


548 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


NEW  COMMANDMENT,  249. 

New  England:  .Burke  on,  235. 
enterprise  of,  235. 
intellect  of,  499,  500,  501. 
manners  of,  500,  501. 
philosophy  of,  500,  501. 
Quincy  on,  312. 
Tuckerman  on,  499,  502. 
whale-fishery  of,  234. 

NEW  ENGLAND,  CHARACTER  OF, 
312. 

New  Monthly  Magazine,  213, 
465. 

New  Testament,  137,  499. 

Newcastle,  Duchess  of,  328. 

Newland's  Chancery,  485. 

Newspapers,  420. 

Newstead  Abbey,  397. 

NEWTON,  SIR  ISAAC,  117. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  136, 163,  248, 
263,  461. 

Newton,  Rev.  John:  Cowper  to, 
242. 

Nezahualcoyoti,  424. 

Nichol,  John,  415. 

Nichols's  Illustrations  of  Litera- 
ture, 269. 

Nicias,  defeat  of,  138. 

NIGHT  VIEW  OP  THE  CITY,  417. 

NILE,  BATTLE  OP  THE,  319. 

NIMROUD,  EXCAVATIONS  AT,  512. 

Nineveh,  Layard  on,  512. 

Nitrate  of  silver,  508. 

No  Cross,  No  Crown,  119. 

NOBLE  BIRTH,  PRIDE  OF,  119. 

Noctes  Ambrosianae,  376. 

NOODLE'S  ORATION,  301. 

Norfolk,  Duke  of,  443. 

Norman  Language,  53. 

North  American  Review,  308, 
366,  367,  387,  399,  410,  427, 
433,  453,  462,  471,  475,  488, 
493,  505,  520. 

North  British  Review,  433,  456. 
493,  505,  512,  514,  518,  520. 

"NORTH,  CHRISTOPHER,"  375. 

"  North,  Christopher,"  387. 

North,  Lord  Francis,  484. 

North,  Lord  Frederick,  251,  444. 

North  Sea,  343. 

North,  Sir  Thomas,  348. 

Northcote,  Sir  S.,  507. 

Northern  Hive,  134. 

Northumberland,  Duke  of,  446. 

Norway,  343. 

Nottingham,  Countess  of,  191. 

Novels,  196,  329,  523. 

Nuina  and  religion,  255. 

Numismatics,  353. 

Nunez,  Vasco,  511. 

O. 

OBLIVION.  Browne  on,  59. 
Obscure  Diseases  of  the  Brain, 

481. 

OBSCURITY,  Cowley  on,  78. 
Oetavian  Library,  248. 
Odin,  255,  288. 
Old  age,  127,  482. 
OLD  INVENTIONS  REVIVED,  507. 
Old  Testament,  249,  346. 
OLIVER  CROMWELL,  392. 


Olympic  games,  138. 
Omnipresence  of  God,  136,  480. 
Omniscience  of  God,  13(5,  480. 
ON  THE  SEA,  •]<;. 
ONE  NICHE  THE  HIGHEST,  486. 
Operations  sans  Douleur,  508. 
Ophelia,  349. 
Opinions,  187. 
OPIUM,  EFFECTS  OF,  381. 
ORATION  BY  NOODLE,  301. 
Oration  by  Pericles,  9. 
Orators,  180,  183,  225. 
Oratory,  339,  364,  405,  427. 
Oriental  dress,  384. 

languages,  180. 

learning,  147. 

scholars,  421. 

writers,  203. 

Orme's  Bibliotheca  Biblica:    on 
Cudworth,  77. 

on  Home,  241. 

on  Leighton,  68. 

on  Watson,  255. 

on  West,  169. 

on  Whiston,  128. 
Osborne,  Sir  T.,  187. 
Ossian,  Warburton  on,  168. 
Othello,  500,  528. 
Otway,  Goldsmith  on,  231. 
Oude,  ladies  of,  443. 
OVERBURY,  SIR  THOMAS,  47. 
Ovid,  Anguillara's,  185. 

Dick  on,  304. 

Drydcn  on,  100,  101. 

Felton  on,  150. 

Golding's,  239,  348. 

Hazlitt  on,  348. 

Italian  version,  185. 

Sandys's,  45. 

Spence  on,  168. 

Warton  on,  238,  239. 

Watts  on,  140. 
OWEN,  JOHN,  D.D..  76. 


P. 

PACIFIC,  DISCOVERY  OP  THE,  511. 

Padua,  520. 

Pageantries,  240. 

Pain,  deadening,  508. 

Pain,  self-caused,  164. 

Painting,  22,  123,  124,  142,  150, 
180,  184.  380,  461,  508. 

Palace  of  Perfumes,  279. 

Palatine  Library,  248. 

PALEY,  WILLIAM,  D.D.,  260. 

Puley,  William,  D.D.,  Moral 
Philosophy  of,  327. 

Paper-making,  341. 

Papin,  Denis,  507,  508. 

Papists  in  England,  37. 

Paracelsus,  140,  327. 

Paradise,  356. 

Paradise  Lost,  1 14,  374,  442. 

Paradise  Regained,  114. 

Parents  and  children  :  see  CHIL- 
DREN. 

Paris,  238. 

Parliament,  338,  339,  392,  443, 
477,  526. 

Parr,  Macaulay  on,  443. 

Partnership,  Story  on,  485. 


PARTRIDGE  AT  THE  PLAYHOUSE, 
175. 

Party  in  letters,  231. 

PASCAL,  BLAISE,  EXPOSTULATION 
OF,  84. 

Pascal,  Blaise:  Hallam  on,  84. 
JMacaulay  on,  84. 
on  eternity,  85. 

Passow,  Greek  lexicon  of,  182 

Patcrculus,  526. 

Patience,  416. 

Patricians,  15. 

Patriotism,  11,  364. 

Patronage,  231. 

Paul,  Saint,  at  Athens,  434. 
Hurd  on,  205. 
Longinus  on,  170. 
Lyell  on,  434. 

Paul's  AValk,  113. 

PAULDING,  JAMES  KIRKE,  350. 

Paulet,  W.,  515. 

Paulus,  library  of,  247. 

PEARSON,  JOHN,  D.D.,  70. 

Peasantry,  Iris^h,  435. 

PECKSNIFF,  4'J3. 

Pedants,  353. 

Pedro  II.  of  Brazil,  471. 

Peel,  Sir  Robert,  518. 

Pelham,  466. 

Peloponnesian  war,  9. 

Pembroke,  Lord,  528. 

Pendennis,  Arthur,  491. 

Penitential  Psalms,  516. 

PENN,  WILLIAM,  119. 

Pennsylvania,  121. 

University  of,  260. 

PEPYS,  SAMUEL,  101. 

Perfumes,  Palace  of,  279. 

PERICLES,  ORATION  BY,  9. 

Perkins's  steam  gun,  508. 

Perseus,  499. 

Perseverance,  297,  416. 

Persia,  302,  303. 

PERSONAL  BEAUTY,  208. 

PERSONS  AND  PERSONAL  PROP- 
ERTY, 485. 

Peterborough.  Dean  of,  516,  517. 

PETRARCH,  FRANCESCO.  18. 

Petrarch,  Francesco  :  Hazlitt  on, 

348. 

Macaulny  on,  18. 
on  Dante,  218. 
Tuckerman  on,  499. 

Petronius,  218. 

Petty,  Lord  Henry,  340. 

Phffidrus,  style  of,  124. 

Phidias,  Emerson  on,  462. 

Philemon,  180. 

Philip  II.,  516. 

PHILLIPS,  CHARLES,  387. 

Philology,  182. 

Philosophers,  180,  303,  421. 

PHILOSOPHERS,  ANCIENT,  257. 

Philosophy,  40,  102,  107,  109, 
110,  147,  148,  158,  163,  186, 
188,  199,  225,  232,  277,  306, 
317,  337,  338,  343,  345,  347, 
387,  402,  404,  433,  500,  501, 
502,  508,  528,  529. 

PHILOSOPHY,  STUDY  OF,  88. 

PHILOSOPHY  AND  RELIGION,  88. 

Philosophy  of  a  Future  State, 
303. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


549 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  PHOVERBS,  288. 
Philosophy  of  Religion,  393. 
Philostratus,  247. 
Phrenology,  392,  394,  430. 
PHVSIC,  LAW,  AND  DIVINITY,  133. 
Physicians  :  Addison  on,  134. 

Harris  on,  180. 

Sydney  Smith  on,  301. 
Physico-Mathematiques,  508. 
Physiognomy,  208. 
Physiology,  431. 
Pickle,  Peregrine.  213. 
Pickwick,  Trial  of,  498. 
Piety,  346. 

Pilgrim's  Progress,  90. 
Pinch,  Tom,  494. 
Pindar,  Blackwell  on,  138. 

Odes  of,  169, 
Piranesi,  383. 
Pistols,  old,  508. 

PITT,  WILLIAM,  EARL  OP  CHAT- 
HAM, 176. 

Pitt,  William,  302,  440,  443,  477. 
Pity,  Brown  on,  344. 
PLAGUE  IN  LONDON,  101. 
Plague  in  London.  16,  114,  125. 
Plain  Dealer,  The,  448. 
Plantagenets,  515. 
Plato:  yElian  on,  154. 

Arnold  on,  421. 

Black  wall  on,  137. 

Cooper  on,  132. 

Dickon,  303. 

Harris  on,  181. 

Lady  Jane  Grey  and,  29. 

Lccky  on,  529. 

Mil  man  on,  405. 

on  Homer,  137. 

on  Socrates,  303. 

Kapin  on,  218. 

Warton  on,  218. 

White  on,  265,  266. 

Zoilus  on,  154. 
Platonism,  Cooper  on,  132. 

Leeky  on,  529. 
PLEADING,  485. 
Pleading,  Stephen  on,  484,  485. 

Mitford  on,  484. 

Story  on,  484. 

Pleading,  Equity,  484,  485. 
Pleas  of  the  Crown,  Halo's,  485. 
Pleasure,  24,  147,  164,  189,  198, 
278,  281. 

incentive  to,  279. 

journeys  of,  500. 
PLEASURE,  UTOPIAN  IDEA  OP,  24. 
PLEASURE  AND  RELIGION,  106. 
PLEASURES,  NATURAL  AND  FAN- 
TASTICAL, 152. 
PLEASURES  OF  SPRING,  156. 
Plebeians,  15. 
PLINY  TUB  YOUNGER,  15. 
Pliny  the  Younger  :  Lewis  trans- 
lates, 16. 

Melinoth  on,  187. 

ON  A  COURSE  OP  STUDY,  16. 

on  poetry,  16. 

on  reading,  16. 

on  style,  16. 

Plomer,  Vice-Chancellor,  443. 
Plutarch  :  Caesar  in,  525. 

Hazlitt  on,  348. 

North  translates,  238. 


Plutarch  :  Warton  on,  238. 
Pneuniiitic  Despatch,  507. 
Poe,  Edgar  A.,  Literati  of,  350. 
POET,  SMALL,  Butler  on,  69. 
Poetry,  16,40,  130,  149,  150,  169, 
180,   184,   185,    189,   196,   233, 
238,  240,  252-4,  269,  304,  347, 
352,  363,  373,  421,  427,  442, 
482,  502,  518. 

POETRY  op  THE  AGE  OP  ELIZA- 
BETH, 237. 

POETRY,  WHAT  is?  373. 
Poets,  169,  304,  345. 

Lives  of,  449,  450. 
Pole,  Cardinal,  154. 
POLITENESS,  TUUE    AND   FALSE, 

205. 

Political  economy,  403,  408. 
POLITICAL  AND  NATURAL   LAW, 

485. 

Political  philosophy,  341. 
Politics,  347,  403,  420,  469. 
POLITICS,  WOMEN  IN,  289. 
Pollio,  Asinius,  248. 
Polonius,  449. 
Polycrates  of  Samos,  138. 
Pompey,  188,  526,  527. 
Poor,  duty  to,  67,  120. 
POOR  RELATIONS,  326. 
POPE,  ALEXANDER,  156. 
Pope,  Alexander:    Addison   on, 
156. 

Arbuthnot  on,  140. 

Bentley  on,  185. 

Bolingbroke  on,  146. 

Budgell  and,  153. 

Cowper  on,  244. 

Goldsmith  on,  231. 

Homer  and,  185,  209,  219. 

Hunt  on,  373. 

Jeffrey  on,  314. 

Macaulay  on,  449. 

on  Addison,  133. 

on  JEneas,  157. 

on  Arbuthnot,  141. 

on  Berkeley,  151. 

on  Bolingbroke,  145. 

on  Cowley,  442. 

on  preachers,  148. 

on  Shakespeare,  184. 

Seward  on,  269,  270. 

Swift  to,  144. 

Wakefield  on,  269. 

Warburton  on,  168. 

Warton  on,  145,  187,  218. 

Works  of,  157. 
Pope  Clement  XL,  143,  144. 
Pope  Julius  XI.,  22. 
POPE  TO  BISHOP  ATTERBURY,  158. 
POPE,   TRANSLATION   OP    HOMER 

BY,  185. 
Porphyry,  247. 
Portia,  290. 

Portsmouth,  Duchess  of,  445. 
POSITIVE   DUTIES   OP    RELIGION, 

198. 

Pothier's  Works,  485. 
POTTER,  ALONZO,    D.D.,   LL.D., 

450. 

Potter's  wheel,  415. 
Powell  on  Devises,  485. 

on  Mortgages,  485. 
POWER,  ACTIVITY  AND,  393. 


POWER  OP  GOD,  87. 
POWER  OP  LOVE,  458. 
Powers,  Sugden  on,  485. 
Practice,  Sellon's,  485. 

Tidd's,  485. 

PRACTICE  AND  HABIT,  103. 
PRACTICE,  PLEADING,  AND  EVI- 
DENCE, 485. 

Pratt,  Rev.  Josiah,  105. 
Prayer,  duty  of,  198. 

Franklin  on,  173. 
PREACHING,  MORAL,  354. 
PRESCOTT,    WILLIAM    HICKLIXG, 

D.C.L.,422. 

Prescott,      William       Hickling, 
D.C.L. :  Alison  on,  422. 

DEATH  OF,  405. 

Macaulay  on,  423. 

on  Gibbon,  256. 

on  Irving,  366. 

on  Kane,  521. 

on  Miltnan,  404. 

on  Robertson,  210. 

on  Scott,  307. 

Ticknor  on,  422. 

to  S.  Austin  Allibone,  404, 

505. 

PRESERVATION  OP  A  MAN'S  ES- 
TATE, 35. 
PRESERVATION   OP   THE    UNION, 

363. 

PRESS,  CENSORSHIP  OP  THE,  64. 
Preston  on  Abstracts,  485. 

on  Conveyancing,  485. 

on  Estates,  485. 
PRIDE  OP  ANCESTRY,  362. 
PRIDE  OP  NOBLE  BIRTH,  119. 
PRIESTLEY,  JOSEPH,  LL.D.,  250. 
Prince  on  Hopkins,  105. 
PRINCE  HENRY,  RALEIGH  TO,  35. 
PRINCETON,  BATTLE  OF,  245. 
Printing,  20,  168,341,421. 
Prior:  Goldsmith  on,  231,  233. 

Macaulay  on,  450. 
PRIVATE  JUDGMENT  IN  RELIGION, 

Hales  on,  48. 
PRIVATE  JUDGMENT  IN  RELIGION, 

Temple  on.  92. 

PROCRASTINATION,  Cowley  on,  79. 
Proctor,  Ednu,  502. 
Prodigal  Son,  347. 
Profanity,  Hale  on,  67. 
PROGRESS  OP  ENGLISH   LITERA- 
TURE, 313. 

Progress  of  Man,  469. 
Propertius,  Blackwall  on,  139. 
PROPERTY,  PERSONAL,  4S5. 
Prophecy,  til,  129. 
Prophetic  Language,  118. 
Prospero,  348. 

PROTESTANT  INFALLIBILITY,  347. 
Protestantism,  347. 
PROVERBS,  PHILOSOPHY  OF,  288. 
Providence,  105,   111,  127.    UMI, 
152,   ISO,  202,  211,  256,  403, 
405,  439,  454,  523. 
PRUDENCE,  171. 
Prudence,  164. 

PSALMS,  BEAUTIES  OF  THE,  241. 
Psnlms,  Hebrew,  518. 
I'salms  of  David,  135. 
Psalms,  Penitential,  516. 
Ptolemy  on  Science,  17. 


550 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Public!  Juris,  485. 
Puffendorff,  256. 
Punishment,  eternal,  303. 
PUNISHMENTS  AND  REWARDS,  164. 
PURCHAS,  SAMUEL,  46. 
Purchasers  and  Vendors,  Sugden 

on,  485. 

Purgatory,  304. 
Pursuits  of  Literature,  187. 
Pythagoras,  247. 

Q. 

QUARREL  OF  SQUIRE  BULL  AND 

HIS  SON  JONATHAN,  350. 
Quarterly  Journal  of  Education, 

422. 
Quarterly  Review,  101,  256,  357, 

380,  399,  433,  493,  505,  512, 

514,  518,  520,  530. 
Queen  of  Charles  II.,  446. 
Quensounmeres,  M.  dcs,  482. 
Quick,  Rev.  C.  W.,  105. 
QIIINCEY,  THOMAS  DE,  380. 
Quixcv,  JOSIAH,  LL.D.,  311. 
Quintilian,  217. 

R. 

Rab  and  his  Friends,  488. 

Racine,  Warton  on,  218. 

RADCLIFFE,  ANNE,  283. 

Rahl,  General,  245. 

RAINY  SUNDAY  AT  AN  INN,  367. 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER,  34. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter:  Green  on, 

528. 

Hazlitt  on,  345. 
on  Spenser,  374. 
RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER,  THREE 

RULES  OF,  35. 
RALEIGH,      SIR      WALTER,     TO 

PRINCE  HENRY,  35. 
Rambler,  The,  207,  448,  449,  450. 
Ramsay,  David,  290. 
Rape  of  Lucrece,  373. 
Raphael,  411,499. 
Rapin,  216,  218. 
HAVEXSWOOD  AND  LUCY  ASHTON, 

308. 

Rawle  on  the  Constitution,  485. 
Raynouard,  182. 
Reading,  16,   40,  145,  147,  314, 

329, 333,  345, 347, 352, 420, 441, 

478,  500. 

READING,  Gibbon  on,  258. 
READING  AND  BOOKS,  Lamb  on, 

327. 
READING  AND  BOOKS,  AVutts  on, 

140. 

REAL  ESTATE  AND  EQUITY,  485. 
Reaping-machine,  507. 
Reason,  103,  124,  141,  217,  223, 

239,  317,  338,  343,  525,  529. 
Reason  of  Church  Government, 

63. 

Rebellion,  Clarendon's,  65. 
REBELLION,  SCOTTISH,  200. 
Recreation,  171. 

REDEEMER,     CHRISTIAN'S     DE- 
PENDENCE UPON  HIS,  359. 
Reeve   on   Domestic    Relations, 

485. 
Reeve's  English  Law,  485. 


Reflection,  186. 
REFLECTIONS  ITPON  STYLE,  187. 
Reformation,  the,  239,  346. 
REID,  THOMAS,  D.D.,  186. 
Relations,  Domestic,  485. 
RELATIONS,  POOR,  326. 
Religion,  111,  112,  121,  129,  149, 

188,  238,    255,  258,  273,  290, 

306,  312,    341,  343,  346,  359, 

363,  377,   386,  404,  417,  420, 

529,  530. 

RELIGION,  EXCELLENCE  OF,  93. 
RELIGION,  PHILOSOPHY  AND,  88. 
Religion,  Philosophy  of,  303, 304. 
RELIGION,  POSITIVE  DUTIES  OF, 

198. 
RELIGION,  PRIVATE  JUDGMENT  IN, 

92. 

RELIGION,  Sherlock  on,  148. 
RELIGION  AND  PLEASURE,  106. 
Remedies  of  Fortune,  18. 
Remorse,  510,  550. 
Renaissance,  520. 
Repentance,  173,  430,  510. 
REPENTANCE,  DEATH-BED,  72. 
Heports,  Admiralty,  485. 
Reports,  Law,  485. 
Restoration,  literature  of  the,  129, 

231,  315,  316. 
Resurrection,  405. 
Retreat  of  Mirth,  279. 
REVELATION.  DIVINE,  128. 
Revelation,  Divine,  148, 189, 242. 
Revenge,  297. 
Review,    North    American :    see 

NORTH  AMERICAN  REVIEW. 
Review,     North     British:     see 

NORTH  BRITISH  REVIEW. 
REVOLUTION,  FRENCH,  285. 
Revolution,  French,  236,  317. 
REVOLUTION,  RICCABOCCA  ox,  469. 
Rewards,  eternal,  303. 
REWARDS  AND  PUNISHMENTS,  169. 
Reynolds,  Macaulay  on,  443. 
Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres,  202, 

203,  364. 

RICCABOCCA  ON  REVOLUTION,  469. 
Richard  the  Third,  349. 
Richardson,  Sir  John,  on  Kane, 

521. 

Richardson,  Jonathan,  on  Para- 
dise Lost,  374. 
RICHARDSON,  SAMUEL,  158. 
Richelieu,  483. 
Richmond,  Duke  of,  446. 
RIDLEY,  NICHOLAS,  26. 
RIELLY'S  PITEOUS  LAMENTATION, 

27. 

RIGHT  AND  WRONG,  142. 
RILL  FROM  THE  TOWN  PUMP,  462. 
Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  505. 
Ritso  on  Law,  485. 
Roads,  macadamized,  508. 
ROAST  PIG,  DISSERTATION  ox,  324. 
Robeck  on  suicide,  529. 
ROBERTSOX,  WILLIAM,  D.D.,  209. 
Robertson,  Willinm,  D.D.:  Ali- 
son on,  335. 

Charles  V.,  by,  422,  485. 
Gibbon  on,  190. 
Lamb  on,  327. 
Robinson's   Admiralty   Reports, 

485. 


Robinson  Crusoe,  124. 
Rochester,  Jeffrey  on,  316. 
Rocket,  Congreve,  508. 
Rogers,  Henry,  on  Fuller,  81. 

on  Whntely,  386. 
ROLLIN,  CHARLES,  123. 
Rollin,  Charles  :  Ancient  History 
of,  303. 

Warton  on,  216. 

Romain,  Histoire  du  Droit,  485. 
Roman  Catholics:  see  CATHOLI- 
CISM, ROMAN. 
ROMAN  LIBRARIES,  247. 
Romances,  196,  239,  240,  337. 
Roman?,  the,  180,  184,  187,  347, 

508,  526,  527. 
Romans  in  Britain,  53. 
Rome  :  armies  of,  22. 

authors  of,  137,  169,  184, 
185,  244,  264,  319,  348, 
411,  421,  422,  447. 

citizenship  of,  14. 

Emerson  on,  461. 

empire  of,  508. 

Everett  on,  411. 

Guizot  on,  390. 

history  of,  421,  485. 

Howard  at,  298. 

LIBRARIES  OF,  247. 

Macaulay  on,  447. 

orators  of,  411,  483. 

sages  of,  257. 
ROME  IN  1621,  56. 
Romilly,  Sir  Samuel,  340. 
Romola,  533,  535. 
Ronsard,  P.  de,  348. 
Roper  on  Husband  and  Wife,  485. 

on  Legacies,  485. 
Roquefort,  182. 

Roscoe,   H.,    on    Criminal   Evi- 
dence, 485. 
Roseoe,  Thomas,  126. 
Roscommon,  Lord,  101. 
ROUSSEAU,  JEAN  JACQUES,  192. 
Rousseau,    Jean    Jacques,    469, 

529. 
Rowe,  Goldsmith  on,  231. 

Shakespeare  by,  329. 
Rugby  School,  421. 
RURAL  LIFE  IN  SWEDEN,  471. 
RUSKIN,  JOHN,  519. 
Ruskin,  John,  on  Helps,  511. 
RUSSELL,  LADY  RACHEL,  109. 
Russell,  Lord  William,  458. 
Russell,  Sir  William  0.,  on  Crimes 

and  Misdemeanors,  485. 
Russia,  Sala's,  406. 
Rust,  Dr.,  on  Taylor,  71. 
Ruth  and  Boaz,  347. 
Rutherford's  Institutes,  485. 
Rymer  on  Shakespeare,  184. 

S. 

Sacred  Writers,  128. 

SACRED  WRITERS,  SIMPLICITY  OF, 

169. 

Sade,  Abbg  de,  19. 
Saint  Albnns,  Duke  of,  446. 
Saint  Cecilia,  443. 
Saint  Gill,  M.,  305. 
SAINT  JOHN,  HENRY,  145. 
Saint  John,  J.  A.,  102,  161. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


551 


Saint  Leonards,  Lord :  see  SUG- 

DEN. 

Saint  Paul,  170. 
Saint  Paul  at  Athens,  404. 
Saint  Peter's,  Everett  on,  411. 
Sala's  Journey  due  North,  406. 
Sallust :    Hazlitt  on,  348. 

Jones  on,  264. 

on  Cato,  526. 

on  Caesar,  526. 

ORATION-  FROM,  14. 

style  of,  124,  138. 
Salvation  by  Christ,  58,  430. 
Salvini,  Iliad  by,  185. 
San  Salvador,  368. 
Saneho  Panza,  525. 
Bancroft,  Archbishop,  445. 
Sanders    on     Uses    and    Trusts, 

485. 

SANDYS,  GEORGE,  45. 
Sanscrit,  434. 
Santa  Croce,  411,  534. 
Sappho,  181. 
Sartor  Resartus,  418. 
Satire,  240. 
Saturn,  planet,  411. 
S.iuuders,  Williams's,  485. 
Savage,  Goldsmith  on,  233. 
Savigny,  Historie  du  Droit  Ro- 

main,  485. 

Savonarola,  533,  534. 
Saxon  language,  52. 
Scaliger,  183. 
Scandinavia,  288. 
Scarron,  219. 
Scherwenter,  508. 
Schlosser  on  Hume,  189. 
Scholars,  147,  148,  353,  421,  422, 

528. 

Scholarship,  410. 
SCHOOL,  IRISH,  436. 
Schooling,  420,  421. 
Schoolmaster,  by  Ascham,  28. 
Schoolmen,  40,  346. 
Schoolmistress,  374. 
Science,  17,  248,  524. 
SCIENCE,  INFLUENCE  OF,  401. 
SCIENCE,  ITS  METHODS,  408. 
Seipio  :  conversation  of,  138. 

policy  of,  22. 
Scotch  and  French,  394. 
Scots  Magazine,  508. 
Scots,  Mary,  Queen  of,  123,  210. 
SCOTS,  MARY,  QUEEN  OF,  EXECU- 
TION, 515. 

Scott,  Anne,  369,  372. 
SCOTT,  Sm  WALTER,  307. 
SCOTT,   SIB   WALTER  :    Hall   on, 
399: 

Fortunes  of  Nigel  and,  113. 

Irving  on,  369. 

IKVING'S    LAST    INTERVIEW 
WITH,  371. 

on  Fielding,  175. 

on  Goldsmith,  227. 

on  Johnson,  182. 

on  Mackenzie,  262. 

on  Pepys,  101. 

on  Robinson  Crusoe,  125. 

on  Seward,  269. 

on  Sterne,  194. 

on  Swift,  126. 

Prescott  on,  427. 


Scottish  Rebellion,  200. 
Scriptures,  Holy:  Chalmers  on, 
356. 

Channing  on,  352. 

CONFIRMATION  OF,  513. 

De  Quincey  on,  382. 

Henry  VIII.  on,  514. 

Jones  on,  263. 

LAW  OF  NATURE  AND,  36. 

NAPOLEON  ON,  290. 

Newton  on,  118. 

on  Government,  514. 

on  Heart  of  Man,  499. 

on  Man,  474. 

on  Princes,  514. 

poetry  of,  149. 

STUDY  OF,  451. 

sublimity  of,  149. 

truth  of,  128,  129,  200. 
SCRIPTURES,  STYLE  OF,  89. 
SCROOGE'S  CHRISTMAS,  495. 
Scythian  language,  53. 
Sedgwick,  Adam,  D.D.,  433. 
Sejanus,  348. 
SELDEN,  JOHN,  49. 
SELF-CULTURE,  352. 
SELF-DECEIT,  165. 
SELF-DENIAL,  112. 
SELF-LOVE,  IMMODERATE,  108. 
Sellon's  Practice,  485. 
Seneca,  146,  200,  248. 
Senescence,  482. 
Serenus  Sanimonicus,  library  of, 

248. 

Servants,  268. 
Sesame  and  Lilies,  521. 
Setebos,  348. 
Seven  sleepers,  365. 
SEWARD,  ANNA,  269. 
Shadwell  and  opium,  383. 
SHAFTESBURY,  EARL  OF,  131. 
Shaftesbury,  Earl  of:  Goldsmith 
on,  232. 

Lamb  on,  327. 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM  :  Arnold 
on,  421. 

Channing  on,  352. 

Combe  on,  394,  395. 

DRYDEN  ON,  98. 

Emerson  on,  462. 

Fielding  on,  175. 

First  Folio,  328. 

Goldsmith  on,  231. 

Green  on,  527. 

Hales  on,  98. 

Hallam  on,  336. 

Hazlitt  on,  345,  348. 

Hillard  on,  478. 

Hunt  on,  373,  374. 

Jeffrey  on,  315. 

JEFFREY  ON,  317. 

JOHNSON  ON,  183. 

Johnson's  edition  of,  448. 

Lamb  on,  328. 

Macaulay  on,  448,  449. 

Mackintosh  on,  234. 

Mel  moth  quotes,  188. 

Seward  on,  270. 

Steele  on,  129,  130. 

Suckling  on,  98. 

Tuckerman  on.  500. 

Voltaire  on,  184. 

Warton  on,  239,  240. 


SHAKSPERE'S      LATER     YEARS, 

Green  on,  527. 
Sharp,  Becky,  488. 
SHARSWOOD,  GEORGE,  LL.D.,  483. 
Sharswood,    George,   LL.D.,   on 

Blackstone,  221. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  375. 
Shenstone,  Hunt  on,  374. 
SHEPHERDS  OF  BETHLEHEM,  23. 
Sheppard's  Touchstone,  485. 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  444. 
Sheridan,  Mrs.  R.  B.,  444. 
SHERLOCK,  THOMAS,  D.D.,  148. 
SHERLOCK,  WILLIAM,  115. 
Shipping,  Abbot  on,  485. 
Shipwreck,  431. 
Shrewsbury,   Earl  of,   515,   516, 

517. 

Shylock,  527. 
Sickness,  343. 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  393,  443. 
SIDNEY,  ALGERNON,  83. 
SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP,  37. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  239,  329,  331, 

528. 

Silver,  nitrate  of,  508. 
SIMPLICITY     OF     THE     SACRED 

WRITERS,  169. 
Sin,  sense  of,  510. 
SINCERITY  AND  TRUTH,  95. 
Singer,  S.  W.,  168. 
Sismondi,  336. 
Sisyphus,  304. 
Skating,  432. 
Skinner,  S.,  448. 
Slang  phrases,  433. 
SLEEPING  LAWS,  271. 
SMILES,  SAMUEL,  M.D.,  507. 
SMITH,  ADAM,  LL.D.,  219. 
Smith,  Adam  :  Jeffrey  on,  317. 

Lamb  on,  327. 

Mackintosh  on,  102. 

Sydney  Smith  on,  300. 
Smith,  E.  Peshine,  408. 
SMITH,  GOLDWIN,  525. 
Smith,  John  W.,  Contracts,  485. 

Leading  Cases,  491. 
SMITH,  REV.  SYDNEY,  299. 
Smith,  Rev.  Sydney,  on  Mackin- 
tosh, 285. 
SMITH,  WILLIAM,  D.D.,  Jefferson 

to,  260. 

Smith,  William,  LL  D.,  256. 
SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS,  M.D.,  213. 
Smollett,  Tobias,  M.D.:  Lamb 

on,  328. 

SNOW-STORM,  376. 
Social  Contract,  469. 
Social  Failings,  153. 
Socialism,  469. 

Society,  improvement  of,  305. 
Society,  London,  489. 
Socrates:  Carter  on,  199. 

Dick  on,  303. 

Milman  on,  405. 

Plato  on,  265,  266,  303. 

Smith  on,  526. 

White  on,  265,  266. 

Xenophon  on,  265,  266. 
Soderino,  Piero,  22. 
Solar  System,  135. 
Soldiers,  432. 
Solitude,  509. 


552 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


SOLITUDE,  HAPPINESS  OF,  193. 
Solon,  Blackwnll  on,  138. 
Somner,  Dictionary  of,  182. 
Sonnets,  Shakespeare's,  528. 
Sophocles  :  Blackwall  on,  138. 

Harris  on,  181. 

Macaulay  on,  449. 

Warton  on,  218. 
SoncERY,  King  James  on,  41. 
Sorrow,  loneliness  of,  oil). 
SOUL,  IMMORTALITY  OF  THE,  144. 
Soul,  immortality  of  the,  84, 151, 

226,  257,  281,  303,  342,  343. 
South  Carolina,  History  of,  290. 
SOUTH,  ROBERT,  D.D.,  106. 
South  Sea  Islanders,  341. 
Southampton,  Duke  of,  446. 
Southampton,  Earl  of,  527,  528. 
SOUTHEY,  ROBERT,  LL.D.,  318. 
Southey,     Robert,     LL.D.,     on 

White,  379. 

Spain,  authors  of,  348,  405. 
SPAIN,  ISABELLA  OF,  423. 
Spaniards  in  Mexico,  42B. 
Spanish  language,  101,  264,  336. 
Spanish  war,  168. 
Sparks,  Jared,  172. 
Span-man  at  the  Cape,  432. 
Spartan  law,  142. 
Spectator,  The,  129, 130, 131, 133, 
1 34, 135,  1 36, 144, 145, 155, 247, 
432,448,491. 
Speech,  Reid  on,  186. 
SPENCE,  JOSEPH,  168. 
Spence,  Joseph,  Anecdotes    by, 

133,145. 

SPENCER,  HERBERT,  522.    . 
Spenser,    Edmund,    Beattie    on, 
254. 

DRYDEN  ON,  99. 

Green  on,  528. 

Hazlitt  on,  345. 

Hunt  on,  373,  374. 

Jeffrey  on.  315. 

Seward  on,  270. 

Warton  on,  240. 
Speroni,  Sperone,  on  Cicero  and 

Virgil,  101. 
Sportsmen,  432. 
SPRAT,  THOMAS,  110. 
Sprat,   Thomas,    Goldsmith    on, 

232. 

SPRING,  PLEASURES  OF,  156. 
Spurzheim,  344. 
SQUIRE  BULL  AND  HIS  SON,  350. 
Stagyrite,  the,  146.  181. 
STANHOPE,  PHILIP  DORMER,  166. 
Stars,  Addison  on  the,  135. 

Tuckerinan  on  the,  502. 
STATELINESS  AND  COURTESY,  Em- 
erson on,  459. 
Statesmen,  Greek,  180. 
Statesmen  of  the  Time  of  George 

III.,  177,  340. 

Statutes  at  Large,  327,  485. 
Stealing,  Spartan,  142. 
Steam-engine,  375,  421. 
Steam  gun,  508. 
Steam  locomotion,  507. 
Steamboat,  507. 
STEELE,  SIR  RICHARD,  129. 
Steele,  Sir  Richard :   Goldsmith 
on,  233. 


Steele,  Sir  R. :  Lamb  on,  327. 
Stephen,    Henry    J.,    Pleading, 

484,  485. 

Stephens,  A.  J.,   De  Lolme  by, 
485. 

Nisi  Prius,  484. 
Stephens,  Robert,  Thesaurus  of, 

182. 

Stephenson,  George,  518. 
Stephenson,  Robert,  518. 
STERNE,  LAURENCE,  194. 
Sterne,  Laurence:  Abernethy  on, 
175. 

Lamb  on,  329. 

Warburton  on,  168. 
STEWART,  DUGALD,  275. 
Stewart,  Dugald :  Life  of  Smith 
by,  220. 

Mill  on,  276. 

on  Berkeley,  151. 

on  Boyle,  88. 

on  Hall,  280. 

on  Locke,  102. 
Steyne,  Lord,  489. 
STILLINGFLEET,  EDWARD,  D.D., 

107. 

Stillingfleet,  Edward,  D.D.,  Gold- 
smith on,  232. 
Stobaeus,  Gibbon  on,  256. 
Stoicism,  404,  526,  529. 
STOICISM  AND  CHRISTIANITY,  199. 
Story,  Joseph,  LL.D. :  Bailments, 
485. 

Conflict  of  Laws,  485. 

Constitution  ,    of       United 
States,  485. 

Equity  Jurisprudence,  485. 

Equity  Pleading,  484. 

Partnership,  485. 

Quincy  and,  312. 
Stowe,  Mrs.  H.  B.,  503. 
Strafford,  eloquence  of,  443. 
Straits  of  Magellan,  348. 
Strangers,  hospitality  to,  344. 
Strathtieldsaye,  441. 
Stuart,  Mary  :  see  MARY,  QUEEN 

OF  SCOTS. 

STUDIES,  ESSAY  ON,  40. 
STUDIES,  LAW,  483. 
Study,  16,  61,  107,  124,  140,  146, 

258. 
STUDY,   INJUDICIOUS    HASTE   IN, 

104. 

STUDY  OF  LAW,  221. 
STUDY  OF  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY, 

88. 

Study  of  words,  474. 
Stupidit.v,  417. 
Style,  Addison  on,  188. 
STYLE,  Blair  on,  202. 
Style,  Cervantes's,  338. 

Felton  on,  149. 

Gibbon's,  256. 

Goldsmith  on,  233. 

Hallam  on,  338. 

Jeffrey  on,  316,  317. 

Junius's,  293. 

Melmoth  on,  188. 

Montagu  on,  203. 

Pliny  on,  16. 

Prescott  on,  256. 
STYLE,  REFLECTIONS  UPON,  187. 
Style,  Seward  on,  269. 


Style,  Webster  on,  364. 

White  on,  379. 
STYLE  OF  THE  HOLY  SCRIPTURES, 

89. 

Style  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  149. 
SUBLIME,  ON  THE,  249. 
Suckling  on  Jonson,  98. 

on  Shakespeare,  98. 
Suffering,  344. 
Suffolk,  Duke  of,  514. 
Suffolk,  Lord,  177. 
Sugden  on  Powers,  485. 

Vendors,  485. 
SUICIDE,  Lecky  on,  529. 
Suidas,  lexii-on  of,  182. 
Suit  in  Equity,  485. 
Sumner,  Charles,  on  Binney,  357. 
Si-MNEK,  JOHN  BIRD,  D.D.,  359. 
Sun,  Addison  on  the,  135. 

Everett  on  the,  412. 
Sun  of  Righteousness,  428,  429. 
SUNDAY  AMUSEMENTS,  273. 
SUNDAY,  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF,  206. 
SUNDAY,  RAINY,  AT  AN  INN,  367. 
Sun-painting,  508. 
SUNRISE  IN  THE  WOODS,  224. 
Sunset,  Addison  on,  135. 
Superstition,  387,  404. 
Support  of  memory,  279. 
Supreme    Court    United    States 

Cases,  485. 
Surveying,  432. 
Suspension  bridges,  508. 
SWEDEN,  RURAL  LIFE  IN,  471. 
SWIFT,  JONATHAN,  D.D.,  125. 
Swift,  Arbuthnot  and,  140. 

Cowper  on,  244. 

Goldsmith  on,  232. 

Jeffrey  on,  314,  317. 

Montagu  on,  203. 

on  Arbuthnot,  141. 

on  Hughes.  144. 
Sylla,  C.,  247,  248. 
Sympathy,  344,  499. 
SYMPTOMS  OF  INSANITY,  481. 
Syriac  language,  257,  479. 

T. 

Tacitus  :  Alison  on,  440. 

Arnold  on,  421. 

Blackwall  on,  139. 

Cowper  on,  244. 

Froude  on,  515. 

Jonson  uses,  348. 

Macaulay  and,  440. 

Macaulay  on,  443. 
TALBOT,  CATHERINE,  206. 
Talfourd,  Sir  T.  Noon,  Copyright 
and,  441. 

Hazlitt  and,  324. 

Lamb  and,  345. 

Macaulay  on,  441. 

on  Smollett,  213. 
Tantalus,  304. 
Tarquin,  296. 
Tartarus,  303. 
Tasso  :  Dryden  on,  101. 

Fairfax  translates,  348. 

read  in  Naples,  499. 

Warton  on,  240. 
Taste,  123,  314,  373. 
TASTE,  CULTIVATION  OF,  202. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


553 


TASTE,  FORMATION  OF  A  RIGHT, 

149. 
Taller,    The,   40,  129,  130,  133, 

144,  448. 

Taublet,  Abbe,  482. 
Taylor,  Rev.  James,  9. 
TAYLOH,  JEREMY,  D.D.,  71. 
Taylor,    Jeremy,   D.D. :    Jeffrey 

on,  315,  317. 
Lamb  on,  ;!28. 
Taylor,  John,   LL.D.,  Elements 

of  the  Civil  Law  by,  485. 
Teacher,  Great,  319. 
TEARS,  TREATISE  ON,  129. 
Telegraph,  electric,  508. 

ocean,  48U. 
Telescope,  421. 
Temperance,  120. 
Tempest,  The,  348,  528. 
TEMPLE,  KNIGHTS  OF,  491. 
Temple  of  Melody,  278. 
TEMPLE,  SIR  WILLIAM,  91. 
Temple,  Sir   William :   Addison 

on,  134. 

Goldsmith  on,  232. 
Tenneuiann's  Philosophy,  186. 
Tenures,  485. 

Terence:  Blackwall  on,  138. 
Johnson  on,  185. 
Rollin  on,  124. 
style  of,  124. 
TEZCUCO,  KING  OF,  424. 
THACKERAY,    WILLIAM     MAKE- 
PEACE, 488. 
Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 

on  Sterne,  194. 
Thames  tunnel,  508. 
Thankfulness,  Walton  on,  54. 
The  Seal!  The  Seal!  522. 
Themistocles,  :J7'J. 
Theocritus:  Dryden  on,  100. 
Harris  on,  181. 
Hunt  on,  373. 
Theology,  279. 
Theophrastus :    Bolingbroke   on, 

140. 

death  of,  146. 
Satire  of,  217. 
Win-ton  on,  217. 
Thermopylae,  Emerson  on,  458. 
Thirty-nine  Articles,  351. 
Thompson,    R.    D.,    M.D.,     on 

Priestley,  250. 
Thomson,    James:    Beattie    on, 

254. 

Lamb  on,  328. 
Seward  on,  270. 
Thor  and  Woden,  134. 
THOUGHTS  AND  APHORISMS,  127. 
THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS  AND  READ- 
IXC,  327. 

THOUGHTS  ON  ELEGANCE,  207. 
TIIOYUAS,  SIEUR  DE,  122. 
Thrale,  Mrs.,  Johnson  to,  226. 
Thucydides  :  Arnold  on,  421. 
Jilackwall  on,  138. 
on  knowledge,  163. 
Pericles  and,  9. 
Rapin  on,  218. 
Warton  on,  218. 
Thuriot,  Elector,  418. 
Thurlow,  Lord,  243. 
Tiberius,  Emperor,  248,  526. 


'ibullus,  139. 
.'ICKELL,  THOMAS,  155. 
JCK.NOU,  GEORGE,  LL.D.,  405. 
.'icknor,  George,  LL.D.,  Life  of 

Prescott  by,  422,  433. 
Mdd's  Practice,  484,  485. 
"ilghman,  Edward,  484. 
'illotson,  Goldsmith  on,  232. 
"IME,  EMPLOYING  THE,  72. 
?ime,  productive  power  of,  362. 
?IME   AND   ETERNITY,    Hall   on, 

281. 
?IME  AND  ETERNITY,  Heber  on, 

365. 

Tindal,  N..  122. 
PINKER,  Overbury's,  47. 
1'ippoo  Saib,  508. 
Titian,  411,  499. 
TITLES  OF  HONOUR,  121. 
Tityus,  304. 

Todd,  Henry  John,  182. 
Toller  on  Executors,  485. 
Tom  Jones,  329. 
[onsen's  Milton,  442. 
Shakespeare,  328. 
Too  Mucu   LATIN  AND  GREEK, 

299. 

Tooke,  J.  Home,  180. 
Total  abstinence,  329,  497. 
Touchstone,  Sheppard's,  485. 
Tournay,  Louis,  419. 
TOWN  PUMP,  RILL  FROM  THE,  462. 
TRAFALGAR,  BATTLE  OF,  322. 
Tragedy,  184,  185. 
Trajan,  Emperor,  248,  526. 
Tranio,  499. 
Translation,  182,  185,  213,  239, 

264,  346,  348,  405. 
TRANSLATION.  Dryden  on,  100. 
Travel,  196,  343,  348. 
TRAVELLING,  Emerson  on,  461. 
TRENCH,     RICHARD     CHENEVIX, 

D.D.,  473. 

Trenchard,  Goldsmith  on,  232. 
TRENTON,  BATTLE  OF,  244. 
Trevelyan's  Macaulay,  440. 
TRIAL    OF    WAUREN    HASTINGS, 

442. 

Triumphs  of  Temper,  442. 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  528. 
Troy,  destruction  of,  238. 
TRUE    AND   FALSE    POLITENESS, 

205. 

TRUE  WISDOM,  107. 
Truth,  147,  374. 
TRUTH  AND  SINCERITY,  95. 
TCCKKRMAN,  HENRY  THEODORE, 

498. 
Tuckerman,  Henry  Theodore,  on 

Hazlitt,  345. 
Tulloch,  John,  D.D.,  23. 
Tunnel,  Thames,  508. 
Turner,  Sharon,  178. 
Tuscus,  PLINY  TO,  16. 
Typographical  Antiquities,  20. 
TVTLBII,    ALEXANDER    FRASER 
266. 

Tyranny,  271,  356,  387. 

U. 

UDOLPHO,  CASTLE  OF.  283. 
Ulpian  Library,  248. 


Tlysses,  304. 

UNBELIEVERS,      EXPOSTULATION 

WITH,  84. 

Jnconverted  heart,  355. 
"NIIKHSTANDING,  LOCKE  ON  THE, 

102. 

Jnderstanding,  Spencer  on,  524. 
JNION,   PRESERVATION   OF    THE. 

363. 
United  States,  bar  of  the,  357, 

483,  484. 

Constitution  of,  485. 
History  of,  437. 
Supreme  Court  of,  485. 
UNIVERSAL   BELIEF    IN   IMMOR- 
TALITY, 303. 
Universe,  Intellectual  System  of 

the,  37. 

Universe,  vastness  of,  135. 
Unwin,  Rev.  W.,  Cowper  to,  157, 

243. 

(Jpshur's  Brief  Inquiry,  485. 
USEFULNESS  OF  MATHEMATICAL 

LEARNING,  141. 
USELESS  LEARNING,  145. 
Uses,  Bacon  on,  485. 
Utopia,  24,  302,  456,  470. 
UTOPIAN  IDEA  OF  PLEASURE,  24. 


V. 

Vandals  and  Goths,  134. 
Vane,  Sir  Harry,  458. 
VANITIES,  BURNING  OF,  533. 
Vanity.  218,  219,  356. 
VANITY,  Montagu  on,  204. 
Vanity  Fair,  488. 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  447, 

449,  450. 

Varro  collects  books,  247,  248. 
VATHEK,  CALIPH,  278. 
Vatican,  4I>1. 

Vattel's  Law  of  Nations,  485. 
VATGHAN,  CHARLES  JOHN,  D.D., 

509. 

Vedas,  the,  434. 
Vendors,  Sugden  on,  485. 
Venice,  arsenal  at,  508. 
VENICE,  Ruskin  on,  520. 
VENTRILOQUISM,  304. 
Venus,  239. 
Venus,  star,  411. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  373.  527. 
Vergennes,  Count  de,  260. 
Verres,  Cicero  against,  12,  443. 
Vespasian,  Emperor,  248. 
Via  Sacra,  248. 
Vice,  Arbuthnnt  on,  141. 
VICE     AND    VIRTUE,     Hawkes- 

worth  on,  197. 
VICE  AND  VIRTUE,  Tillotson  on, 

96. 
Views,  Baldwin's  Constitutional, 

485. 
Virgil  :  Addison  on,  133. 

Arnold  on,  4'_'1. 

Hrattieon.  253. 

Blackwall  on,  139. 

Dick  on,  304. 

Dryden    and.    98,    99,    100, 
101,  185,  253. 

Felton  on,  149. 


554 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Virgil :  Fox  on,  272. 

Harris  on,  180. 

Hazlitt  on,  348. 

Jeffrey  on,  314. 

Lytton  on,  470. 

Pope  on,  157. 

Ritso  on,  485. 

Rollin  on,  124. 

Seward  on,  270. 

Spence  ou,  168,  169. 

Speroni  on,  151. 

Steele  quotes,  130. 

Stewart  on,  276. 

AVarton  and,  216. 

Watts  on,  139. 

Virginia  Natural  Bridge,  486. 
Virtue,  151,  205,  217. 
VIRTUE  AND  VICE,  Tillotson  on, 

96. 
VIRTUE   MORE  PLEASANT  THAN 

VICE,  197. 
Vitruvius,  131. 
Voltaire,  death  of,  483. 

defends  suicide,  529. 

on  Shakespeare,  184. 

VON  SCHLEGEL,  FREDERICK  CARL 
WlLHELM,  306. 

Von    Schlegel,    Frederick    Carl 

AVilhelm,  on  Jones,  263. 
Voyage  to  France,  Heylin,  56. 
Voyages,  Hakluyt's,  46. 
Hawkesworth's,  195. 
Hazlitt  on,  348. 
Locke  on,  46. 

Voyages  and  Travels,  Hawkes- 
worth  on,  196. 

W. 

Wag  always  a  dunce,  127. 
AVAKEFtELD,  FAMILY  OF,  227. 
WAKKFIELD  FAMILY  IN  AFFLIC- 
TION, 228. 

WAKEFIELD    FAMILY   IN    PROS- 
PERITY, 229. 
Wakefiekl,  Gilbert:  Fox  to,  272. 

on  Pope,  269. 

Wales,  language  of,  52,  53. 
Walking,  432,  433. 
Waller:   Dryden  on,  99. 

Lady  Montagu  on,  163. 
AVALPOLE,  HORACE,  200. 
Walpole,  Horace:  Goldsmith  on, 
233. 

on  letter-writers,  109. 

on  Pope,  157. 

Walpole,    Sir    Robert:    Boling- 
broke  nnd,  145,  232. 

Goldsmith  on,  232. 
WALTON,  IZAAK,  54. 
WAR,  HORRORS  OF,  280. 
War,  Harris  on,  180. 

Hawthorne  on,  464. 

Lytton  on,  469. 
WAR  WITH  AMERICA,  177. 
WARBURTON,     WILLIAM,     D.D., 

167. 

Warburton,  William,  D.D. :  Bo- 
lingbroke  on,  146. 

Jeffrey  on,  317. 

on  Beattie,  252. 

on  Doddridge.  170. 

on  Grotius,  107. 


Warburton,  William,  D.D. :    on 
Hume,  168. 

on  Shaftesbury,  131. 

on  Stillingfleet,  107. 
WAHTON-,  JOSEPH,  D.D.,  216. 
Warton,  Joseph,  D.D. :    Jeffrey 
on,  317. 

on  Bolinghroke,  145. 

on  Melinoth,  187. 

on  Pope,  168,  187. 
WARTON,  THOMAS,  237. 
Warton,  Thomas:  History  of  Eng- 
lish Poetry  by,  17,  20,  56. 

Jeffrey  on*317. 

on  Milton,  269. 

Seward  on,  269. 
WASHINGTON,  GEORGE,  244. 
Washington,  George  :  Burritt  on, 
486. 

Emerson  on,  462. 

Everett's  Life  of,  488. 
WASHINGTON    ABROAD    AND    AT 

HOME,  412. 

WASHINGTON    APPOINTED    COM- 
MANDER-IN-CHIEF, 437. 
WASHINGTON,  FAME  OF,  174. 
WASHINGTON'S    FAREWELL   AD- 
DRESS, 358. 

Water,  Hawthorne  on,  462. 
Waterloo,  Everett  on,  413. 
WATSON,  RICHARD,  D.D.,  255. 
Watt,  James,  507,  508. 
WATTS,  ISAAC,  D.D.,  139. 
Watts,  Isaac,  D.D.,  on  Shaftes- 
bury, 131. 

Waverley  Novels,  371. 
Wayland,    Francis,    D.D.,    Me- 
moirs of  Chalmers  by,  354. 

on  Butler,  163. 
Wealth  of  Nations,  220. 
Weapons,  old,  508. 
WEBSTER,  DANIEL,  362. 
Webster,   Daniel,   on   Jefferson, 

259. 

Webster,  John,  449. 
Webster,  Noah,  182. 
Wedderburne  and  Franklin,  251. 
Wedding  in  Sweden,  472. 
Wedgwood,  Smiles  on,  50S. 
Weller,  Samivel,  497. 
Wellington,  Duke  of,  319,  427, 

441,  518. 

WEST,  GILBERT,  169. 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY,  134. 
Westminster  Hall,  134,  442. 
Westminster  Review,   493,   511, 

519,  520,530. 

Whale-fishery,  Burke  on,  234. 
WHAT  is  POETRY  ?  373. 
WHATELY,  RICHARD,  D.D.,  385. 
Wheaton's    International    Law, 

485. 

Whig  Examiner,  The,  133. 
Whipple,  E.  P.,  on  Dickens,  493. 

on  Hawthorne,  462. 
WHISTON,  WILLIAM,  128. 
WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE,  379. 
WHITE,  JOSEPH,  265. 
Whitefield,  Rev.  George  :  Foster 
on,  299. 

Franklin  to,  173. 

Montagu  on,  163. 
Whitehall,  446. 


WHO  WAS  THE  AUTHOR  OF  WASH- 
INGTON'S FAREWELL  ADDRESS? 
358. 

Whole  Duty  of  Man,  349. 

Wicquefort's  Ambassador,  485. 

Wife,  Economical,  266. 

Wife  and  Husband,  485. 

AVilberforce,  William,  339. 

Wilhelin  Meister,  449. 

Wilkie,  Sir  David,  370. 

WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR,  178. 

William  Rufus,  443. 

Williams,  E.,  Christian  Preacher 
of,  155,  249,354. 

Williams,  Sir  E.  V.,  Executors, 
485. 

Williams.  Sir  E.  V..  John  Saun- 
ders's  Statutes,  485. 

Wills,  Jarman  on,  485. 

WILSON,  JOHN  ("  CHRISTOPHER 
NORTH"),  375. 

Wilson,  John,  on  Carleton,  435. 

Windham,  William,  444,  441). 

Wines,  268. 

Winkelried,  A.,  458. 

WIXSLOW,  FORBES,  M.D.,  481. 

Winter's  Tale,  528. 

Winthrop,  Governor,  463. 

WINTHROP,  CHAS.,  LL.D.,  479. 

Winthrop,  Robert  Charles, 
LL.D.,  on  Everett,  409. 

Wisdom  of  Confucius,  341. 

WISDOM  OF  GOD,  87. 

"  Wisdom  of  our  Ancestors,'1  340. 

AVisdom,  True,  107. 

AVit,  127,  138,  141,  150, 154,  217, 
316,  318,  394. 

AViT,  DEFINITION  OP,  94. 

AViT,  READY  AND  NIMBLE,  80. 

A\riT,  SLOW  BUT  SURE,  80. 

AVlTCHCRAFT  AND  SORCERY,  41. 

AVives  and  books,  503. 
Woden  and  Thor,  134. 
AVollaston's  Religion  of  Nature, 

188. 

AVolsey,    Cardinal :    Cavendish's 
Life  of,  25. 

Froude  on,  514,  515. 

Henry  VIII.  and,  26,514. 

Johnson  on,  447. 

Negotiations  of,  25. 
AVomen  :  Adams  on,  289. 

Chesterfield  on,  167. 

duties  of,  161. 

duties  to,  167. 

education  of,  163,  300. 

love  of,  161. 

Montagu  on,  163. 

Richardson  on,  160. 

Steele  on,  129. 

Sydney  Smith  on,  300. 

Tytler  on,  267. 

AValpole  on,  109. 

AVarton  on,  241. 
AVoMEN  IN  POLITICS,  289. 
AVoodhouselee,  Lord,  213. 
AVooos,  SUNRISE  IN  THE,  224. 
AVoreester,  Dictionary  of,  182. 
Words:  changes  in,  433,  434. 

fluency  of,  128. 

Lyell  on,  433,  434. 

Spencer  on,  524. 

study  of,  474,  524. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


555 


Words  :  Swift  on,  128. 
WORDS,  MORALITY  IN,  474. 
WORDS,  STUDY  OF,  474. 
Wordsworth:  DeQuinceyon,  383. 

Hazlitt  on,  319. 
WORK,  Carlyle  on,  415. 
WORKS,  GOOD,  173. 
World,  the,  355. 
Wren,  Sir  Christopher,  416. 
Wright  on  Tenures,  485. 
WRITING  A  MEMOIR  OF  HIMSELF, 

295. 

WRONG  AND  EIGHT,  142. 
Wycherley,  316. 


Wynne's  Eunomus,  485. 

X. 

Xenophon :   Blackwall   on,   138, 

139. 

Harris  on,  181. 
White  on,  265,  266. 

Y. 

Yankees,  Tuekerman  on,  501. 
Yarrow  and  Scott,  370. 
York,  Duke  of,  445. 
Yorke  on  Forfeiture,  485. 


Young,  Arthur,  in  France,  508. 
Young,  Dr.  E.,  on  Richardson, 

158. 
Young  Men's  Christian  Associa- 

tions, 480. 
Youth,  duty  of,  117. 
exercise  of,  431. 
plays  of,  431. 
Youth  of  the  species,  340. 


Zanga,  revenge  of,  297. 
Zoilus  on  Homer,  137,  154. 
Zoroaster,  doctrines  of,  303. 


THE   END. 


